Stones in the Road (26 page)

“You must have been a little bit upset,” I ventured.

“I was,” he admitted. “But then I thought about the time you shot out the window in his car with that stupid BB gun of yours. He almost fucking killed us that day. If Mama hadn’t stopped him….”

He fell silent, and my mind wandered back to that day with sudden, painful clarity.

It was Christmas morning, and we’d just opened our presents. The BB gun I’d begged and begged and begged for was under the tree. First thing I did was go outside and take aim at the driver’s side window on Daddy’s car, thinking how cool it would be to see the BB ricochet off the window. It didn’t ricochet. Because it was freezing outside, the window shattered—one of my early introductions to physics.

I stood by the car in horror, wondering what possible lie I could tell to get myself out of a big can of ass-whup, knowing I was doomed. Billy came out just then, saw what I’d done, grabbed my arm, and hustled me back inside.

“Don’t tell him!” Billy muttered.

“He’s going to find out!”

“Just pretend like it was cold and the glass broke by itself.”

“Glass doesn’t break by itself.”

“It does when it gets too cold, you stupid moron.”

“It does not.”

“Does too!”

Things were all right till just shortly before lunch when Daddy went outside on the porch and saw the broken window. He stormed back inside, demanding to know which of us brats had broken the window.

I stared at Billy in helpless horror, knowing Daddy would whup my ass so badly I probably wouldn’t sit down for a week.

“It was an accident,” Billy said.

“Did
you
do it?” Daddy demanded, turning his angry stare on Billy.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy!” Billy exclaimed fearfully.

And just like that, Billy took responsibility for what I’d done—and, Jesus, what a price he paid. Daddy grabbed an extension cord, gathered it up to make a belt, forced Billy to drop his drawers, and beat him to within an inch of his life. It went on so long I finally broke down and tried to help him. I grabbed the cord, hoping to make Daddy stop. Instead he lashed out at me with it, and we both wound up getting a whipping until Mama screamed so much that Daddy stopped. At that point, Billy had blood on his buttocks and legs, and I was crying so badly I couldn’t breathe. Billy got far worse than I did that day, and I had never understood why he’d taken my punishment when he knew how bad it would be.

“Why did you do that?” I asked softly.

“Because you were such a pussy. Still are, but that’s another story. You were always so scared to death of him. Made me mad, I guess. I felt sorry for you. Seemed to bother you more than it did me. I thought it was because you were little, but I guess you were more sensitive about that kind of stuff. I didn’t care. He made me mad more than anything else.
Drop your drawers, boy
! Every time he said that, I wanted to punch him in the throat. He was just a big bully. That’s all. Anyway, he drank so much, especially at the end, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Just as long as you pretended like you were scared, he was happy. What a jackass.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” I pointed out.

“I know,” he said. “I was always bigger than you were. If we’d had another year or two, I would have been big enough to fight back—and I would have. I would have knocked his ass all the way to Memphis. I couldn’t stand what he did to you and Mama. If I’d have thought about it, I’d have gotten one of his guns and blown his ass away. But I never thought about it, so I never did. I guess that was lucky.”

“When Noah was born, I told myself I was never going to be like him,” I said.

“I did too,” he said with a laugh. “When Mary was born. I said there’s no way in hell I would ever lay a hand on her. Not like Daddy did. No way in fucking hell.”

There was a long silence, the silence of brothers who don’t need to speak to fill up the empty spaces.

“Thank you for that,” I said at last.

“For what, bro?”

“For what you did that day. I never thanked you for that.”

“You’re my brother,” he said, as if that explained all that was necessary to know. “Sometimes you piss me off, you know. And I mean, you
really
piss me off big time. But still… I’d take a bullet for you, if I had to. We’re blood, bro.”

And blood is thicker than water.

“U
NCLE
W
ILEY
,
what’s a homosexual?”

Eli stared at me with an earnestness that only a twelve-year-old could muster. He was perplexed by one of life’s great mysteries.

“Why do you ask?”

We were sitting in the game room, the kids—Noah, Josh, Eli—and myself. The adults were upstairs, Shelly having made a meal out of the casseroles and other foods brought to the house.

After the visitation, Noah had been feverish and out of sorts, and I had tried to find a quiet place where we could sit and not be bothered. He’d had entirely too much stimulation the past couple of days. We both had. Now his head was on my lap and he had finally fallen asleep. The weight of him was causing my broken ribs to ache, but I couldn’t bring myself to move him.

“My Sunday school teacher said homosexuals are going to hell,” Eli confided. “And since everyone says you’re one, I was worried. Are you going to hell?”

“Sometimes I think I’m already there,” I admitted.

“What does that mean?”

“A homosexual’s a pervert,” Josh said, asserting his authority. “Everyone knows that. That’s why you’re not supposed to take candy from strangers, ’cause they’re perverts and they want you to take your clothes off.”

“Why?” Eli asked.

“’Cause they’re perverts, you moron!”

“Keep it down, boys,” I said. “Noah needs to sleep.”

“Aren’t you afraid of going to hell?” Eli asked earnestly.

“It can’t be any worse than working at Food World,” I said.

“But why would you want to go to hell?”

“I don’t.”

“But you’re a homosexual.”

“That’s right. I am.”

“But what is it? Is it like having long hair or something?”

“A homo is a queer,” Josh said. “They like guys instead of girls. It’s gross.”

“Am I gross?” I asked.

“No,” he said, failing to see my point.

“But you just said I was gross.”

“Homos are gross,” he said.

“Well, I’m a homo….”

“Not a
real
one. You’re just… Uncle Wiley. That’s all. Anyway, why are you a homo?”

“I got lucky,” I said.

“Is Jack your boyfriend?” Eli asked, still trying to puzzle the whole mystery out.

“Yes,” I said.

“Like my mom and my dad?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s like that. We’re going to get married someday. Maybe.”

“Why are you going to marry him?” Josh asked.

“Because I love him.”

“He talks funny,” Eli said in admiration. “Is that why you like him?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And he’s cute.”

“He’s a boy!” Eli exclaimed, horrified.

“Boys can be cute.”

“No, they’re not!”

“Some of them are.”

“Homos are weird,” Eli offered. “Mrs. Parson says they shouldn’t get married because then they’re going to want to marry their dogs. Mrs. Parson is my Sunday school teacher.”

“Is she the one with all that chest hair?” I asked.

“She says kids should have a mom and a dad, not a dad and a dog,” he went on. “That’s what she says. Why would anyone want to marry their dog?”

“A lot of people do,” I said.

“Uncle Wiley?” Eli said after a long pause, his face screwed up in thought.

“Yes?”

“Is it true that a menstrual cycle has three wheels?”

A
FTER
THE
funeral mass the following day, we made a small procession through downtown New Albany to lay Papaw to rest in a grave next to Memaw at the old cemetery. Memaw died when I was very little, and the most I could remember about her was that she was very big, had very large hands, and smoked like a chimney. Papaw never said much about her, but he never looked at another woman after she passed. Made a lot of jokes, flirted outrageously, and even felt up a nurse or two, but never anything more. He was a one-man, one-woman kind of guy.

“Did you bring flowers for Kayla?” Mama asked as we walked to the grave site.

“They’re in the Jeep,” I said.

“We’ll go… after.” Perhaps realizing that she was talking about “after” her daddy was buried, she fell silent and pursed her lips. Mama seemed to have aged considerably over the past few days.

“I miss Papaw,” I said.

“So do I,” she replied.

Without Papaw, there was a silence upon us, an absence, the feeling or sense that something vital, something deeply fundamental was missing, some piece that was irreplaceable. Each time I turned around, I expected to see Papaw walking behind me, to hear his throaty laugh, his snorts, his guffaws, his off-color jokes, his constant complaints about his teeth. He’d been going on lately about his teeth, sometimes going so far as to accuse people of trying to steal them, by which he meant the partial dentures he kept in a glass beside his bed. He had become obsessed with those teeth.

“Why are you so worried about your teeth?” I had asked about a month ago.

“Well, my cock don’t work, so they’re all I’ve got left,” he had replied.

Father Ginderbach waited at the graveside, holding a prayer book, offering a faint smile when he caught me looking at him. I had my arm in a sling over my shoulder because it was aching. The cast felt like a brick, and signing had become painful.

This final service was mercifully short. I sobbed my way through most of it, shuddering at the finality of putting a person in a coffin and placing the coffin in the ground and throwing handfuls of dirt on top of it.

Oddly enough, Mrs. Ledbetter stood by my side and put an arm around me, as if to comfort me in her way. She wore dark Jackie O glasses and a long black dress that fell perfectly over her spare frame with a string of pearls around her neck, adding a bit of glamour to the proceedings. She had certainly got lots of looks that day. She sucked on her vape pen and looked like a Hollywood housewife.

After the service, I asked Father Ginderbach if he would come with us to the Baptist cemetery across town. “We’re going to put flowers on Kayla’s grave. She was Noah’s mother.”

“I remember,” he said.

“It would mean a lot to him if you….”

“I’ll follow you over,” he promised.

We got into our vehicles and drove across town to the cemetery where the Baptists were buried. Our footsteps took us along a familiar path to the Warren’s final resting place. A headstone for Mr. and Mrs. Warren had already been erected, with their names and birthdates etched on it, waiting only for the final details to be added when their respective times came.

Next to their marker was another bearing the name “Kayla Anne Warren” and the inscription, “Beloved Daughter, Gone Too Soon.”

Noah put flowers on his mother’s grave, stood there for a long time.

“At least she’s in a better place,” Mama offered as we waited.

“I hope so,” I said.

I could see Noah’s arms moving as he signed something to his mother. With his back to us, I could not tell what it was. He signed for about a minute, then stopped, turned around, and looked up at me.

You okay
? I signed.

He nodded.

What did you tell her?

I said it was all right.

What’s all right?

She did something bad. That’s why I’m deaf. I told her it was okay that she made a mistake. Father G told me I should tell her that. And then I told her I missed her
.

“What’s he saying?” Mama asked.

But I didn’t answer.

I
WENT
back to work the next day and quickly discovered that trying to run a cash register with a cast on your arm was clearly not God’s will. I was exhausted by the time I picked up Noah from Miss Ora’s house and went home. I changed into shorts and was planning to lie down on the couch while Noah played Xbox.

The doorbell rang. Noah saw the light, went running to the door, opened it. I expected to see Bill, or Mama, or Tonya, but it was Miss Susan from the DHS. My heart sank.

“Mr. Cantrell,” she said in a somewhat officious manner.

“You again,” I offered, trying not to sound too unfriendly, wishing I had put on a shirt.

“May I come in?”

“If you must,” I said.

“I wanted to see how you both were. I heard about the tornado. I’m so sorry about your grandfather.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at my face, my black eyes, the cast on my lower arm, the bandages around my chest.

“How are you holding up?”

“Ask my jock strap,” I said, tired of people asking me that question. I had tried to save my granddaddy, had failed and might very well have died. My mama’s house was trashed, my little boy traumatized.