Part 11 (1/2)

Why weren't you in bed? I asked. I asked.

I was thirsty. It was yucky.

He made an appalled face.

I kiss you, don't I? I said. I said.

That's not the same!

So you don't mind....

You can kiss him if you want to.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

He dug around distractedly in his bag.

Can you mail a letter for me? he asked. he asked. K. helped me write it. K. helped me write it.

The letter he handed me was carefully folded. A smiley face had been drawn on the flap. Beneath it were the words: I love you! I love you!

I opened it: Dear Iron Man, I realy like your movie. You funny. You look like my dad but my dad hair realy long. I realy like be your friend. Please write me back because I love you. I deaf but I read sub t.i.tle. I want you help mom. I don't know where live she. I want you find her. Your friend, Noah Cantrell. PS-I live Tupelo, which is close Memphis. It's where Elvis can be born. I show his statyou in park to you.

I glanced at him and offered a frown.

Your spelling is awful, I said, ignoring all the other thoughts that went through my mind I said, ignoring all the other thoughts that went through my mind.

Do you think he'll be my friend?

Of course.

Where does he live?

Hollywood, probably.

Do you think he can find Mom?

I don't know.

I hope so.

So do I.

He returned to his breakfast, satisfied that his mission had been accomplished.

18) At the library

I WENT WENT to the Tupelo Public Library after work and picked up a sign-on card from the services desk and sat down at one of their Internet-ready terminals to check my e-mail. The card gave me an hour of Internet and computer usage. to the Tupelo Public Library after work and picked up a sign-on card from the services desk and sat down at one of their Internet-ready terminals to check my e-mail. The card gave me an hour of Internet and computer usage.

Like most people, my e-mail messages were a collection of junk. No message from my agent, impatient for my vampire-house-eats-unsuspecting-family story. No royalty reports or e-mails about checks in the mail. No publishers inquiring about foreign rights. No big shot Hollywood producers wanting to turn Dead Man's Lake Dead Man's Lake into a movie. Just endless messages about enlarging my p.e.n.i.s and helping some poor Nigerian b.a.s.t.a.r.d transfer a billion dollars out of his country. into a movie. Just endless messages about enlarging my p.e.n.i.s and helping some poor Nigerian b.a.s.t.a.r.d transfer a billion dollars out of his country.

I signed into Facebook and found a friend request from Jackson Ledbetter, which I happily approved. I spent most of my remaining time stalking his profile, looking at his pictures, inspecting his friends list, looking at which pages he liked, reading all his status updates going back to the beginning of the year as you do when you're crazy about someone and you want to know all you can.

Before I ran out of time, I searched on Google for Robert ”Iron Man” Downey Jr.'s mailing address so that I could put Noah's letter in the mail. The best I could manage was an address for Paramount Studios.

Back home, I nervously picked up the phone and called Jackson Ledbetter. I was rewarded with his voice mail.

I'm ditzy about phones. They make me nervous, and always have.

”Hi. I wanted to invite you on a date. If you're not working Sat.u.r.day, let's do the Furniture Market. Noah said he saw us kissing. Call me. Bye. Oh, by the way, this is Wiley. So. Bye.”

Pathetic, I thought, hanging up the phone and putting it down on the kitchen table. Could I be more pathetic, as Chandler from Friends Friends might ask. might ask.

I put rinsed-off baby carrots in a bowl and gave them to Noah as I settled down on the floor with a pillow and World War Z World War Z. I lay parallel to the television and it wasn't long before Noah lay down as well, propping his head on my leg, munching carrots and watching Robert Downey Jr. get the bad guys as I read about the history of the Zombie wars, thinking to myself that this was a real horror novel.

When would I ever have such a good idea to work with?

But your best idea is currently using your leg for a pillow, isn't it?

I glanced down at Noah.

Would writing about him be such a crime?

I thought of a million and one things I could say straight off the top of my head with utterly no prompting and no editorial sweat. I'd have an eight-hundred-page novel in no time. I'd call it something mysterious like What the Deaf Boy Heard. What the Deaf Boy Heard. I'd talk about the travails of a gay man raising a deaf meth baby in the South. I'd talk about the travails of a gay man raising a deaf meth baby in the South.

Only one small problem. To tell his story properly, I would have to confess to what I did. The stupidity of a gay man letting himself be talked into thinking he needed to have a girlfriend, and needed to have s.e.x with her to prove he was a man. The stupidity of crystal meth. Getting a girl pregnant with a child that would have birth defects because the two of you were pa.s.sing a crack pipe back and forth while ”finding” yourselves.

There was no way I'd come across pretty in such a tale. I could easily imagine my mom reading this book and being furious with me for shaming the whole family, was.h.i.+ng our dirty laundry in public like redneck trailer trash on the Jerry Springer Show.

And what if Noah could read well enough one day to read with his own eyes what his father did, what his mother did? How would it make him feel, to know that he might have been a normal boy, part of the ”normal” world of the hearing, but for the fact that his parents had smoked crystal meth?

I glanced down at him, at the tumble of blond hair falling on my leg, at the way he stared so intently at the television screen as if afraid to miss a single moment.

Would he still love me if he knew the truth?

How much longer could I hide it from him?

19) Dead to me now