Part 22 (1/2)
”And?”
”You'll see.”
Do you like fis.h.i.+ng? Noah asked, looking up at him. Noah asked, looking up at him.
Jackson looked to me. The word ”fis.h.i.+ng” was not yet in his sign language vocabulary. I demonstrated the sign for fis.h.i.+ng, told him what it was.
I've never been fis.h.i.+ng. Can you show me? Jackson signed. Jackson signed.
Of course! We're going to have fun!
We carried our bags to Jackson's Jeep, then put them in the back. Noah was excited to ride in the Jeep, which was much nicer than our beat-up station wagon. We ga.s.sed up, got ice, and were down in Union County by four o'clock.
”Good luck,” I said to Jackson as he pulled into my mother's long driveway.
”You're scaring me,” he said.
”How bad could it be?” I asked with a hint of a smile as we got out.
”b.u.mple!” Noah exclaimed when b.u.mblebee ran over to greet us and sniff at Jackson's shorts.
Papaw sat on the porch, dipping and spitting.
”How are you, Papaw?” I asked.
”I reckon I'm still not dead,” he said with a smile. ”I know y'all are waiting to get your grubby hands on my safety deposit box, but I would ask you to wait until they put me under the ground and make sure I'm dead and cold and in my grave with six feet of dirt on top of me. It's not like you haven't stolen everything else out from under me, you f.u.c.king thieves. You still gay, Wiley?”
”Papaw, this is my friend Jackson Ledbetter,” I said, ignoring his question.
”How are you, sir?” Jackson said, putting his hand forward.
”A d.a.m.n Yankee?” Papaw asked with a grin. ”I can tell by the sound of your voice. I remember when we ran you Yankee t.w.a.ts out of here with your tails between your legs. Fat lot of good it did us. So you're a gay boy, huh?”
”Excuse me?” Jackson said.
”Pay no attention,” I said. ”Papaw likes to have his fun.”
”I reckon if you're a friend of Wiley's then you like rear deliveries. Am I right? Bend over, take it up the chuff? Ha!”
”Papaw, would you stop?” I asked, exasperated.
”Can't a man have a little fun?” Papaw asked, bending to spit in the coffee can he used for this purpose. ”I remember when gay meant happy. Now it means you get your panties in a wad about everything, a bunch of touchy-feely communist b.a.s.t.a.r.ds always on the phone to the ACLU and trying to sue the stink off your own p.o.o.p hole. You got AIDS, boy?”
”I'm sorry?” Jackson said.
”I thought all you gay boys were dying of AIDS,” Papaw said. ”Dropping like flies! Christ, we could only hope!”
”Is he serious?” Jackson asked, looking at me.
”Is Mama home?” I asked.
”She's kicking around here somewhere. How's the little deaf boy?”
”Don't call him that, Papaw.”
”He's as deaf as a post. What do you want me to call him? It's not like he can hear me anyway, is it?”
I rolled my eyes.
Mama came out onto the porch, her lips twisted into a frown.
”Mr. Light-in-the-Loafers is here,” Papaw announced. ”And he's got a little f.a.ggy friend. He's also a little light in the loafers, if you know what I mean. They'll probably both be dead of some venereal disease by Christmas so I wouldn't get attached.”
”Daddy, hush,” Mama said. ”We have company.”
”This is Jackson, the guy I was telling you about,” I said.
”Just ignore my daddy,” she said. ”He's a character. Where's my grandson?”
”I'll call him, Martha,” Papaw said, sitting forward in his chair and thrusting his face forward importantly. ”Deaf boy? Deaf boy!” he bellowed. ”Oh! He can't hear you because he's as deaf as a post, Martha! Oh, imagine that!”
”If you weren't my daddy, I'd take you over my knee!” Mama said. ”Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what I have to put up with! Where is that boy?”
”He's talking to b.u.mblebee 'cause that boy has sense,” Papaw observed. ”He's going places, that boy. Your son is going to turn him into an interior decorator if you're not careful, Martha. Or maybe some choice career path like hairdresser. He'll be a queer eye for the straight guys.”
Jackson shot me another perplexed look.
Noah caught sight of his Memaw and came running.
”h.e.l.lo!” he squawked.
Mama gave him a hug.
”Jackson works at the medical center,” I said, trying to make conversation.
”You a doctor?” Mama asked, suddenly interested.
”I'm a nurse.”
”He's a nurse!” Papaw exclaimed. ”Did you hear him, Martha? He's a nurse! And he admits it!”
”Daddy, would you shut up?” she asked.
”Nurses make good money,” Papaw said. ”If he wants to be a nurse, let the queer boy be a nurse. Ain't like you need a PhD to wipe somebody's a.s.s.”
”We should let him give you a sponge bath,” Mama said acidly.
”He's welcome to feel me up,” Papaw said. ”If there's anything left down there to feel up, he's welcome to it. I don't think it's worked since the 1970s. After that syphilis thing, they pumped me so full of penicillin I was s.h.i.+tting my own guts. What I wouldn't give for one more good erection!”
”Oh my G.o.d,” Jackson whispered in disbelief, shaking his head.