Part 47 (1/2)
”Even so,” George said.
We started marching down the street again and I launched into ”Sunny Side of the Street,” a song by Billie Holiday that seemed appropriate for the circ.u.mstances.
We crowded over to the sidewalks to let a Ford truck pa.s.s through. The driver rolled down the window.
”Shame on you!” he called out angrily. ”f.a.ggots! You're going to h.e.l.l!”
”I used to walk in the shade with my blues on parade,” I sang loudly, ignoring him. ” I sang loudly, ignoring him. ”But now I'm not afraid. This rover crossed over!”
By the time our hour-long protest ended, there were about seventy people on the street, the most that had ever shown up for one of our events.
I knew some of the faces, but many were strangers to me. George, Jasmine, and Lisa were the organizers, knew everyone, and now urged us to remove ourselves to the parking lot at the skating rink since our permit had expired.
”You sing really nice,” Jackson said as we made our way through the crowd looking for Bill and Sh.e.l.ly.
”Thanks,” I said.
”This was pretty amazing,” he added.
”I'm sure it's nothing like the marches in Boston,” I said.
”Don't put yourself down,” he said earnestly. ”You're always doing that and I don't like it. This is really amazing for downtown Tupelo, Mississippi. You guys got b.a.l.l.s, I've got to give you that.”
”It's a start,” I admitted.
We found Bill and Sh.e.l.ly standing by their truck.
”Thanks for coming,” I said. ”I didn't know you were, though.”
”Mama told me I should come,” Bill said, shrugging. ”You did good on that guitar.”
”Thanks,” I said.
”You're going to be on the evening news,” Sh.e.l.ly pointed out. Whether the thought scared her or impressed her, I couldn't tell.
”Why don't you come meet some crack wh.o.r.es and my other friends?” I suggested.
Bill laughed.
”All right,” he said.
”Sing another song, Uncle Wiley,” Eli urged.
”Maybe later,” I said.
We spent another hour in the parking lot talking and introducing Bill and Sh.e.l.ly around.
Suddenly the reporter from WTVA was standing there with his video camera, asking me if I wanted to do an interview. Jasmine always handled interviews because she was good at it, knew what to say, had confidence and charm and a lot of energy.
”I don't think so,” I said, trying to remember the man's name. I'd seen him often on the news.
”Oh, go on,” Jackson said.
”I'm not good at stuff like this,” I said.
”I just want to ask a couple of questions,” the reporter said, smiling hopefully.
What is it? Noah asked, not understanding the conversation. Noah asked, not understanding the conversation.
I explained they wanted to do an interview.
”Is he your nephew?” the reporter asked.
”He's my son,” I said.
”And he's deaf?”
”Yes.”
His eyes lit up like a shark smelling blood in the water.
”Do you mind if I ask you about him?”
”Do it,” Jackson urged.
I looked at Bill for help, support, something.
”You ought to do it,” Bill said.
Turning to the reporter, he said, ”Wiley's my brother-and he's a great father. His son Noah turned ten years old this past July. He's a good kid.”
”And your name is?” the reporter said, fiddling with his tripod and setting the camera in place.
”I'm not going on the d.a.m.ned television,” Bill said. ”But you should interview Wiley. He's my brother and we support him all the way.”
I felt something catch in my throat when I heard Bill say that. I felt as though I had been waiting my whole life to hear him say that.
”Do it,” Jackson urged, bending to whisper in my ear.
Do you want to be on TV? I asked Noah. I asked Noah.
He beamed, displaying his G.o.d-awful teeth.
”It's both of us or neither,” I said to the reporter, putting my hands over Noah's chest and holding him close like a talisman.
”Great,” he said with a big smile, making a last minute adjustment to his camera, then digging out a large microphone.
”We'll start with a test,” he said. ”Just state your name and your age, and your son's name and his age, so I can check my levels.”
He held the microphone in front of my face.