Part 3 (1/2)

Bigger.

The mall?

Bigger.

The sky?

Bigger.

Bigger than anything?

There isn't anything in this world bigger, I a.s.sured him I a.s.sured him.

There must be something, he said, looking cross and suspicious he said, looking cross and suspicious.

We had played out this little ritual on many a night.

If you had a boyfriend, you'd love him more than me, wouldn't you? he pressed. he pressed.

Of course not.

Promise?

Wait. I just thought of something.

Now he looked alarmed.

There is something bigger.

What?

S-a-r-a-h P-a-l-i-n's stupidity.

Who's she?

Never mind. There isn't anything in the whole universe more important to me than you are. And there isn't anyone in the whole world I would ever love more than you. I don't care who they are. Well, maybe if I met J-o-h-n D-e-n-v-e-r....

He's dead!

T-a-m-m-y W-y-n-e-t-te?

She's so old!

O-b-a-m-a?

He looked thoughtful for a moment. You might love him more than me, You might love him more than me, he admitted he admitted.

Maybe.

You would not!

You're right. I love O., but not as much as you.

I dabbed at his face. The humidity was so thick you could use it to rinse your chickpeas. I went to the bathroom, refreshed the washcloth with cold water, returned to his room, and laid it on his forehead, my signal that it was time for sleep.

Dad?

Yes?

I love you.

I love you, too. Sweet dreams.

He took my hand into his own, and I looked at his extra pinkie. He held my hand for a few moments. Then: Dad?

”Yes?”

Do you think Mom will remember me?

I nodded, hoping my doubt was safely hid behind a confident smile.

You sure?

Of course.

I can't wait to see her!

Go to sleep.

5) Failure to thrive

IN MY MY room, I put Patsy Cline on the record player and she told me about ”Seven Lonely Nights.” room, I put Patsy Cline on the record player and she told me about ”Seven Lonely Nights.” I'm the kind of uncool guy who has a record player. Don't feel sorry for me because I can pick up LPs at the used-book store or thrift shop for a buck each. I listen to ca.s.settes, too, and those are only ten cents a pop. Pretty cool when you make minimum wage. Makes you feel like you can actually buy something of value with it. Records are cheaper than candy bars, if you can believe that. I'm the kind of uncool guy who has a record player. Don't feel sorry for me because I can pick up LPs at the used-book store or thrift shop for a buck each. I listen to ca.s.settes, too, and those are only ten cents a pop. Pretty cool when you make minimum wage. Makes you feel like you can actually buy something of value with it. Records are cheaper than candy bars, if you can believe that.

Ever since the time you told me our love was through Seven lonely nights I've cried and I've cried for you....

You preach it, girl, I thought, sitting on my bed and feeling lonely and miserable, wis.h.i.+ng there was a man like Jackson Ledbetter in my bed, a man who would hold me and kiss me and make me feel alive again, if only one more time before the middle-aged spread took over my hips and sent me belly-flopping into dementia and adult diapers. I thought, sitting on my bed and feeling lonely and miserable, wis.h.i.+ng there was a man like Jackson Ledbetter in my bed, a man who would hold me and kiss me and make me feel alive again, if only one more time before the middle-aged spread took over my hips and sent me belly-flopping into dementia and adult diapers.

I was perilously close to thirty-three. Thirty-five sat like an apocalypse on the not-too-distant horizon. What kind of life could there possibly be after that?

I looked around my room, not completely immune to the shabbiness of my existence. The sheets on my bed and the curtains on my window must have been spun during the Civil War. I had clothes that I wore in high school, and still wore. My dresser was a cast-off from my brother Bill. The bottom drawers are covered with stickers that Noah put there when he was two and which I've kept meaning to peel off and never have. There is no denying the fact that I make minimum wage, that I work part-time because I can't find anything else, that I have no frills or ruffles to speak of, that I am part of the reason why Mississippi is the poorest state in the Union.

The words ”failure to thrive” floated through my mind. So did ”dirt-poor” and ”redneck, p.e.c.k.e.rwood white trash.”

No wonder Noah's mother ran off.