I tried to explain with signs he would understand. I want to learn about you before we have s.e.x. I want to learn about you before we have s.e.x.

You know me now.

I don't want to have casual s.e.x, I said. I said.

He did not understand the sign for "casual," and I couldn't figure out how to explain it.

I want to be your friend, he said simply. he said simply. I want you to teach me. I want you to teach me.

Teach you what?

How.

I raised my eyebrows to express my confusion.

I've never done it before.

Never?

He shook his head.

I don't think it's a good idea.

I'm lonely. Please? I want to know what it's like.

I internally debated the wisdom of involvement with such a needy young man. I remembered my own first time, which had been just as bald and awkward as I struggled to find words to explain what I wanted. What I wanted was initiation into the world of gay men, not necessarily a relationship, although I thought I was in love with the older man I courted. I also didn't simply want s.e.x, although I did. I wanted someone to hold my hand and walk me through it and not make me feel embarra.s.sed. I wanted a mentor. I wanted a... friend.

Are you sure? I asked. I asked.

He nodded eagerly.

Sitting there, talking about it, thinking about it, considering it, watching Juan's lovely brown eyes so full of life and raw emotion, thinking about the brown skin beneath his T-shirt-I was suddenly very h.o.r.n.y.

I led him to my bedroom and shut the door.

24) You can play in my garden

ON F FRIDAY evening, as Noah played on his Xbox, I got my guitar and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. I didn't play anymore. I didn't sing. Not like I used to. My fingers remembered the familiar chords and I strummed and hummed softly to myself. The guitar was seriously out of tune. From long habit, I tuned it by ear. I needed to practice, get ready for the protest. evening, as Noah played on his Xbox, I got my guitar and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. I didn't play anymore. I didn't sing. Not like I used to. My fingers remembered the familiar chords and I strummed and hummed softly to myself. The guitar was seriously out of tune. From long habit, I tuned it by ear. I needed to practice, get ready for the protest.

One of the songs I'd written in my younger years was called "Sweet Thing," and it still rang out clear and vivid in my mind. It was one of our more popular songs when I was with Southern Nights.

You can play in my garden I don't care what people say Cause I've been so broken-hearted And you just take my breath away....

Noah came over and put his ear against my back, listening to the vibrations of my voice.

I sang for him.

You're a fine lover, as fine as fine can be And I don't want no other lover for me You're a sweet thing and you sure enough know how to do me good....

I wished he could hear me.

It didn't matter to me if Mama could hear me, or Billy, or anyone else, but the one person in the whole world that I wanted to be able to hear me sing was deaf and couldn't hear a single note I sang or a word I said. Not one word. Not one song. Not one "I love you," or "I think you're a great kid," or "I'm so happy and proud to be your father."

Zippo.

Zilch.

He could only guess what my name sounded like, what my voice sounded like, what his own voice sounded like. He was locked away inside a world, Deaf World, that I would never enter and never be part of. He would never hear me tell him that I thought he was smart, clever, funny, beautiful, sweet, my precious baby boy. He would never hear me tell him how much I loved him, and would always love him, no matter what.

I stopped, put a hand to my mouth.

What's wrong, Daddy?

I shook my head, tried to smile.

He bit at his lip.

I sang another verse: You can cook in my kitchen You can use anything I got Cook me something delicious And Lord, don't you ever stop....

25) A bed for three?

WHILE WE WE waited for Jackson to pick us up in his Jeep on Sat.u.r.day morning, I preened in front of the mirror in my room while Noah watched me, rolling his eyes. waited for Jackson to pick us up in his Jeep on Sat.u.r.day morning, I preened in front of the mirror in my room while Noah watched me, rolling his eyes.

Do I look all right? I asked. I asked.

You look fine.

Should I wear pants?

You never wear pants.

I want to look nice.

You look nice wearing shorts.

I was wearing shorts and my Elvis T-shirt. I wasn't exactly killing myself. I took off my shorts, put on jeans.

Better?

He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

I just want to look nice!

You already look nice. What's wrong with you?

I feel so stupid and ugly.

You're not stupid. You're not ugly.

I shook my head, looking at myself in the mirror. Wearing jeans, I looked even more casual and uncaring, especially since the ones I had put on had tears in the knees. I took them off and searched around in my closet, wishing I had money to buy new clothes once in a while like a normal person.

It had nothing to do, of course, with the spiffy clothes that Jackson Ledbetter wore.

The doorbell rang.

I hurriedly put on the shorts that I had started with.

J.'s here. Tell him I'll be there in a minute.

Dad?

What?

You look fine.

He grabbed my hand and pulled.

I let myself be led into the living room.

Be nice! I signed to Noah before answering the door. I signed to Noah before answering the door.

He smiled, showing his wicked teeth.

I made a fist and shook it in his face.

He tapped on his chin, as if to say, sock it to me, baby sock it to me, baby.

He threw open the door and invited Jackson inside.

"Hey," I said, my belly rumbling with nerves.

G.o.d, he looked good. His hair was cut perfectly, was combed perfectly, and looked perfect. He wore very nice cargo pants with a neon-pink polo shirt. His teeth were utterly straight and white, his muscles toned, his belly slender. His genes obviously knew little about acne, cellulite, back hair. It had probably been years since the last time he belched or farted.

What could he possibly see in me?

"Y'all ready?" he asked, trying out a Southern accent.

"Let's get her done," I said, trying to sound confident. I collected my camera and wallet, and gave directions as Jackson drove to the Furniture Market area on Coley Road.

We looked at kitchen tables, beds, sofas, recliners, and dressers. Unlike Southern gay boys, Jackson didn't blend into the background. He was too well-dressed, too well-groomed, had no facial hair, and didn't scratch his a.s.s from time to time just to remind the world that he was a G.o.dd.a.m.n man, by G.o.d, and don't you forget it.

We had a certain sort of fun and raised more than a few eyebrows as two men and a deaf boy laid down on beds to see if they would "fit right," laughing and giggling all the while.

Having made his choices and arranged for delivery later that evening, lunch was the next thing on the agenda.

"I will defer to your better judgment," Jackson said with regard to the choice of restaurant.

"I've heard Atlanta Bread is pretty good," I suggested, taking my best shot.

"Atlanta Bread?" he repeated, incredulous.

"I don't do a whole lot of dining out," I admitted, feeling flush with sudden embarra.s.sment. "It's a bit beyond our budget."

"But surely you must eat out once in a while."

"Don't call me Shirley," I said. "We're partial to Sonic, actually."

"That place where you park outside and they bring your food to you? A car hop?"

I smiled rather sheepishly.

What was wrong with Sonic?

"Some of the Mexican restaurants are really good, I've heard," I said, trying another approach and feeling increasingly fl.u.s.tered. "Kind of expensive, though."

"How much?"

"Ten to twenty dollars a pop."

"That's all?"

"I have a part-time job and I make minimum wage. You do the math."

"How can you live on that?" he asked. But then he saw the look of embarra.s.sment that spread across my face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean... well, I don't know what I meant. I didn't mean to embarra.s.s you."

An awkward silence fell as Jackson Ledbetter considered the ramifications of dating someone who lived well below the poverty level and used coupons and had never once worn a tiara and probably never would.

"I thought you sold a ton of books," he said at last.

"That was a long time ago," I confessed. "My royalty checks have dwindled to next to nothing and I don't seem to be able to come up with any good ideas. Writers don't make a whole lot of money. Certainly not enough to live on."

"Well," he said at last, "if you were hungry in this town of yours, where would you go?" He tried to put a brave face on it.

"There's a place at the mall that does some really good hot Italian sandwiches. Noah loves the pizza there. It's not too expensive and you can do some people-watching."

"Sounds like fun," he said. "I haven't been to the mall yet."