Stones in the Road (4 page)

“I don’t make fun of you.”

“You’re always making fun of me.”

“That’s not true,” I said. Well, not
completely
true. Okay,
somewhat
true. I was never shy about expressing my opinions, one of the things that made me wildly unpopular. “I want to be happy too. I want a family, and I’m sorry if that offends you.”

“You
have
a family, bro. We’re your family, not some carpetbagger from Boston. We don’t really know anything about Jack or his people. I’m sure he seems nice enough and all, but you never know. And to be honest, and since we’re talking about it, I’ll just come right out and say I don’t like him being around my kids.”

“And that’s because…?”

“God knows what those people are capable of.”

“
Those people
?”

“You know what I mean. If you keep bringing him to Mama’s house for Sunday dinner, Shelly and I may stop going. I don’t like him around my kids.”

I fell silent, glancing sideways at Jackson.

“Someone’s not happy,” Bill observed after a long silence.

“Would you rather I not bring him to Sunday dinner?”

“Ain’t like you never bothered to ask how we feel about it.”

“Oh.”

“I ain’t trying to be mean.”

“Oh.”

“I’m just telling you how I feel.”

When I hung up, I kept my face turned away, hoping Jackson hadn’t been listening.

But of course he had been.

“What was
that
about?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“He doesn’t want my parents to go to your mama’s house for Sunday dinner?”

“You could say that, and you would not be entirely wrong.”

“For real?”

“You know how he is.”

“My parents won’t go if they’re not wanted.”

“I’ll ask Mama.”

“You have to ask your mama if it’s all right for you to bring your fiancé’s parents over for dinner? Seriously?”

“I hate it when you use the word ‘fiancé.’”

“Why do you trivialize our engagement?”

“I just don’t want to rub people’s noses in it.”

“We’re engaged now. I’m not just your boyfriend anymore. I’m your fiancé.”

“It sounds so….”

“Straight couples don’t trivialize their engagement. Why should we?”

“I’m trying to get along here.”

“Trying to make your family happy.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Aside from the fact that most of them are clinically insane, no.”

“They’re not insane.”

“They just think gay marriage is going to destroy Western civilization. Or something.”

“It’s not like Boston down here, you know.”

“You could say that again, Wiley, and
you
would not be wrong. Are they mad because we’re going to that protest?”

“I haven’t told them about that yet.”

A small group of activists had recently announced plans to picket (yet again) the headquarters of the American Family Alliance, headquartered in Tupelo. The Alliance produced hard right wing radio programming heard from station to station across the South. One of its programs, Truth Hour, routinely demonized the gay community and “Nazi homosexual activists” like myself who were trying to “ram their agenda” down America’s throat at the “expense of religious liberty.” Or… something. The host of Truth Hour had recently suggested that the children of gay couples would be better off in a Romanian orphanage. This came just after a segment on the desperate need to restore the “gold standard” lest we trigger the economic collapse of the United States economy by our infatuation with a “pretend money.”

Since the Alliance was a “Christian ministry,” it had many, many listeners and admirers.

“It’s not like our previous protests have done any good,” I pointed out.

“So you’re not going to go because your family might be mad?” The disbelief in Jackson’s voice was evident.

“I’m just pointing out to you that nothing ever changes down here, and I sometimes think nothing ever will. We haven’t even finished the Civil War yet.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try to do something about it.”

Jackson had become quite the activist over the past two years. I had grown disillusioned, because nothing we did seemed to make the slightest difference.

“So you’re
not
going?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Well, that’s the problem right there. If you can’t be bothered to fight for your own rights, why should anyone else? It’s not like you’re just going to wake up one day and there will be ‘freedom across the land.’ You have to make it happen. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“I’ve been known to spout a lot of bullcrap.”

“This is your rights we’re talking about.
Our
rights. This is about our family and all the gay families in this state. That’s something worth fighting for. And it ain’t bullcrap.”

I looked out the window and did not answer.

“A
ND
YOU
’
RE
Mr. Wiley’s…
friend
?” Miss Thelma Thunderburk paused to look Jackson over, her generous lips pursed, her eyes small and hard. On the wall behind her were a variety of diplomas and awards and whatnot. Her walnut desk was smoothly polished and was mostly used as a showcase for pictures of her children and husband. Also featured rather prominently was a cross on a stand.

“We’re a little bit more than friends,” Jackson said pointedly. “We’re engaged to be married.”

Miss Thelma chuckled. Abruptly stopped. “I shouldn’t laugh. You’re probably serious. Bless your heart.”

“You think it’s funny that two men want to get married?” Jackson asked rather angrily.

“I think it’s highly unnatural. That’s what I think. Perhaps people do that sort of thing where you’re from, Mr. Jackson, but you in the South now, baby. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Boy, am I ever.”

“Well, since Mr. Wiley brought you along, I may as well get to the point. Noah’s not doing well. In fact, we’ve decided to hold him back. He’s going to have to repeat the fifth grade.”

“You can’t do that!” I tried not to sound like an outraged parent. “All his friends are going to pass. He’ll be left behind.”

“He is simply not doing satisfactory work, Mr. Wiley. The boy reads on a second grade level. And just barely, at that. I believe we’ve made it clear that he needs a great deal of work in this area, but you don’t seem to have—”

“He’s been working really hard,” I said.

“We hired a tutor,” Jackson pointed out.

“He’s trying his best,” I added.

“We work with him every night!” Jackson exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, but he’s way behind the others now. His reading skills are minimal. His math? Not much better, to be honest. And I know he tries, but he’s… I know you don’t want to hear about it, but the boy has learning disabilities.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his brain,” I said. “Just because he has an extra pinky doesn’t mean—”

“He’s a meth baby, Mr. Wiley. We all know that. Sometimes these children do well. But sometimes… well, sometimes they just never really catch up with their peers. And as I’ve suggested to you before, he might do better in a different environment.”

“I’m not sending him to the Jackson School for the Deaf,” I said firmly.

“That is your choice, Mr. Wiley. It may be that Noah needs more help than we can give him here. You may also want to consider homeschooling.”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

She shrugged as if to say the matter was on my own head.

“He can make up some ground in summer school,” Jackson suggested.

Mrs. Thunderburk merely shook her head.

We regarded each other in silence for long moments.

She went on.

“I read this,” she said, pausing to open a drawer in her desk and produce a copy of
Crack Baby
, which she laid on the table between us. Her lips drew down into something resembling a scowl. She looked down at the book as though looking upon something so dreadful that a decent person could only shudder and think
there but for the grace of God
….

Jackson lowered his eyes, embarrassed.

Crack Baby
was a personal account of how I had raised Noah, a meth baby with birth defects who was also deaf. There was some humor in it, of course. How could there not be when you were writing about a homosexual in the heart of the Bible Belt raising a baby after the baby’s mother ran off? I wrote very frankly about the bigotry I had experienced and succeeded in pissing a lot of people off, especially those who came across in a rather unflattering light. People like my brother, Bill.

“As the assistant principal of this school,” Mrs. Thunderburk said, “and as someone who has taught for many years, and as a mother and a Christian woman, I must say I was surprised by some of the things you said in this book, Mr. Wiley.”

I said nothing.

“What’s
not
surprising is that Noah would be having trouble in school, given the environment he’s being raised in.”

“Excuse me?” Jackson said

“The kids make fun of him,” Mrs. Thunderburk said.

“Then put a stop to it,” Jackson said.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Your
lifestyle
has consequences, and I can’t shield your child from those consequences.”

“So the other kids bully him and you’re not going to do anything because his parents are gay and—what?—he deserves it?”

“I can’t shield him from the choices his father makes,” she said. “Has it occurred to you that he may not be very happy with those choices, that his failing grades might be an indication of his unhappiness, his…
confusion
… at the environment in which he is forced to live? Children don’t learn very well when they live in unhappy situations. And that’s a fact.”

“So he’s failing because I’m a queer?” I said.

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Not every child has a mother and a father,” Jackson said.

“And that’s a shame.”

“This is very unprofessional,” Jackson said. “Your religious beliefs have nothing to do with our son’s education. In fact, we’d prefer you kept your religious beliefs to yourself since they have no place in a public institution.”

“This country was founded on Christian principles,” she countered. “Ever since we kicked God out of our schools, we’ve had nothing but trouble. Children have become more and more confused as society grows more and more permissive. It’s not at all a good environment for children.”

“Neither is bigotry,” Jackson said.

“I’m afraid we’re getting off the subject. Noah is a good student, but he’s troubled. He’s insecure, emotionally immature. He’s almost twelve, but he still has separation anxiety. Some of that is because of the circumstances of his birth, of course, but not all of it. He tries to make friends, but he doesn’t know how. Your situation makes that harder for him—there are more than a few parents who don’t want their children becoming friends with someone like him. He can’t keep up with his schoolwork. If we gave him a second grade reading test, I’m not sure he would pass. Frankly speaking, there are limits to how much we can help him at a school like this. On the other hand, if you were to send him down to Jackson—”

“I’m not sending him to the School for the Deaf.”

“It would be very beneficial.”

“I’m not sending him away!”

“Given the environment at home, that may not be such a bad thing.”

“What environment?” I demanded.

“I can’t help but feel he would do better in a more traditional environment. I realize you have tried your best—”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Please don’t use profanity in this office, Mr. Wiley. I do not at all appreciate it.”

“This is outrageous,” Jackson said. “I’ve heard enough.”

He stood, looked at me.

“You may want to consider enrolling Noah in some other program,” Mrs. Thunderburk said, also standing and making it clear our “consultation” was over—and she had also just delivered the whole point of the conversation. “I do hope you will find something appropriate.”

“You can’t kick my child out of this school,” I said angrily.

“It’s clear that we’re not meeting his needs,” she answered smoothly. “You might have better luck—”

“I might have better luck if I talked to the principal and not to you, because you’re clearly not interested in helping him.”

She pursed her lips, unconsciously looking down at my book, which lay on the table between us. “If you feel that would help,” she said.

“Yeah, I think it would,” I replied. “My son is never going to be a rocket scientist, but he’s not stupid, and he has a right to an education just like every other child in this state, and you are legally obligated to provide one whether you approve of his parents or not.”

“I assure you this has nothing to do with your lifestyle, Mr. Wiley. I am merely suggesting he might do better in a different environment. Kids can be rather cruel.”

“So can adults.”

I
DON
’
T
want to wear that
, Noah signed with a scowl, looking at the black suit I’d placed on his bed and the shiny dress shoes on the floor next to it. He had just taken a shower and seemed rather pale and tired. Our trip to Memphis that morning must have worn him out.

I want you to look nice
, I said, trying to justify this change in dress plans. Having met the angels of darkness that passed themselves off as Jackson’s parents, I realized that casual was not going to cut it. We were going to have to put on our Sunday best and pretend we had manners, even if we didn’t. We were not going to Union Heights Restaurant in downtown Tupelo wearing shorts and tanks.

I only wear that stuff on Sunday
! he complained.

Do it for daddy?

It’s too hot!