Shaking the Sugar Tree (29 page)

Juan’s lips screwed down in an unhappy frown.

Who is he?
he asked me.

He’s my boyfriend,
I said.

He looked hurt.

You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,
he signed angrily.
I thought you had sex with me because you liked me.

I couldn’t tell how much of this Jackson understood, but he got the gist of it quickly enough.

Are you hungry?
I asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

Go to hell,
he signed, turning and marching out the door and back into the night.

“That was awkward,” I said.

“Did you have sex with this guy?” Jackson asked.

“Once,” I admitted.

“When?”

“Oh dear,” I said, knowing I was busted.

“Did you use a condom?”

“He said he’d been tested.”

“How many other people have you had sex with?”

“He’s the only one,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“What is your problem?”

“I don’t like being cheated on.”

“We weren’t dating when it happened. At least not the second time.”

“How many times did you do it with him?”

“Twice.”

He was flustered.

“So we’re having problems and the first thing you do is go have sex with someone?” he inquired angrily.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“You should have told me about him. When I sleep with you, I’m sleeping with every other person you’ve ever slept with. I have a right to know, Wiley. I would never lie to you about something like that. And the South has a very high AIDS infection rate.”

He was getting increasingly agitated, whether because he was genuinely upset or needed some pharmaceutical help, I could not tell.

“I think I should go,” he said.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

He grabbed his keys off the counter and left without saying good-bye.

What’s wrong?
Noah asked.

Nothing,
I signed.

Are you fighting again?

Don’t worry about it.

Don’t treat me like a baby!

Sorry.

So?

So… what?

Is he going to leave us like Mom did?

Don’t be crazy.

Is he?

No.

Then what happened?

We had a little argument.

He didn’t say good-bye to me.

I’m sorry.

That wasn’t nice,
he said.

No, it wasn’t,
I agreed.
Let’s wash the dishes.

Do I have to help?

I thought you weren’t a baby anymore.

I’m not! I’m almost ten!

Come on, old man. Help me wash the dishes.

He frowned.

N
OAH
WOKE
me the following morning.

It’s my birthday!
he announced.

Happy birthday,
I said.

And you’re going to be late for work
, he added, tapping his wrist.

“Come here,” I said, gesturing with my hands. I kissed him on the cheek, pushed hair out of his eyes.

Are you ready for your birthday party?

He nodded happily.

I tried to get the day off from work but my boss wouldn’t let me.

That’s okay, Daddy.

I wanted to spend the whole day with you.

It’s okay. Mrs. H. made a cake for me and K. We’re going to have a party.

I’ll be home by 2:15 and we’ll leave right away and go to Memaw’s house.

Is J. going to be at my party?

I hope so,
I admitted, thinking he probably wouldn’t be.

I continued to look at him.

I felt something like a lump in my throat. When he was born, the doctor said the chances of Noah living to be ten were virtually nonexistent, that I was not to get my hopes up. And now, here he was….

What’s wrong, Daddy?

I never thought I’d see this day,
I said, knowing he couldn’t understand but needing to say it.
You’re getting so old.

Not as old as you!

I’m so proud of you,
I said.
And I love you so much.

I was rewarded with a hug.

C
USTOMERS
WERE
merciless that day in their quest for hot dogs, hamburgers, buns, chips, soda, steaks, charcoal, beer, popcorn, pizza, bottled water, cigarettes, paper plates, plastic spoons, potato salads, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Half of Tupelo was in that store during my shift, and it felt like each and every one of them went through my line and took their sweet, bloody time. You’d think they would have stocked up beforehand, but no.

“Kinda busy,” Mr. Owen observed as he waddled past the express lane where I’d been posted.

Getting your minimum wage’s worth, aren’t you, you double-wide peckerwood?
was on the tip of my tongue.

Making matters worse was the fact that Becky hadn’t shown up, so we were short a cashier. Tyrone was also missing in action. Mr. Owen himself was forced to open up a register and serve customers, which was a decidedly odd sight. No doubt it was frustrating for him since he couldn’t simply stare down the scanner with those famous pig eyes and force the items to scan themselves.

Adding to the general misery was the fact that Thursday was double-coupon day and the coupon Nazis were out in force, thrusting fistfuls of coupons into my hands every time I turned around as if it weren’t a public holiday. If you want to make a cashier cry, hand him a hundred coupons and a tissue, then stand there and pretend like you’re not a huge pain in the ass. Surely a barium enema would be less painful.

One hour into my shift and I was in a foul mood.

Two hours and I was ready to douse myself with charcoal lighter and set myself on fire where I stood as a protest against minimum wage hell.

Three hours came and went and still I didn’t get my break.

Then I looked up and Jackson Ledbetter was standing there.

“You again,” I said.

I could not disguise my anger.

“Don’t you have baby piss to wipe up or something?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Got the day off. You?”

“Bite me,” I said.

He grinned as I started to run his items through my scanner: a soda, an expensive ham-and-cheese sandwich from the deli, a small packet of British-style potato chips. All very hoity-toity.

I wanted to cry. I was so mad at myself, so mad at him, so mad at my job.

“How are you, Wiley Cantrell?” he asked.

“I’ve been rode hard and put up wet,” I said.

“I’ll take that to mean you’re having a wonderful day.”

“That’s Southern for kiss my white ass,” I explained in a whisper, hoping none of my coworkers could hear me cursing in front of a customer.

“Charming,” he replied with a big smile. “I came to buy you lunch. Which I just did. How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Is that what it is? I thought I was buying my boyfriend lunch because he’s busy and it’s a holiday. Silly me.”

“I thought we were in the middle of a big fight.”

He handed me the bag of items I had just bagged for him. Only then did it dawn on me that he’d bought that for my lunch, had bought nothing for himself, had stopped only to do that for me.

“Enjoy,” he said. “Pick you up at two thirty?”

“Sure,” I said.

Then he was gone.

“He seems nice,” the lady next in line observed, sliding into my line of vision.

She was a middle-aged woman, well-dressed, a downtown office worker, lawyer, manager, teacher, professional type with streaky bangs.

“He is,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself.

“Wish
my
husband would bring me lunch once in a while,” she said with a smile.

I ran her sushi and Evian water through the scanner.

“Do you guys have any kids?” she asked.

“We have one,” I found myself saying, and I really liked the way it sounded.

“I think that’s so sweet,” she said.

“I’ve already told him I want eight or nine,” I said.

“Oh, my!”

“That way, we can pick our favorite and sell the rest on eBay and get our money back.”

“If only!” she exclaimed. “I have two teenage daughters. If you get away with it, let me know. They’re at that age where they’re not quite human.”

“I’m surprised my mom still talks to me after what I put her through.”

“I’ll bet you were a handful.”

“I was.”

“You have a good day, Wiley,” she said, taking her change.

I was almost four hours into my shift before Mr. Owen allowed me to take my fifteen-minute break. I carried the bag of goodies Jackson had bought to the break room and wolfed down what I could, thinking I was going to have to do a lot of loving on that man as a way to say thank you.

W
E
ATE
an abundance of hot dogs, hamburgers, and cake.

All my aunts and uncles and cousins had come, along with Mrs. Humphries, Tonya and Keke, my friend Jasmine and her partner Lisa, and many others. Neighbors, too, and Mama’s friends, even Father Ginderbach, who had an interesting, if somewhat tortuous conversation with Papaw about why he no longer went to mass.

We had a good eating.

Papaw was in fine form, though his remarks were sprinkled with the sort of profanity that would make a politician blush.

While Noah, dressed in his Superman cape and mask, was distracted with the present-opening extravaganza, Jackson disappeared into the house to change into the Iron Man costume. He waited until I texted him that we were ready for his grand entrance.

“We have a special guest today,” I said, holding up my hands in the midst of the kids.

“Who is it, Uncle Wiley?” Josh asked excitedly.

“It’s someone very special and I want y’all to be good because he had to come a long, long way to get here.”

“Who is it?” the kids cried eagerly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson emerging from the front door of the house.

“Here he comes!” I said. “Now be good, because you don’t want to make this guy mad. No telling what he’ll do!”

“Wah!” Noah exclaimed happily, catching sight of Iron Man strolling across our yard.

The kids started screaming.

I noticed with pleasure that Jackson filled out that Iron Man costume quite nicely.

“I’m Iron Man!” Jackson exclaimed woodenly, clearly out of his element. The children did not notice nor care. “How are you, boys and girls?”

I went to greet him.

“Let me officially welcome you to the Cantrell Home, Mr. Iron Man,” I said.

Jackson’s mask completely covered his face so I could not judge his reaction, which was probably fortunate.

“Today is Noah Cantrell’s tenth birthday!” I announced.

“Happy Birthday, Noah!” Jackson exclaimed.

Then he signed:
Happy Birthday!

Noah looked astonished.

You know sign language?

“Noah wants to know if I know sign language,” he said to the kids. “Of course I do! How can I help people if I can’t talk to them?”

Then, to Noah, he signed:
Yes, I do! Nice to meet you, N-o-a-h!

Noah went up to him, touched his arm as if to reassure himself that Iron Man was real. Then he threw his arms around Jackson’s waist and hugged him.

“Let’s take pictures, shall we?” Jackson said loudly when Noah pulled away.

“Who wants their picture taken with Iron Man?” I asked.

Like a bunch of tourists, they all did. I was happy to oblige.

“Well, I must go back to Hollywood,” Jackson said.

“You don’t live in Hollywood,” Eli pointed out.

“Oh?” Jackson said.

Oops.

Where did Iron Man live?

“I’ve got a meeting there with… Beyoncé!” Jackson exclaimed.

I looked at Noah.

Don’t you want to ask him something?
I prompted.

Noah’s face became serious.

Can you take care of my mom?
he signed to Jackson in deadly earnest.

I don’t need to
, Jackson signed.
She went to heaven to talk to Jesus.

Okay
, Noah said.
Can you take care of my dad, too, and help him find a good job?

Of course! It was nice to meet you!

Noah hugged him again, which prompted a bit of a free-for-all as the kids grabbed at Iron Man’s arms, trying to get his attention.

“Okay!” I said. “Iron Man has to go to Hollywood to help Beyonce! Tell Iron Man good-bye!”

The kids screamed out their good-byes as I escorted Jackson away.

When we returned, the kids had gone to play in the inflatable that Bill had hired for the party, and which sat like a behemoth on the front yard. It featured two slides and an inside area for bouncing.

Sitting down with Jackson, I watched the kids playing and wished Mr. and Mrs. Warren had come. It was past five and they had not shown up. Noah was not likely to notice, but I had, and I felt a small bit of unhappiness over the matter.

Then an old truck appeared in the driveway with Mrs. Warren at the wheel. It seemed an odd choice for transportation.

When she got out, I saw that she was elegantly dressed, making it all the more incongruous.

I went to greet her, very happy that she had decided to come.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, taking her arm and leading her to the party.

“We’ve had quite a morning,” she said. “And I’m sorry we’re so late.”

“We?”

“Give it a minute and you’ll understand,” she replied with the hint of a smile about her lips.