Part 16 (2/2)
He said nothing to this.
I did not mean to sound so bitter, so angry.
”And sometimes I think maybe they're right,” I went on. ”Maybe he would have been better off had I let his grandparents take care of him. All I had to do was f.u.c.k off.”
Still he said nothing, letting me ramble.
”On top of all of that, Noah was a meth baby. He was born addicted to crystal meth. They had to shoot him up and get him high so they could wean him off the drugs. They had to do that because they were afraid he would die. He had birth defects. And all those people looking at me-I could see it in their eyes. They blamed me. Bad enough that his mother was a meth head, but his father was a f.a.g. That poor child. That poor, poor child. And I'm talking about people like my own mother. My brother Bill. His wife. I went to my church and asked my priest to come baptize Noah because we thought he was going to die, and the priest looked at me like I was the sc.u.m of the known universe. All those people, the way they looked at me, the way they looked at Noah....”
”I'm sorry,” Jackson said softly.
”I don't know why I'm telling you this,” I said, pulling my hand away, feeling embarra.s.sed, self-conscious.
”I'm glad you told me.”
”You know what I heard the other day?” I asked.
”What?”
”Some guy on the radio-some right wing Christian whack job who probably m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es too much-suggested that we needed to build an underground railroad, like the one they had to help slaves escape. Only he suggested we needed to build one to spirit away children of gay people and get them to safety. And it hit me: He was talking about Noah. He was talking about my little boy. Do you understand that? Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
”That's awful,” he said.
I wiped at my eyes and turned away from him.
”I'm really sorry,” he said.
”I don't know what I'd do if someone took my child away from me,” I said.
”They can't do that,” Jackson pointed out.
”They can't hang black people from magnolia trees either, but that never stopped them, did it?” I countered. ”You can't own another human being. You can't go out in the slave quarters at night and rape your female slaves so you can make a bunch of little baby slaves. You can't burn crosses in people's yards. You can't torch their businesses or set people on fire. Don't tell me about what folks can and cannot do.”
He did not seem to know what to make of this.
”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I shouldn't be sitting here and running my mouth like a fool.”
”You ever heard of something called gay rights?” he asked.
I laughed in his face.
”Maybe they don't exist down here yet, but they're coming,” he said.
”What's that got to do with anything?”
”While straight people are having long-winded conversations about how intrinsically disordered we are, we're trying to live our lives. I'm not big on politics, but I'm big on my own rights. Frankly, I'm surprised. You got a girl pregnant. You decided to do the right thing and stick by her and take responsibility for the child. People are mad at you because of that that? Really? All these deadbeat dads walking around who won't pay child support and don't want to be part of their children's lives, and they're mad at you for being responsible? Don't you realize how f.u.c.ked-up that is? And here you are, beating yourself up about it like you believe them, like you think your son would be better off with them! them! What the h.e.l.l is that about?” What the h.e.l.l is that about?”
He held my hand, uncaring as to who saw us, or who listened, or what they thought.
”Do you abuse Noah?” he asked.
”Of course not!” I exclaimed, pulling my hand away angrily.
”Do you take him to the hospital with unexplained injuries?”
”No!”
”Do you molest him? Do you smack him around a little when you're drinking? Do you throw him against the wall when you're mad? Do you have people calling the DHS on you, wondering what the h.e.l.l is going on?”
”What the h.e.l.l is your point?”
”I'm a pediatric nurse, Wiley. I see a lot of kids every day. Some of their parents... well, you've got to wonder. You look at those kids and you just know something's going on. From the way you talk, seems like some of these people would be only too happy to find any excuse to take Noah away from you. Have you ever been investigated by the DHS?”
”Of course not.”
”Have you ever been accused of being abusive?”
”Why would I be?”
”Exactly. Maybe you're not such a terrible parent. Did that thought ever cross your mind? Maybe you're just trying to do the best you can. Maybe you're just a little bit mad because these people should be helping you, not sitting around and judging you and filling you with doubts about yourself.”
”Maybe,” I offered.
”It's hard to be a parent.”
”You speak from experience, of course.”
”I have no idea what it's like to be a parent, but everything I've ever read says it's hard. In the best of circ.u.mstances, with a loving partner at your side to help out, it's hard. With a special-needs child, with a child who's deaf, it's just all that much harder. You've done an amazing job and I'm not going to let you sit here and beat up on yourself.”
I offered a small laugh.
”Why are you laughing?” he demanded.
”For an immature little preppy guy, you're pretty smart.”
”An immature little preppy guy immature little preppy guy?” he repeated in an outraged tone of voice.
”You look like someone who would need a note from his mother to get out of gym cla.s.s,” I said.
”Life is full of surprises,” he admitted. ”When you see the heat I'm packing, all this talk about immature immature and and little little will go straight out the window.” will go straight out the window.”
”Is that a promise?”
”You'll be crying for your mama.”
”I like that. So when do I get to see this little package thingy? We could ditch the kid and get a motel room.”
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