"You"d know if you returned my calls," he said easily.
I ran his flowers and chocolates through my scanner.
"Will that be all for you?"
"They"re not for me, they"re for you," he said, opening his wallet and finding a credit card.
"You don"t have to do that," I said.
"I want to."
"You misunderstand me," I said. ""You don"t have to do that" is a Southern expression for "stop embarra.s.sing me, you frikkin" b.a.s.t.a.r.d you.""
"Is it really?" he asked with a smile.
I handed the flowers to Tyrone, put the chocolates in a bag myself, and handed them to Jackson, along with his receipt.
"You have a good day," I said.
"These are for you," he said, taking the chocolates out of the bag and putting them on the bottom end of the conveyor belt.
"Are you really going to do this to me, right here on my job?" I asked.
"Well, you won"t call me."
Tyrone grinned for the first time that day. When I glanced at him somewhat angrily, he drew a smile over his lips and raised his eyebrows.
b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
"Jack," I said quietly. "Take your flowers. Take your chocolates. Take your prescription medications that you probably stole from the pharmacy where you work, and take your excuses and your phone calls and your messages and everything else and stuff them straight up your bony Yankee a.s.s and don"t bother me while I"m working. That"s Southern for f.u.c.k off."
"I quit the pills," he said. "Please, Wiley. I need your help. I know you"re mad, but won"t you at least talk to me?"
"Take your things and go, and I"ll think about it," I offered, wanting to get him off my line.
"Who knew you were such a b.i.t.c.h?" he asked, offended.
"Who knew you were a drug addict?" I countered.
His face clouded over with embarra.s.sment.
Tyrone continued to stand at the end of my line, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"At least talk to me," he said. "I"ll wait for you outside."
I turned to the next customer, embarra.s.sed, suddenly hoping Jalisa would be late so my shift would be extended and Jackson would have to wait.
But no.
"Hey, boo," Jalisa said after she"d timed in.
"How are ya?" I asked.
"I"m having a blessed day. I"ll be even more blessed when it"s over. You doing all right?"
"I"m still not dead," I said. "But that could change."
"You know it," she said.
50) One more chance?
JACKSON MET MET me at the door. He"d been sitting on the bench outside that employees used for their breaks. He hurried over to me, an anxious look on his face. me at the door. He"d been sitting on the bench outside that employees used for their breaks. He hurried over to me, an anxious look on his face.
"Don"t do this to me," he said.
He tried to thrust the flowers and chocolates into my hands, as if these would make all the difference. I pushed them back, making it clear I did not want them.
"What can I do?" he asked. "I made a mistake. I"m sorry. Help me fix it."
I began to walk to my car, not in the mood for a conversation like this.
"Wiley, please," he said, trailing after me. "You"re making me look like a fool."
"Drugs make you look like a fool," I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder.
"I know," he said. "It was stupid. But I"m going to stop. You have to trust me."
I turned to face him.
"I don"t have have to trust you. I don"t to trust you. I don"t have have to do anything." to do anything."
"I didn"t mean it like that."
"There"s no point to this because I don"t like drugs and I don"t like people who like drugs, and that"s not going to change. And I"m not about to waste my life waiting around for you to decide whether you want reality or some artificially induced world. I prefer reality. If you had any brains, you would too."
"I"m trying," he said miserably.
"Good for you," I said.
"I took them back," he said. "All the pills. I put them back. The rest of them I flushed down the toilet. I told myself I wasn"t going to do that again and I"m not going to. But please, Wiley, you"ve got to help me."
"Why?"
"I don"t want to lose you."
"You"ll live."
"How can you be so mean?"
"I spent my whole childhood waiting for my daddy to decide whether he preferred whiskey or me. In the end, it was the whiskey. It was always the whiskey. That"s how you people are. And you expect the rest of us to help you out and put up with you and clean up the sick and empty your ashtrays and forgive you and wait for you and on and on it goes. My first boyfriend was like that. It took me an entire year to realize I was waiting around for something that was never going to come. I"m not going through that s.h.i.t again, not for you, not for anybody. And I"m certainly not going to involve my child in it."
"I"ll change."
"I hope you do."
"Is that it?"
"Yeah. That"s it."
"I thought you loved me."
"I thought so too. Things change."
"No matter how you feel, I love you, Wiley. Doesn"t that mean anything to you?"
I said nothing.
"Can"t we at least be friends?" he asked.
I started walking again to my car, not answering. I didn"t answer because I wasn"t sure what my answer would be. I"d fallen hard for this man. He could so easily charm me into doing something I knew would not be good for me.
I got to my car, put the key in the door, glanced over my shoulder expecting to see him still standing there. Instead, I saw he had dropped the roses and candy on the ground and was walking away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Somehow that was worse than anything else he might have done.
51) Funeral for a former friend
WE WERE WERE late for Kayla"s celebration of life service on Sunday afternoon. I had stopped at a gas station and considered buying a pack of cigarettes, thinking they would somehow help me get through that day. Noah made a disgusted face when he saw I was going to buy cigarettes. He pantomimed throwing up all over my car just to make sure his point was clear. late for Kayla"s celebration of life service on Sunday afternoon. I had stopped at a gas station and considered buying a pack of cigarettes, thinking they would somehow help me get through that day. Noah made a disgusted face when he saw I was going to buy cigarettes. He pantomimed throwing up all over my car just to make sure his point was clear.
I put the car back into drive and went to pick up Mama.
The parking lot at the funeral home was overflowing with vehicles as befitted the send-off for the daughter of one of the town"s more prominent citizens.
"Are you sure about this?" Mama asked as I parked down a side street.
"Not really," I admitted. "But we were invited."
I got out, adjusted my dress shirt and tie uncomfortably. I felt like a total doofus. I didn"t have a proper suit. My dress shoes were scuffed and had a justifiably neglected look to them. I checked Noah"s tie, brushed hair from his eyes and lint from his shoulder, offered an encouraging smile.
A dozen men lounged on the porch to the funeral home, smoking, chatting, and socializing. As I held Noah"s hand and approached, we got looks. Not hostile looks. Not friendly either. Just looks.
Police cruisers sat along the curb while deputies stood at the entrance to the parking lot, directing traffic, preparing to provide an escort.
Mama went first as we walked up the sidewalk to the funeral home steps. She"d been a teacher for many years. No doubt some of the men standing there and watching us were former students.
"Mrs. Cantrell," one of the men said in greeting.
Mama paid no mind.
It was packed inside the funeral home as if all of New Albany had turned out. Most were well-dressed, even the children. They weren"t the sort of people who bought their duds at Walmart or the Dollar Store. The line of milling bodies led to the main sitting room where the visitation was being held.
Mama greeted many folks on the way there.
I had to give her credit for being a b.a.l.l.sy woman who was not the slightest bit intimidated by the forces arrayed against us. Most were Baptist; we were Catholic. Most were well-off; Mama was a woman of modest means and I was a complete failure. Most were city folk; we lived in the country. Most were safely removed from having to deal with the fallout of having an openly gay child, which was much worse than having a drug addict or a wife beater for a child. At least those things were understandable.
Noah got many looks. Word went through the crowd that Kayla"s b.a.s.t.a.r.d child was there, along with the h.o.m.os.e.xual who fathered him. I could see that by the way people looked at us, how they fell silent when we approached. There was pity in their eyes for a boy who had lost his mother, but oh, the deliciousness of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child coming home to roost. Surely there would be fireworks.
We were not challenged until we reached the sitting room and prepared to go in.
"Mrs. Cantrell," said an older man to my mother. He was wearing a bolo instead of a tie, cowboy boots, and a polyester suit, and he smelled like peppermint.
"Bo Jimsum," she said. "How you are?"
"Doing good," he said, running a hand through what was left of his hair. "Martha, do you think this is a good time?" he asked, glancing around as if to indicate the presence of so many people.
Respectable people. people.
"Whatever do you mean, Bo?" she asked.
"I think it would be very upsetting for the Warrens if...."
"If their grandson attended his mother"s funeral?"
"Everyone knows they weren"t close."
"Do they?" she asked.
He swallowed uncomfortably.
"There"s talk," he whispered confidentially. "Don"t take it personal. I"m just trying to smooth things over."
"Of course you are," Mama said, pushing past him and entering the sitting room.
Kayla was in a beautiful mahogany casket directly in front of us. A couple stood in front of her, blocking the view. Couches and chairs were full. People stood next to potted plants, talking, reminiscing. In one corner a television played a video about Kayla"s life, showing pictures of her as a child, pictures with her parents and friends, pictures at school. Along the left wall was a long table with guest books to offer condolences. Flowers filled the nooks and crannies. Mr. and Mrs. Warren were seated at the main sofa, surrounded by family and friends. They could not see us.
It took about three seconds for quiet to fall on the room.