Part 45 (1/2)

”Everyone knows it, Martha,” he said. ”Been that way since he was knee-high to a bull frog and ain't nothing gonna change it now. Likes to take it up the chuff! And I say more power to him. G.o.d bless the f.a.ggots!”

There were smiles all around.

”Pretty soon they'll be getting married,” Papaw went on, ”and we'll have to watch Wiley walk down the aisle in cowboy boots, lipstick and a wedding dress. Christ help us all! But the good father here will marry them, won't you, father?”

Father Ginderbach offered a broad smile. ”The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

”I don't think you need to worry about that, Papaw,” I said.

”I ain't worried about it, boy,” he replied. ”Since they upped me to ninety milligrams a day, I ain't worried about a d.a.m.ned thing. Just as long as my bowels keep working, h.e.l.l, it's all good.”

Mrs. Warren watched Papaw carefully. I could tell by the slight smile on her lips that she knew all about putting crazy on your front porch.

”You're just a character, aren't you, Mr. Cantrell?” she said easily.

”Too much acid in the sixties,” he admitted. ”Fries the brain. I ain't been right since then. Martha can tell you that.”

”Daddy, you ain't never been right,” Mama said.

”Papaw, this is Mr. Warren,” I said, trying to introduce Noah's grandfather into the conversation. He seemed very ill at ease.

”You're that Christless lawyer that sued the town because Old Lady Smithson fell at City Hall and broke her hip, ain't ya?” Papaw asked, demonstrating a surprising lucidity for someone who was supposedly on the verge of senility.

Mr. Warren licked his lips, not knowing how to answer.

”That's all right,” Papaw announced. ”I'd rather Old Lady Smithson got my tax dollars than those G.o.dd.a.m.n communist-loving Democrats, and that's the truth!”

The laughter that followed was that of folks who had dodged a bullet.

When the kids began to wander back to the tables, Bill put his ”dance tape” on the sound system. Patsy Cline got things started off with ”Seven Lonely Nights.”

”Come on,” I said to Jackson, feeling reckless, happy, daring.

”Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes going wide as he looked around at the folks staring at us.

”Of course,” I said.

I took his hands and we did a pitiful but well-intentioned bit of two-stepping. There was a lot of laughter from the folks watching us until Noah joined in, holding our hands and imitating our moves. Everyone got quiet.

”They're all looking at us,” Jackson whispered.

I smiled.

Then suddenly there were a lot of folks on their feet coming to join us.

Keke took Noah away and they danced the way only deaf children can.

Papaw and Mrs. Humphries got in on the act.

When ”Sweet Home Alabama” came pouring out of the speakers, things got a little crazy.

I found myself dancing in Jackson's arms, smiling inanely at him.

”This must be complete h.e.l.l for you,” I said. No doubt he was used to more uptown, refined forms of entertainment.

”I think it's wonderful,” he replied. ”I haven't had this much fun in ages.”

There was something different about the eyes that looked at us. For the first time, there was acceptance and, oddly enough, disinterest, as though I had finally reached a point in my life where my peculiarities were so commonplace as to be no longer worth noticing.

I could get used to that, I thought.

65) Fireworks for Noah

IN THE THE evening after all the guests had gone, we boarded our vehicles and caravanned into downtown New Albany to watch the fireworks as we did each year. evening after all the guests had gone, we boarded our vehicles and caravanned into downtown New Albany to watch the fireworks as we did each year.

I perched on the edge of a sidewalk as Noah sat between my legs. They were ”his” fireworks, after all, as I always told him, set-off just to honor his birthday. Jackson sat on my left, Bill on my right, his boy Eli sitting between his legs. For all intents and purposes, we were three dads doing the fireworks thing.

”It was a really nice party,” I said to Bill. ”Thank you.”

”He's worth it,” Bill said, glancing at Noah.

”If you didn't love him, you wouldn't have gone to all the trouble,” I pointed out.

”He's a good kid,” he said, deftly sidestepping my point, which was to let him know that I understood that he really did have my child's best interests at heart despite all his rhetoric and religious mumbo bullc.r.a.p.

”Why do you hate me?” I asked.

”I don't hate you, Wiley,” he said, looking at me.

”It doesn't feel that way sometimes, Billy.”

He said nothing.

Just when I thought he wasn't going to answer, he cleared his throat. ”It scares me,” he said softly. ”I don't know why you've gone down this road. I don't understand it, Wiley. I really don't. Why would you choose something like this?”

”It's not a choice,” I pointed out.

”But it is,” he said.

”Did you choose to like girls when you were growing up?”

”It just happened.”

”So maybe it just happened to me too, but it happened a little bit differently?”