Shaking the Sugar Tree.

Nick Wilgus.

Dedication.

For my son, Josef Wilgus.

1) Hot in the city

IT WAS WAS a hot Friday afternoon in Tupelo, Mississippi, and like other h.o.r.n.y gay guys on the prowl at Ballard Park in the sweltering June heat, I was pretending not to be one while unsuspecting moms and dads played with their kids and the park's wandering ducks chased after those foolish enough to have food on hand. a hot Friday afternoon in Tupelo, Mississippi, and like other h.o.r.n.y gay guys on the prowl at Ballard Park in the sweltering June heat, I was pretending not to be one while unsuspecting moms and dads played with their kids and the park's wandering ducks chased after those foolish enough to have food on hand.

I sailed the Frisbee across freshly cut gra.s.s and Noah caught it like the trooper he is, sending it back to me with a practiced flick of his wrist, which is no small feat for a nine-year-old boy who began life as a meth baby with the birth defects to prove it.

He beamed with pleasure at the way I had to jump high to catch his throw. He wasn't the only one checking me out. Shirtless, tanned, wearing loose shorts and sandals, I was not exactly shying away from attention. My dishwater-blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and sweat trickled down my back. Would have been easier to write DO ME on my chest in hot neon pink.

I angled the Frisbee on my next throw so that it would land close to a young, lonely-looking fella sitting under a sugar tree nearby and feigning disinterest.

Noah darted away after it. His hair was a wild, untamed mess of curls and blondness, his skin brown, his limbs sticking out of his tank and shorts like joss sticks.

The Frisbee landed close to the young man, who picked it up.

"Here you go, kid," he called, throwing the Frisbee to Noah, then glancing at me and offering a hesitant smile.

Noah glanced at me too, smiling as if to say, What about this one, Daddy? What about this one, Daddy?

Just then a football came sailing from out of nowhere.

"Hey!" the guy said in warning when he saw the football heading straight at Noah. "Watch out, kid!"

Noah merely stood there, smiling at me mischievously.

Watch out! I signed frantically. I signed frantically.

Too late.

He turned just in time to get a face-full of the ball, which sent him sprawling.

I hurried over the gra.s.s.

"I tried to warn him," the man said, crouching down and looking at Noah. "You all right, kid?"

You all right? I signed. I signed.

"Oh," he groaned in his strange voice.

"He's deaf," I said to the guy, helping Noah to his feet. He was a little sh.e.l.l-shocked, but otherwise in good condition.

Noah ignored our fussing, picked up the football, and went to meet two boys coming in our direction, the ball's owners. He held out the ball, said, "Can play you?" in a voice that was loud and awkward and grammatically incorrect. The boys did not seem to know what to make of this, grabbed their ball, and rushed off as though Noah had cooties.

Noah turned to me, his face crestfallen.

Never mind them, I signed. Come say h.e.l.lo. Come say h.e.l.lo.

"This is my son Noah," I said to the young man, who looked as h.o.r.n.y as I felt, though considerably better dressed and groomed. "My name is Wiley."

I held out my hand.

"I'm Braden," he said. His handshake was firm and I'd swear to G.o.d a little bit of tingling electricity went up my arm, but I'm not big on swearing to G.o.d so I won't.

"h.e.l.lo," Noah said, looking up at this handsome man. He offered a smile that brilliantly displayed his seriously messed-up dental situation, another one of the Almighty's gifts to my only child.

"Is he your nephew?" Braden asked.

"He's my son."

"You're married?"

"Not especially."

"That's... weird," he said.

"A long story," I offered.

"You have him on the weekends?"

"And the rest of the week, too. I'm a single dad."

"Oh."

He gave Noah a strange look as if he couldn't quite believe that I was a father, or didn't want to believe it.

"You guys have fun," he offered, having decided that gay guys with kids were not on his agenda. "I've got to get going."

We watched him idle off. He grabbed his phone and played with it as he walked.

Noah glanced up at me, biting his lip.

He was nice, Noah offered.

I shrugged.

We'll find a boyfriend for you, don't worry, he a.s.sured me he a.s.sured me.

2) Carding Jackson Ledbetter

THE NEXT NEXT day I worked the express lane at FoodWorld ("n.o.body beats our meats!" declared one of our unofficial mottoes), dealing with a steady stream of crazed Sat.u.r.day customers who were in such a hurry to get somewhere else more interesting and fun that their manners seemed to have been abducted by aliens. I was constantly reminded that "fifteen items or less" is not a widely understood concept. day I worked the express lane at FoodWorld ("n.o.body beats our meats!" declared one of our unofficial mottoes), dealing with a steady stream of crazed Sat.u.r.day customers who were in such a hurry to get somewhere else more interesting and fun that their manners seemed to have been abducted by aliens. I was constantly reminded that "fifteen items or less" is not a widely understood concept.

I was just about to go on break when a young man in blue scrubs plopped down two cases of Dos Equis on my counter and smiled such a heavenly smile that I thought the b.u.t.ter might slide right off my biscuits.

"How you doing?" I asked, my voice squeaking a little.

"Couldn't be better," he said in a Yankee voice. "You?"

"Still not dead," I offered, wondering what a Yankee was doing in the heart of Dixie wearing scrubs and looking so d.a.m.ned fine.

"Good deal!" he exclaimed.

"Gotta card you," I said, putting a hand on one of his cases of beer.

"No problem," he said, offering a new Magnolia State driver's license. I spent perhaps a bit too long staring at it, as you do when you've got more than cashiering on your mind. Seems "Jackson Ledbetter" was born on September 15, 1985, making him twenty-eight years old. He was 5'10", 148 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. That hardly did justice to the Greek G.o.d standing before me, this angel who looked like he had just stepped out of a Caravaggio painting. Best of all, he lived right down the street from me. Better, my gaydar was twitching like a jackrabbit at a rodeo.

I could see him looking at the name tag on my chest: I'm Wiley Cantrell. How may I help you? I'm Wiley Cantrell. How may I help you?

"Wiley's a cool name," he observed with a slight smile.

Was he flirting with me?

I certainly hoped so.

"Will that be all?" I asked.

"I'm having a housewarming party starting at six. Why don't you come?"

"That's very kind, thanks."

"Terrace View Apartments. Number twenty-two. See you there?"

Was he openly flirting with me while a string of coupon-clutching customers waited?

"Sure," I said.

"Cool!" he exclaimed. His eyes lingered on mine rather longer than they should have before he grabbed the beer and sauntered away, looking s.e.xy in those scrubs.

d.a.m.n, he was hot.

I could do some loving on that man. I really could. Do some loving and shake the bejesus out of his sugar tree.

3) Stood up

I DON DON'T normally go to parties thrown by complete strangers, much less with my nine-year-old son in tow, which can be a real deal-killer when you're h.o.r.n.y and hoping to get laid, but I made an exception in this case. Probably not one of my better decisions, but horniness does that to you and it's not like Tupelo is drowning in gay bars. The only one it ever had was closed down years ago. normally go to parties thrown by complete strangers, much less with my nine-year-old son in tow, which can be a real deal-killer when you're h.o.r.n.y and hoping to get laid, but I made an exception in this case. Probably not one of my better decisions, but horniness does that to you and it's not like Tupelo is drowning in gay bars. The only one it ever had was closed down years ago.

It was just after seven in the evening when Noah and I went in search of apartment number twenty-two at Terrace View.

Noah is a sc.r.a.p of a boy, barely forty-five pounds, about four feet tall, my little midget. For a premature meth baby who was not expected to thrive, he's certainly had the last laugh.

He's a beautiful boy. To me, at least. His head is a bit too large for his body. He has a darkness around his blue eyes that never goes away no matter how much he sleeps. About his face there is something imperfect, something unfinished, not quite right, off in a way quite impossible to describe. I let his hair grow in glorious abandon because he doesn't like having it cut. In that, he takes after me, since I haven't had my hair cut since 1998.

We were both dressed in shorts and tank tops, standard summer wear. To be frank, when stores put "No shirt, no shoes, no service" signs on their front doors, they're thinking about the Cantrell boys. We're nothing if not scruffy. I had tied back my hair in a ponytail in a lackl.u.s.ter attempt to make myself look presentable. I should have trimmed my goatee, but I only do that for weddings and funerals and sit-downs with all the fixings. At least we wore shoes.

I carried a box of cookies that I'd bought at FoodWorld with my EBT card. The cookies were a "FoodWorld Daily Deal!"

I glanced at Noah and smiled a bit of encouragement, which I needed more than he did.

Are you going to knock or what? he signed. he signed.

Be good or I'll sell you on eBay, I replied.

He smiled his ha-ha-ha-you're-so-funny-I-could-die smile. ha-ha-ha-you're-so-funny-I-could-die smile.

He's really cute, I signed. I signed. I'm nervous. Give me a second. I'm nervous. Give me a second.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms on his chest.

How do I look? I asked. I asked.

He shrugged with disinterest.

How are my teeth?

I received a thumbs-up.

Can we go in now? he asked. he asked. I'm hungry! I'm hungry!

I'm nervous.

Just don't act so stupid and he'll like you.

Thank you!

You're welcome.