Shaking the Sugar Tree Part 9

"Would you like one of the guys to go out with you to the car?"

"I think I can manage," she said primly.

14) Write about Noah?

THAT EVENING EVENING at dinner I eyed my phone as if my staring would make it ring. at dinner I eyed my phone as if my staring would make it ring.

It did not.

Jackson Ledbetter could have his pick of boyfriends in a swampy town like Tupelo. If he could find any. Mississippi gays knew how to blend into the scenery. And although Tupelo has a population of about forty thousand, "the gays" are hard to come by.

Charlie Pride explained on the radio that no one knows what goes on "Behind Closed Doors." Then the Bellamy Brothers asked the eternal question: "If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It Against Me?" "If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It Against Me?"

Jackson had a beautiful body. Just the thought made me a bit h.o.r.n.y and I nursed my cup of coffee as if it were a cold shower. Boy, I could shake that sugar tree.

I glanced at my clunker of a laptop, which was on the counter, closed, as it had been for many days now. My latest novel was about a haunted house.

When I sold Dead Man's Lake Dead Man's Lake and received a five thousand dollar advance, I had easily imagined myself living the life of the writer, zipping off novels in between visits to museums and book signings and glamorous world travel. It happened right at the time that Noah was born and I found it all too easy to drop out of college so that I could be free to pursue the life of a writer while taking care of him and his many needs. and received a five thousand dollar advance, I had easily imagined myself living the life of the writer, zipping off novels in between visits to museums and book signings and glamorous world travel. It happened right at the time that Noah was born and I found it all too easy to drop out of college so that I could be free to pursue the life of a writer while taking care of him and his many needs.

What a fool I was.

I quickly learned one of the cardinal rules of publis.h.i.+ng, which is that you are only as good as your last book. While Dead Man's Lake Dead Man's Lake sold well, the next two did not, and the last stunk up the room. My most recent royalty report showed just two hundred and twelve copies sold during the previous quarter, and that was for all my books combined. The accompanying royalty check was in the lower triple digits, boy howdy do. sold well, the next two did not, and the last stunk up the room. My most recent royalty report showed just two hundred and twelve copies sold during the previous quarter, and that was for all my books combined. The accompanying royalty check was in the lower triple digits, boy howdy do.

As my agent pointed out, most people have a good novel inside them. But not always two or three. Had I not, she wondered, soured on the horror genre? Should I not consider another genre? What was the story that I really wanted to write, the story I really wanted to tell?

I knew the answer she was fis.h.i.+ng for: The story of Noah.

Self-confession is good for the soul, they say. When celebs get their t.i.ts out, they get six-figure advances. I might at least work myself up into the five-digit range again, like a real writer.

But I couldn't write about Noah. I couldn't use him to help a stalled career. Something in me said no.

My agent, Jean, had been noncommittal on the haunted house idea.

"What's different about it?" she demanded. "Stephen King did the whole thing to death in Rose Red Rose Red, and dreadfully, I might add. What could you possibly add?"

"My house is actually a vampire," I said.

"Weak," she offered. "Houses can't be vampires."

"This one could be," I said.

"Have you thought about a book about Noah?"

"No."

"Please think about it, Wiley. You do want to sell books, don't you?"

"I don't want to write a book about him."

"Think about it, Wiley. Gay man. Single dad. Raising a deaf child with birth defects. Your personal story. What happened. In the South, no less. A meth baby, for crying out loud. Christ, it will sell, believe me. Gay is big right now. Everything is gay gay gay. People want to know. More than that, they want to know something real. And you've got all those lovely photos of him. He's a beautiful child, Wiley. Put one of those on the cover and it's a guaranteed success. People like cute kids. What's wrong with telling his story?"

How to explain it to her?

Anyway, I had gotten about ten thousand words into my haunted house novel before I'd petered out and lost interest. Fact was, the idea bored me to tears. Vampire house eats unsuspecting family Vampire house eats unsuspecting family. Oh, who cares? They probably deserved it.

The reviews on Amazon.com for my last novel, December Falling Down, December Falling Down, had been brutal. had been brutal.

The one by redseven45 proclaimed for all the world to see: "Wiley Cantrell is no Stephen King. He's the opposite of Stephen King. He's the Pee Wee Herman of Horror. He's the Mighty Midget of Terror. His writing is about as scary as a badly written manual on how to put together a piece of occasional furniture. I feel like I wasted my money. That's not a good feeling."

The professional reviews were no better. My favorite was the Kansas City Star Kansas City Star, which said: "Wiley Cantrell has shown us he can write a h.e.l.l of a novel. Now he's shown us that he can't."

Was that the truth of things, that I could no longer write a decent novel?

I picked at my food, feeling miserable.

I looked across the table at Noah. The storms behind his eyes weren't over, but at least he was talking again.

KUDZU played "He Stopped Loving Her Today" to honor the recent pa.s.sing of George Jones.

Noah cleaned his plate, asked for seconds.

I wish some of this would stick to your bones, I said, ladling out more pasta. I said, ladling out more pasta. People think I'm starving you. People think I'm starving you.

You are are starving me starving me, he pointed out.

I am not!

You never take me to McDonald's.

Why would you want to eat that c.r.a.p?

'Cause all my friends go there.

We don't eat c.r.a.p in this house.

See? You're starving me. You won't let me eat what I want to eat.

If I bought c.r.a.p, you'd eat c.r.a.p?

Yes, he said he said.

And you call yourself my son? Keep it up and we'll become vegetarians.

Gross. He made a face to emphasize his point. He made a face to emphasize his point.

We'll eat b-o-k c-h-o-y for breakfast and it'll be all your fault, I said I said.

We can go outside and eat the gra.s.s. It's free!

Exactly, I said I said.

Like we're goats or something.

We could save money.

I'm tired of saving money.

So am I.

Dad?

Yes?

Why do you have to be so weird? he asked. he asked.

I'm not weird.

No wonder n.o.body likes you.

People like me.

You won't even go to McDonald's. K. says her mom takes her there all the time.

"K." was fingerspelling shorthand for Keke.

Can't we go? Just once? It's been almost a year!

I'll think about it.

Can we go tomorrow?

I'll think about it!

The conversation was interrupted as he gulped down sweet tea.

Dad?

He had a cheeky smile on his face.

Why doesn't your boyfriend call you?

Shut up!

Told you you were weird.

He'll call, I said, nodding my head, as if to say, I said, nodding my head, as if to say, you wait and see you wait and see.

He probably thinks you look like a girl.

Your hair is almost as long as mine!

No it isn't!

Have you looked in the mirror lately?

But you have a ponytail like a girl.

The conversation was again interrupted as he started on dessert, a small bowl of grapes.

Dad?

Yes?

Where does Mom live?

I don't know.

Do you think she'll visit me?

I don't know.

His face fell and he lowered his eyes so that he couldn't see anything else I might say.

15) Cutting a rug

AS A A Southern gay man, I reserve the right to sing while was.h.i.+ng dishes, especially when Glen Campbell comes on KUDZU singing "Rhinestone Cowboy," as he did after dinner. Southern gay man, I reserve the right to sing while was.h.i.+ng dishes, especially when Glen Campbell comes on KUDZU singing "Rhinestone Cowboy," as he did after dinner.

"I want to be where the lights are s.h.i.+ning on me," I sang, "like a Rhinestone Cowboy...."

I danced around at the sink, remembering how I used to sing that song when I belonged to Southern Nights, a college band I'd joined when I was eighteen and had dreams of glory.

Noah appeared at my side. He looked up into my eyes and smiled.

"Come on," I said.

He put his bare feet on top of mine, his arms around my shoulders.