Shaking the Sugar Tree Part 46

It could work.

The words flowed easily, and I was more than three thousand words into it when Noah wandered into the kitchen.

I had never written a book like this, though. I was used to the conventions of the horror genre. What was I writing, exactly? Romance? Drama? Slice of life? Romantic comedy? Would there be an audience for such a book?

Watching Noah sit down, chomping on his Pop-Tart, I realized it was none of those things. It was a love story about a father and a son. The rest was window dressing. As a love story between a parent and a child, it was universal. Didn't matter that I was gay, that he was deaf, that we didn't fit in, that we were each outcasts in our own way. G.o.d, fate, the universe, luck-we had been thrown together in this thing we call life for reasons we might never be able to fathom. As Mrs. Humphries would say, The Lord gon' find a way-and He had.

Are we going to see Grandpa today? Noah asked. Noah asked.

I nodded.

I hate going there.

We always go there on the Sunday after your birthday.

I know.

We could take flowers to your mom, too, if you want.

Okay.

67) Good-byes again

A PEW PEW at St. Francis was filled with Cantrells for morning ma.s.s. Noah, myself, Mama, Bill, Sh.e.l.ly, the kids, and my daddy's sister Aunt Mary, her husband Uncle Rowland, their daughter Mary Margret, her two kids. Even Papaw, looking uncomfortable in a clean s.h.i.+rt and dress pants. Jackson sat beside me, smelling faintly of cologne and good breeding. at St. Francis was filled with Cantrells for morning ma.s.s. Noah, myself, Mama, Bill, Sh.e.l.ly, the kids, and my daddy's sister Aunt Mary, her husband Uncle Rowland, their daughter Mary Margret, her two kids. Even Papaw, looking uncomfortable in a clean s.h.i.+rt and dress pants. Jackson sat beside me, smelling faintly of cologne and good breeding.

Father Ginderbach came over before ma.s.s to greet Noah, smiling at us, happy we'd come out in force, even if it was just a once a year thing. Mama had made a special offering to have ma.s.s said for the repose of Daddy's soul, something she did each year on the Sunday after Noah's birthday party.

We drove to the graveyard after ma.s.s and wandered among the graves until we reached a corner on the west side where the Cantrells were traditionally laid to rest. A large, double headstone rested at the head of one plot. Daddy's date of birth and date of death were engraved into the rock of it. Mama's date of birth was on the opposite side, her date of death still waiting.

"Loving Husband and Father" were written underneath Daddy's information.

Mama put a wreath on the grave, folded her hands to her chest and prayed silently.

"You don't talk much about your dad," Jackson said quietly to me as we stood there and watched.

A familiar lump of pain swelled in my chest.

"He was an alcoholic," I said. "A violent man. I hated his guts and sometimes I think I still do. I try not to. He was my daddy, but I don't remember him ever telling me that he loved me. All I remember now is just a lot of yelling and screaming and what a relief it was when he died."

Jackson put an arm around my waist and we stood there, holding a vigil of sorts.

"Is that why you try so hard to be a good dad?" he asked.

I had never thought of it that way.

"Or maybe that's why Bill worries so much about Noah," he added.

"Could be," I agreed.

Noah came and stood in front of me. I held him, putting my arm across his chest, while we looked at the grave.

Papaw stood next to Mama, looking down at the grave with her.

"At least the Christless p.e.c.k.e.rwood finally shut up," Papaw observed.

"I know, Daddy," Mama said sadly.

She turned to look at us, taking comfort in our presence.

"Well," she said, breathing deeply, "there's that that done for another year." done for another year."

We said good-bye to Aunt Mary and Uncle Rowland and their kids.

Let's go see your mother, Mama signed to Noah.

We got back into our vehicles and drove across town to the Baptist cemetery where Kayla was buried, her grave still quite new. Noah carried the flowers we'd bought at FoodWorld that morning.

He was not a happy camper. He put the flowers on his mother's grave, then came to stand between Jackson and myself, holding our hands.

Bill looked at us frankly, standing there with Noah between us. I thought he might be mad, but instead, he offered a small smile.

"Y'all will have to take care of him now since his mother is gone," Bill said.

"We will," I said.

"I know you will, Wiley," he replied. "I know you both both will." will."

His eyes lingered on mine for a long time before he turned away.

68) Protest

ON S SEPTEMBER fifteenth, which was Jackson's birthday, I packed Noah and my guitar in the back of Jackson's Jeep and we drove to the headquarters of the American Family Alliance, which was a couple of blocks off West Main in Tupelo, not far from where I worked. We parked in the lot for the skating rink and walked down the block. fifteenth, which was Jackson's birthday, I packed Noah and my guitar in the back of Jackson's Jeep and we drove to the headquarters of the American Family Alliance, which was a couple of blocks off West Main in Tupelo, not far from where I worked. We parked in the lot for the skating rink and walked down the block.

Noah and I wore Gay Pride T-s.h.i.+rts despite the chilliness of the afternoon.

The American Family Alliance had a complex of large buildings lining both sides of the street. With a proper protest permit from the Police Department, which George always obtained for us, we could walk up and down the street as well as the adjacent sidewalks, though we could not block any traffic, motorized or pedestrian, from going to one building to the next. We had to keep moving. We could not "congregate" or "disturb the peace."

"I've never been to one of these," Jackson said nervously.

"We're old hands," I said.

"You're not scared?"

"Why should I be?"

"You're not afraid for Noah's safety?"

"What are they going to do a ten-year-old boy?"

We met George, who was unpacking protest signs from the back of his SUV. Jasmine and her partner Lisa joined us. We unfurled signs and waited for the others to come, but when one o'clock rolled around, our numbers had only swollen to sixteen.

"Lucky sixteen," Jasmine said brightly.

"We've got to start somewhere," Lisa added, pa.s.sing out signs.

Our numbers included three lesbian couples, several heteros.e.xual supporters, another gay man besides myself and Jackson, and three kids.

"I called the media," George said. "They might show up, you never know."

They usually didn't, but we said nothing.

I noticed the police presence, which consisted of two conveniently placed patrol cars, the officers sitting inside, staring at us through sungla.s.ses.

"You ready?" Jasmine asked me.

"Think we'll start with some Dylan," I said, feeling unaccountably nervous.

I put the guitar strap around my neck, did some last minute tuning.

"Let's line up behind Wiley," Jasmine said loudly, taking charge. "Remember: Peaceful protest. We're singing songs, being friendly, holding our signs. We're not hurting anyone. We're not going to argue or engage with anyone. We have the perfect legal right to be here."

There was not much traffic on the road between the American Family Alliance buildings. Only a few people came and went among the buildings. That wasn't the point, though. The point was to show up on their doorstep and let them know that there were a handful of gay people and their supporters in Tupelo, Mississippi who did not appreciate being referred to on the airwaves as n.a.z.is, thieves, and liars, as mentally ill, as threats to society and culture and public health. We were human beings, and we wanted them to see who it was they were routinely tras.h.i.+ng on their radio programs.

A pointless pursuit perhaps, but there it was.

I began to sing.

"How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?"

The others eventually began to sing with me, especially on the choruses.

This was the third direct protest of the AFA that we had staged. We had done other demonstrations elsewhere, including one against the "school-to-prison pipeline," as it was known in Mississippi, which involved schools being so harsh in their discipline of black students that many wound up in jail on extremely minor offenses.

About five minutes into the protest, many more cars began to arrive and a slew of additional supporters got out to join us as if they'd been waiting to see if we were really going to do it. After thirty minutes, there were about fifty of us walking up and down the street, singing, protesting peacefully.

I was surprised to see Bill and Sh.e.l.ly's SUV park down the street. They got out, stood there with Josh and Eli on the sidewalk, watching us.

Then cameramen from WTVA and WCBI arrived, hastily setting up their equipment to film the goings-on.

I launched into a newly energized version of "The Times They Are A-Changin'." We all took energy from the growing crowd.

As I sang, I looked at the AFA buildings and noticed several of their employees standing in windows, watching us. A few even ventured outside and stood in front of their buildings.

Two more cop cars showed up, and now all the officers got out and took up positions, keeping an eye on all of us.

Jasmine hurried off to the television station cameramen to give impromptu interviews.

All this time, Jackson strode rigidly by my side, holding Noah's hand and glancing about nervously. He was clearly not comfortable doing protests. His nerves seemed to increase as the numbers of people increased.

"Come mothers and fathers throughout the land, "Don't criticize what you don't understand...."

I sang for all I was worth, singing the whole song through three times to stretch it out. I was getting tired of the walking, though, and when the cameraman from WCBI indicated that he wanted to do some filming with me standing still, I was happy to oblige, though not at all happy that someone was filming me.

I offered a song of my own, a call and response spiritual, which we had used before during these marches.

"Someday there be freedom," I sang, which the others repeated as they gathered around, careful not to block the walkways between the building complexes. I sang, which the others repeated as they gathered around, careful not to block the walkways between the building complexes.

"Someday there be joy....

"Someday we'll build up a world....

"We can all enjoy....

"Someday there be happiness....

"And peace in our souls....

"Someday there be freedom....

"At the end of this hard, hard road."

It was a simple song in the call and repeat style of Negro spirituals. The more we sang it, the stronger it became. Someone started a slow clap and it soon sounded like a bit of a Gospel revival right there in the street. As I sang, I saw Bill and Sh.e.l.ly and the kids come to join the crowds, joining in with us.

At this time, a man in a suit came strolling out of one of the AFA buildings with an unhappy look on his face.

George went to meet him, sensing trouble.

I couldn't hear what was said. The man gestured and pointed at me. No doubt we were blocking something or other, or not moving along as we had agreed to do. When the WTVA cameraman aimed his camera at George and the man in the suit, I fell silent, and everyone else did too.

"You need to keep moving," the man said loudly, waving a hand at all of us. "Y'all know that. You're blocking the road now. There's too many of you."

Two of the police officers strolled in our direction, wanting to know what the dispute was about.

"Let's keep moving," George called.

"We're not blocking anyone," Lisa called out.