Shaking the Sugar Tree (34 page)

“Mary Cantrell!” Mama exclaimed as we laughed.

“She’s a pistol!” Papaw exclaimed proudly.

“I do not want her talking that way in my house,” Mama said crossly.

“Noah and I have a present for all of you,” Jackson announced, getting to his feet and signing to Noah:
Are you ready?

Noah grinned and went to the center of the living room. He pointed his finger at the ceiling in a dramatic John Travolta pose.

We shushed, not knowing what to expect.

Jackson turned on the CD player and hit the play button.

A disco version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”
filled the living room
.

They had worked up a hilarious choreographed routine and I giggled helplessly. They were both so earnest and such natural hams that it was impossible not to laugh. In another lifetime, Jackson Ledbetter might well have been a lip-syncing drag queen. Noah mimicked his moves so precisely, it was uncanny. Watching them, you’d never know that Noah couldn’t hear a sound.

In the middle of the song, they signed some of the words, and encouraged us to sign the words back to them.

Then they did some ballroom-style moves sprinkled with well-timed pratfalls and other foolishness.

They received a well-deserved round of applause when they were through.

Mama passed around more eggnog and the vodka starting going to my head. By the time we got to Midnight Mass I was having trouble walking in a straight line.

N
OAH
WOKE
me the following morning, his eyes saying it was Christmas.

Get up!
he signed urgently.

I was in Jackson Ledbetter’s arms in the “master bedroom” of our new apartment, could feel his warm skin against my back.

I shook my head.

No, I did not want to get up.

Please?
he begged.

I shook my head again. I’d had entirely too much vodka the night before and I was paying for it.

I pulled Noah into bed and snuggled with him. He permitted this for about one minute. Then he sat up and pushed the covers off us.

Jackson woke with a start.

It’s Christmas!
Noah signed happily.
Get up!

“What time is it?” Jackson asked.

It was shortly after five in the morning.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he moaned.

“You’re a parent now,” I said. “Get up and do your duty. My head is killing me.”

Noah pinched my cheek, trying to force me to open my eyes.

I stumbled out of bed and threw on my bathrobe against the cold.

In the combination living room/dining room, Jackson had erected a very large tree positively choked with Christmas ornaments and lights. More than two-dozen packages were beneath the tree and Noah was beside himself with the anticipation of finding out what they were. He had presents from Jackson, Mama, Tonya and Keke, and Mr. and Mrs. Warren, as well as me.

He was about to pop.

I made coffee already,
Noah said impatiently when he saw me heading for the kitchen.

Bless his little heart, I thought. I poured myself and Jackson some coffee and brought it to the living room. We sat on the floor in front of the tree as Noah ripped into his presents. In short order, Noah discovered a set of graphic novels, a pair of Nikes that he’d been begging for repeatedly, several new shirts and sweaters and jeans, a very pricey train set from his grandparents, an Iron Man action figure that I’d found in a shop downtown, and, last but certainly not the least, a new Xbox One, courtesy of Jackson. This was in addition to various stocking stuffers and whatnot, which included the new
Superman
movie.

Santa Claus had gone all out that year.

“And there’s one more thing,” Jackson said, producing a very small box and handing it to me.

“We said we weren’t going to buy each other anything,” I pointed out. I was already in debt up to my sorry ass without trying to buy something really nice for the man in my life.

“It’s not a Christmas present,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“My birthday’s not till February,” I pointed out.

“It’s not a birthday present.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

It was a jewelry box. That much I knew. It was too small to be anything else. But what kind of jewelry? And why would he buy me something so expensive when he knew I couldn’t buy anything in return?

I bit at my lip as I opened it.

It was a ring.

A plain but nonetheless very beautiful gold ring. Solid, heavy-looking, obviously expensive.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I want you to marry me, Wiley Cantrell,” he said.

“You what?”

He got on his knees, took the box from my hands, and held out the ring to me.

“Will you marry me?”

I laughed nervously, thinking it was a jest or something, but he was very, very serious.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Will you marry me, Wiley Cantrell?”

“You know we can’t ever get married,” I said, flustered.

“We can go to Boston and get gay-married anytime we want,” he pointed out. “So I’m asking you: Will you marry me? Will you be my husband for the rest of my life? Will you let me be Noah’s father?”

It might have been the vodka slowing down my brain, or the distraction of Christmas and watching how happy Noah was, but it caught me completely by surprise, this sudden proposal, this sudden seriousness.

We had joked about getting married, of course. We were even serious about it, at times. But it never occurred to me that we might actually get married, might actually walk down an aisle in a church and take wedding vows. And it certainly never occurred to me that someone like Jackson Ledbetter would want to do such a thing with me, of all the possible people who would so willingly throw themselves at his Yankee feet.

“I don’t know what to say,” I confessed.

“Yes, you do,” he said encouragingly.

“You want to marry
me
?” I asked, incredulous. “You mean, really marry
me
?”

“I love you, but you are so stupid sometimes,” he said with a smile. “Of course I want to marry you. And if you say yes, I will be the happiest man in the whole world and I’ll do right by you and Noah. You’ll see. You will never regret being my husband. I promise you that.”

“This is a whole new level of courting,” I said.

“This is the real deal,” Jackson said. “I’ve got some major skin in the game now, don’t I?”

“But I can’t do this,” I said, pushing the ring away.

“What are you talking about?”

“This must be some kind of a joke,” I said.

“It’s not a joke. I love you. What’s so hard to understand?”

“We can’t get married. It’s not even legal.”

“It’s legal in some states,” he pointed out. “And someday it will be legal here too.”

I was the verge of tears. And they weren’t happy tears.

“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked, moving closer and putting a hand on my knee.

Noah noticed my unhappiness too, and crawled over, looking up at me with confused eyes.

What’s wrong, Daddy?

I wiped at my eyes, trying to hide my tears, feeling foolish and overwhelmed.

“What is it?” Jackson pressed.

I had quite killed the mood. Killed it dead.

“I know I go out there and fight for gay rights,” I said, “but I’m fighting for the younger generations. The kids. I’m not out there fighting for me. I don’t ever expect to have any rights, not in my lifetime.”

“What the hell?” Jackson said.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m trying,” he said. “But I don’t get it.”

“Nothing changes down here in the South,” I said. “Don’t you understand that? Nothing ever changes. It’s all right for people like you in Boston or LA or New York to talk about gay marriage and equality and all the rest of it, but that’s never going to happen down here. Not for us. Not for people like me.”

“That’s a bunch of bullshit,” Jackson said rather angrily.

“That’s just the way it is,” I said. “We haven’t even finished the goddamn Civil War yet. By the time we get around to gay marriage, we’ll both be long dead and gone and people will be living on the planet Jupiter.”

Jackson sat back on his haunches, a mystified look on his face.

“We can go to Boston,” he said quietly. “It’s just a few hours on a plane. It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I want to be married in my own church, by my own priest, in my own community, with my family there. My friends.
Here
. In the place where I grew up. In my home. I don’t want to go to some foreign country to get married. It’s like going to Las Vegas. It won’t be real to me.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Jackson said.

“As long as one person is a slave,” I said, quoting an old saying, “we’re all slaves. As long as one person isn’t free, none of us are free. Sure, I could go to Boston, but there’s so many people like me down here who can’t. They don’t have the money. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Wow,” Jackson said quietly.

“Don’t listen to me,” I said, feeling foolish, like I’d said too much, like I was talking straight out of my ass.

Jackson fingered the jewelry box, his eyes lowered.

What’s wrong?
Noah asked.

Nothing,
I said.

Is J. going to be my daddy too?

I smiled, but did not answer.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” Jackson admitted at last. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am happy,” I pointed out.

“Are you really that political that you wouldn’t get married until it’s legal here?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’d have to think about it. It doesn’t seem right, but maybe I’m being foolish.”

He seemed to recover a bit of the wind in his sails.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get engaged. And when gay marriage becomes legal in the state of Mississippi, then we’ll get gay-married in the state of Mississippi. And I’ll wait for you. However long it takes. Until then, we’ll just be engaged and the whole world will know we’re waiting for history to catch up with us. One way or the other, Wiley Cantrell, I want to be by your side the rest of my life. So what do you say?”

He held out the ring again.

Noah offered a bright smile as he watched.

I hesitated for a long time. Ridiculous as it was, I had never imagined that Jackson Ledbetter or anyone else would ever propose to me. I hoped. I dreamed. But I had never allowed myself to believe that it might actually happen. A defense mechanism, perhaps, to avoid the pain of hopes being dashed. But there it was. And now that Jackson had asked, now that he was kneeling there with a ring in his hand and looking at me, I did not know what to say.

What’s wrong, Daddy?
Noah asked.

I don’t know,
I admitted.

Don’t you want J. to be my daddy?

I lowered my eyes.

He moved closer, refusing to be put off.

Say yes, Daddy,
Noah urged.
Say yes and then we’ll be a real family.

“Well?” Jackson prompted.

I turned to look at him; the sight was reassuring. Looking at Jackson Ledbetter, I knew I’d do just about anything he asked me to, and probably a whole lot more. Somehow I knew there weren’t that many men in this world who could make the butter slide off my biscuits. I’d never find anyone else like him ever again.

“You need to ask my son’s permission,” I said.

He turned to Noah:

I want to marry your dad. Is that okay with you?

Do you love him as much as I do?
Noah asked.

You know I do. I love him very much. And I love you too. I want us to be a family.

Noah grinned from ear to ear.

So do I have your permission?
Jackson asked.

You can’t be a doofus,
Noah warned.

I won’t be,
Jackson assured him.
So… what do you say?

Noah nodded.

“Good deal!” Jackson exclaimed.

They turned to me and Jackson held out the ring again.

“So what do you say, Wily Cantrell?” Jackson prompted.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What’s in it for me?”

“What’s in it for you?” Jackson asked, outraged.

“You want me to marry a damned Yankee who smells like the cologne counter at Belks?” I asked. “Surely I have a right to expect something more.”

“Don’t call me Shirley,” Jackson said. “You’re going to marry this damned Yankee and you’re going to be happy.”

“You gon’ shake my sugar tree?” I inquired.

“And then some. And if you don’t put this ring on your finger, I’m going to kick your Confederate ass right up between your shoulder blades.”

“I could use my butt cheeks for Mickey Mouse ears,” I pointed out.

“Come on, Wiley,” Jackson said. “Will you marry me?”

“I can’t afford to buy you a ring like that,” I said.

“Which is why I also bought this,” he said, retrieving another package and displaying it.

“You know I don’t believe in D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” I said.

“Stop stalling, Wiley,” he replied. “Will you, or will you not, be my husband?”

“I reckon I will, Mr. Ledbetter,” I said. “I do indeed.”

“Yes!” Jackson exclaimed, putting the ring on my finger and kissing me full on the lips, so hard and so passionately that Noah put his hands over his eyes and giggled.

Afterward, as Jackson and Noah got busy setting up the new Xbox and trying out their new games, I sat on the sofa and watched my two men, a ridiculous smile on my face that wouldn’t go away.

Maybe things
do
change in the South, I thought. Or maybe all we could do was change ourselves and hope the South would eventually catch up.

I picked up my phone and called Mama.

“You’ll never guess,” I said.

N
ICK
W
ILGUS
grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in a variety of small towns in Michigan. The child of an alcoholic father whose drunken binges left the family in constant poverty, Wilgus ran away at age fifteen and joined a right wing religious cult, but was eventually rejected and shunned because of his sexuality. After living on the streets, he was taken in by an Italian family. He eventually put himself through school and has lived and worked all over the world, including almost two decades in Bangkok, Thailand, where he worked as the chief subeditor for the Bangkok Post.