Stones in the Road (36 page)

“You certainly did,” I agreed. “And if I remember, it was for the same reason.”

“I know.”

He said nothing further. Instead he put his arm around me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder and let him hold me. He rubbed at my back, the way I did with Noah, comforting me, telling me that he was there, that it was all right, that everything was going to be all right.

Finally I pulled away and gave him an uncomfortable stare.

“What?” he asked.

“You need to understand something,” I said. “I can’t do the drugs thing. Not after what happened with Noah. I’ll never forgive myself for doing that, and I will never, ever live with someone doing drugs. It’s the one line I won’t cross, Jack. Absolutely will not cross. I don’t care how cute you are, or what a nice cock you have, or how much money your mama gives you for your allowance.”

“I know,” he said.

“I need you to really
know
it, not just say you know it. If you want to hang out with Jim Beam or Jack Daniel’s, I could probably find a way to live with that. If you want to get fat and ugly, hey, I don’t really care. Hell, you could go and vote for a Republican, and I’d probably forgive you. But drugs… no, I’m not going down that road. I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself and the people you love. I need you to make sure you’ve got that sunk into that fat but very pretty head of yours. Not that I’m ever going to forgive you. Just so you know.”

“I know, Wiley. I’m sorry. Please tell me you forgive me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Maybe someday, but not right now. I’m giving you the chance to fly away, live your own life, stick whatever you want up your nose. It’s your life and you’re a big boy and I don’t believe in trying to change people. I don’t want to be a nag who’s always on your back and getting in the way of your having a good time—”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want to be that person. Like your mama said, you’ve got to decide what you want. If you say that me and Noah are enough….”

“You’re enough.”

“I want to believe you, but right now I don’t. So I’m going to give you some time. Maybe a month, maybe two, maybe a year. Anyway, my head is full of all kinds of crap, and I need to sort it out.”

“What kind of crap?”

“I’m thinking about giving up custody of Noah.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“Please tell me you’re not saying this.
Are
you saying this?”

“I’m a little confused,” I admitted.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I thought I was doing something good for me and Noah. You and I were engaged. We were building a future, but I can’t build a future with someone who doesn’t have one. I thought I was on the right track, and I wasn’t. I should have seen what was right in front of me, but I didn’t want to see it. There were some times, though, when you were a little weird, or a little off, and I asked you what was wrong, and you said you were tired from work, or worried about something, or some other excuse. Had I paid more attention….”

“And so the answer is to give up custody of your son?”

“If I can’t give him the kind of life he deserves, well, maybe….”

“You
are
saying this. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You don’t understand.”

“And I don’t want to!”

“It’s just that I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Wait for him to die.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I feel like time is running out, and all I do is fuck everything up. He deserves something more. He deserves to be happy. He should be with a real family.”

“He has a real family!”

“You and me? Please.”

“What has gotten into you?”

“When he was born, the doctors said it would be a miracle if he made it three months. Then they said he probably wouldn’t live past a year. Then it was two years. Then it was five years. Then it was, oh, okay, he seems to be all right now, but when puberty comes… well, puberty’s on the way now, so it’s back to that old thing… waiting. Waiting to see what happens. Waiting to see if he lives. Or not. Waiting for something I can’t stop. After the tornado… I don’t know, but I can’t
stop thinking about it. You can just be minding your own business, and the hand of God comes down out the sky, and boom, there you are, holding your ass. If we hadn’t gotten those boys to the shelter, I could have lost him that day, Jack. I could have died too. And Papaw did die. Just like that. Just… right out of the blue, and my granddaddy was gone.”

“We all could have died, Wiley.”

“Now I have to sit around and wait for it to happen again with Noah. I know it’s coming….”

“Noah could outlive all of us. You don’t know what’s going to happen, and nothing good is going to come from you sitting around and thinking about it.”

“But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You need help, Wiley.”

“I don’t need help!”

“You need to talk to someone. You’ve got PTSD going on or something. You’re scared. And that’s all right. It’s perfectly understandable. Sometimes it takes a while—”

“You don’t just don’t get it.”

“Then again, maybe I do. The tornado, your grandfather, the DHS, me and all of my shit… I get it, Wiley. But let me tell you something. If you think you’re suffering, that little boy of yours is suffering a lot more. He almost lost his daddy. For him, you’re the whole world, Wiley. I don’t think he could make it without you. He’ll live without me. He’ll live without his great-grandfather. But if you walk away from him… please, God, tell me you haven’t told him you were thinking about this.”

I shook my head.

“I know you’re mad at me, Wiley, and what I say doesn’t count for shit, but let me tell you something. You need to get help—you need to talk to someone. You’re no different than all the other people who have suffered a natural disaster. They were just minding their business too, just like you. It affects everyone differently. And some people—like you—get really freaked out and start thinking some really crazy shit. So go talk to someone. But most of all, go talk to your son. He’s probably ten times more freaked out than you are, and he needs you more than ever. If you’re scared, just think how scared he must be.”

“But that doesn’t solve the problem,” I said.

“What problem?”

“That he’s going to die.”

“You don’t know that he’s going to die, so stop saying that.”

“I can’t help it. His birthday is next month. He’ll be twelve. It might be the last birthday party he ever has.”

“Wiley, please.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it!”

“That’s why you need to get help.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“No, you’re not. But you’re not thinking clearly.”

“If you hadn’t been sucking the whole goddamn world up your nose, you could be helping me right now.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t ask for that either, you know. I was just minding my own business….”

“I know, Wiley. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I looked up again at the crucifix hanging in the sanctuary, at Jesus, hanging on a cross. That wasn’t fair either, I thought, crucified because you tried to help people.

“Wiley,” he said after a long silence, “I deal with this every day.”

“What?”

“Parents whose children are terminally ill.”

I sighed, rubbed absently at my face.

“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Listen to me, Wiley. You wouldn’t be the first to go running because you can’t stand the pain of watching a child die. I’ve seen couples split up, get divorced. I’ve seen moms and dads just fall apart. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—some of them don’t even come to the hospital because they can’t stand to see it. They can’t take it. And I don’t judge—it’s not my place. I know it’s incredibly hard for them. It’s hard for me too, and I’m just a nurse, but you develop attachments to these kids even though you know they’re not going to make it and it’s going to break your heart when they’re gone.”

I wiped at my eyes, the grief in my mind sour and swirling about like a cyclone.

“I know it’s hard,” he went on in a soft voice. “So you tell yourself you’re not a good parent and you’re going to give up custody, or it will be better if so and so takes over, or you let your parents deal with it, or maybe you just run away and let the other parent deal with it… but at the end of the day, you’re just being a coward.”

I said nothing.

“I know you, Wiley. I know you’re not a coward. And I know you’re not going to run away from this problem. One of the reasons I want to get clean—I think it’s the main reason, actually—is that I know I need to be around when it happens. You’re going to need me. Noah’s going to need me too. I’m a nurse, after all. I’ll walk him through it. I’ll do what’s got to be done. I don’t care if you never take me back, but I’m going to be there for that little boy. And I’ll be there for you too, and don’t kid yourself—you’re not the only one whose heart is going to break. Your mom, Bill, Shelly—don’t kid yourself, Wiley. You’re not the only one who sits in a church and wonders why little kids have to die. There’s a little chapel at the medical center, and I sit in there all the time wondering the same damn thing.”

I sobbed into my good hand. I tried to be quiet about it, but I was gripped with such grief I could hardly breathe.

“It’s hard,” Jackson said, patting my back. “And if you need to go talk to someone, Wiley, then please do it—please get the help you need. But don’t for one minute think that giving up Noah is going to make this any easier. I’ve known some parents who have done that—and it’s not the answer. You would never forgive yourself, not in a million years. And if all he has left is a year, or six months, or whatever it is, well, you need to be there, no matter what. And I know you will be, because you’re not going to walk away from him when he needs you the most.”

“I can’t stand this anymore,” I whispered.

“Then talk to someone.”

“I don’t want to lose my little boy!”

“You don’t know that that’s going to happen.”

“Just the thought….”

“I know, Wiley. I
know
. This stuff with the tornado and your grandfather has stirred up all kinds of crap, but you’re going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” he said confidently. “You’ve got your family. They love you very much, regardless of what you might think. You’ve got your community—look at all those people out there trying to help you out. And you’ve got me. You’ve got friends. You’ve got people who love you and care about you, and when push comes to shove, they’re going to be there for you. So I know you’re going to be all right. At the moment, you’re just overloading the circuits a little bit, but you’ll be fine. You’re the strongest person I know, Wiley, and you’re going to be just fine.”

He pulled me a little closer, and I allowed myself to be held.

“You’ll see,” he whispered into my ear. “You’re going to get through this—
we’re
going to get through this—and everything’s going to be fine.”

W
ORD
HAD
gone around that someone rather important—and a damned Yankee at that—was going to be pied at about one o’clock, and the crowd naturally shuffled in the direction of the pie throwing booth to see the fireworks.

Mary’s youth group had gone through a dozen pies at that point, pie throwing being more of an afternoon, while-you’re-on-your-way-home-and-can-get-changed sort of thing. Serious pie throwing didn’t happen till folks had thought about it all morning, the possibilities becoming too enticing to ignore.

“I wanna do Uncle Wiley!” Josh said excitedly.

“Don’t be a booger breath!” Mary snapped. “His face is broken, so you can’t. Not that we couldn’t sell a lot of pies if he’d sit his butt in that chair. Maybe next time!”

She offered me a wicked grin.

“I’ll do it,” I vowed.

“Wiley, no!” Mama said straight off.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bill said to Mary.

“I want to do it,” I said. “But I get to choose my own tribute to stand in for me. Like
The Hunger Games
.”

“Yeah!” Eli said.

“Do I have a volunteer for District 12?” I asked, looking around.

Father Ginderbach smiled at me. Mama, Bill, and Shelly looked at each other, as if wondering whether I was serious.

Josh and Eli immediately volunteered their sister Mary. Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter observed the affair as though they were anthropologists doing field research.

“I’ll volunteer!” Cousin Tina offered, receiving a smattering of enthusiastic applause. More than one pair of eyes looking on seemed to be saying they’d like nothing better than to see that swamp cunt get a good pie in the face. That will teach you for not going to church on Sunday, you hedge witch you!

“I was thinking of someone a little older,” I offered, letting my eyes wander over to Mrs. Ledbetter.

When the others saw where my gaze had landed, they were rather galvanized. Oh yes! Let’s pie that hoity-toity bitch from Boston!

It was delicious.

Mrs. Ledbetter, to her credit, was a good sport and seemed to know exactly the sentiment passing from one pair of eyes to the next.

“I would be happy to be your tribute,” she said grandly. “Anything for charity, dear. But not for a measly five dollars. I think I deserve something rather more substantial.”

“I’ll pay five hundred!” Mr. Ledbetter vowed, getting into the spirit of the thing.

Mrs. Ledbetter approached the chair and, to loud applause, sat down—but not before wiping away lemon meringue first and offering a look of mock disapproval. She carefully removed her Jackie O sunglasses and handed them to Jackson, who looked as though he couldn’t believe I’d actually pie his precious mama.

“Let’s get her done!” Mrs. Ledbetter called to generous laughter and applause and a fair bit of approval for her proper use of a Southernism. “It’s like they say, those who live by the sword will get shot by those who don’t! Do your worst!”