"You're not going to distract me, Wiley Cantrell. This is about you and your male nurse. He's the first man in a long, long time that you've actually fallen in love with, and those are your words, not mine. How many times do you think that's going to happen to you?"

"He had prescription drugs!"

"It's hardly shake and bake, baby. Everybody does something."

"I don't want that in my life."

"Then tell him that and give him a chance."

I sighed rather too heavily.

"Do you love him?" she pressed.

"I don't know."

"That means you do and you don't want to admit it. Call that man. Unless, of course, you like wallowing in your misery."

"I just want to be happy."

"Is that your way of saying you'll call him?"

"I'll think about it."

She got up, opened the fridge door.

"You got any beer?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I love it when you talk butch," I said. "When is your mother going to marry Mr. Eddie?"

"Never, I hope," she said, putting two beers on the table. "You know what the word you're looking for is, Wiley?"

"Well, no."

"Poker. It'll distract you and I need the money. Where's the cards?"

"What makes you think you're going to win?"

"Don't I always win? We ought to go to the casino next weekend. I've got four days off for the July Fourth holiday. What do you think? If you'd pick up that d.a.m.n phone and call your boyfriend, we could introduce him to the wild side of life in Mississippi."

That would would be fun, actually. be fun, actually.

"I can't think about that right now," I said.

"But you'll think about it?"

I agreed I would.

"Find the cards so I can kick your skinny white a.s.s. I also need to tell you about Bryan."

"Who's Bryan?"

"Just a lawyer I met, that's all. Now find those d.a.m.ned cards. I ain't got all night, sugar."

55) h.e.l.lo, it was me

IT WAS WAS late when Tonya left and I lay down on my bed in my underwear, thinking about Jackson Ledbetter. late when Tonya left and I lay down on my bed in my underwear, thinking about Jackson Ledbetter.

I punched in his number. When it rang, I hung up, suddenly unsure of myself.

I wanted him. Sure. Needed him. Needed him. Or at last needed something. s.e.x. A friend. A distraction. Something. Anything. Or at last needed something. s.e.x. A friend. A distraction. Something. Anything.

I need somebody to love!

Well, that too.

I wasn't grieving for Kayla. I was sad, of course. We were inseparable as kids. But then we grew up and grew apart and drifted into much different lives. It would be wrong to say I hated her, or that she hated me. We just outgrew each other and the feelings of closeness and friendship stopped.

I felt sorry for her. She was the perfect child of perfect parents who had set impossibly high standards that she could not meet. Disillusioned, she had rejected them and everything they stood for. When she got pregnant, they tried to use her pregnancy to force her back into the straightjacket they had sewn for her.

She tried. I had to give her that. She allowed herself to be talked out of having an abortion. Carried the baby. Gave birth. But then reality washed over her and she cut her losses and ran and never looked back.

I could not judge her because I had been tempted to do the same. Had she not run off, I might very well have walked away from the situation. I might have somehow convinced myself it was for the best. I was, after all, a gay man. What else could they rightfully expect of me? And I had been one of the people telling her to have an abortion. Not that I wanted her to have one. Not that I thought it was right. It was simply hard to see what possible future this child could have under the circ.u.mstances with a mother like her and a father like me. I wanted her to know she had a choice; that she didn't have to let biology force her into decisions she was not prepared to make.

Ten years later, lying on my bed, it was hard to imagine life without Noah. Impossible, actually. I didn't even want to imagine such a life. I felt guilty that I had so much as thought of an abortion.

I was sad that Kayla had missed this, had turned her back on something she didn't understand, had shut herself off from what had turned out to be such a blessing. I wished I could have shared it with her. I wished she could have felt what it was like to be loved by Noah, loved by someone who was so wonderful and good-hearted. Now she would never know the happiness she had brought into the world.

Maybe that's what filled me with such bleakness and unhappiness. Now that she was gone, she would never have a chance to know the other side of the coin. And Noah would never have a chance to show it to her. His heart was so full of love and such stout determination. He could have walked her through it. Could have at least given her a taste of it, enough to let her know that she hadn't made a mistake; that despite her, despite me, the end result had been good. Very, very good. G.o.d had brought something good out of our foolishness, something we had never dreamed possible when we were in the thick of things. G.o.d had found a way to redeem our sin. Like Mrs. Humphries always said, The Lord was gon' find a way-and He had.

I stared up at the ceiling and thought of the heavens beyond, that "place" where G.o.d lived.

These were weird thoughts for me. I chalked it up to the funeral, the need to make sense of what was ultimately senseless, my need to fit everything into a box and store it away in my mind.

Weird as it was for a gay man, I was a father, and I loved being a father. Loved that more than anything else in my life. I would not at all mind having more kids. I wouldn't mind getting gay-married, creating a happy home, adopting, creating a family. I wanted that more than anything else.

I was startled when my phone began to vibrate, then ring.

The man who could have made all of that possible was calling me back.

He could still make that possible, I thought.

But my finger hesitated. I was paralyzed with indecision, insecurity, fear.

The call went to voice mail.

I put the phone on my nightstand, not wanting to hear the message.

56) Mr. Owen has a laugh

THE NEXT NEXT morning I approached Mr. Owen's office with a belly full of dread. The fourth of July was quickly approaching, and the moment could no longer be put off. I had promised Noah I'd get the day off and we'd spend it together before going over to Mama's house for his big party. morning I approached Mr. Owen's office with a belly full of dread. The fourth of July was quickly approaching, and the moment could no longer be put off. I had promised Noah I'd get the day off and we'd spend it together before going over to Mama's house for his big party.

"What can I do for you, Wiley?" he asked, looking up from his desk. The look in his eye said the entire world could kiss his fat b.u.t.t for all he cared.

"Can I have next Thursday off?" I asked.

"Can you have the fourth of July off? Wiley, you kill me. Really!"

"It's my son's birthday."

"Why do you always bring your son into this?"

"Because it's his birthday?"

"You're worse than a single mother."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Since I'm a single father, you're not far off the mark."

"Others have seniority," he said. "You know that. I can't let you have off a holiday and ask those with seniority to work to cover you. It doesn't work that way."

"You don't understand, Mr. Owen. It's his tenth birthday."

"So? Your shift is only five hours. You'll have the rest of the day off. I can't help you, Wiley."

I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and regarded him carefully.

"You don't understand," I repeated. "It's his tenth birthday. We're going to have a big party, and I will be there, and FoodWorld will survive without me."

"I have a business to run, Wiley," he said in a patient tone. "Your personal problems are none of my concern. If you want this job, you will have to meet expectations like everyone else."

"What about my expectations?"

"I don't see how that has anything to do with it. You're compensated for your work. If you don't like working here, you're free to go elsewhere."

"Now that's why you don't get invited to the really good parties," I said.

"If you'd like to quit, Wiley, I have a stack of applications here from people who would love to replace you. Up to you. Just let me know. If you don't mind, I have work to do."

"Let me put it this way," I said. "I won't be here that day because there are some things that are more important to me than Daily Deals! and asking people if they brought their frikkin' FoodWorld card."

"Suit yourself."

"And since you're paying me the least possible amount that you can legally get away with, I'm not sure I can be bothered to care about FoodWorld's bottom line. Maybe if you guys cared about your employees, they might care about your business."

"We're not communists, Wiley," he observed.

"Unfortunately," I said, getting to my feet.

"You better make sure you're here," Owen said to my back as I left his office.

57) Love me tender

AFTER I I got off work, I drove over to Fairpark and wandered about, feeling restless and unhappy. I needed to be alone, without Noah hanging on my t.i.ts. I needed time to think. got off work, I drove over to Fairpark and wandered about, feeling restless and unhappy. I needed to be alone, without Noah hanging on my t.i.ts. I needed time to think.

Elvis stood there in all his glory, towering up into the sky like the miniature G.o.d that he was, clutching his microphone, caught in the middle of a twist and shout.

Good old Elvis.

The park was deserted, which was not surprising because it was hot, hot, hot, and sane people did not wander about in public parks when the sun was higher and hotter than Paula Deen's cholesterol levels.

I thought of Jackson and Noah standing in front of Elvis, having their pictures taken, and suddenly there was a lump in my throat.

d.a.m.n that man and his pharmaceutical ways.

Since I was alone, I sang for Elvis in a soft, hesitant tone of voice.

"Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfill...."

I was probably not the first to sing for Elvis; I certainly wouldn't be the last. There was a certain appropriateness to it, after all. I could not imagine the soundtrack of my life without Elvis singing the tracks. It was only right I returned the favor once in a while.

"Cause my darling I love you, and I always will...."

I sat down on one of the iron benches and put my face in my hands.

I was staring into the gaping maw of thirty-five, no closer to my dreams than I had been as a freshman at Ole Miss singing Elvis songs to rowdy bar-goers on the weekends. Nothing came of my picking and grinning, my earnest songs. Nothing came of my books except apologetic royalty reports and the collective yawns of reviewers. My prospects for a decent job were about as good as the chances that Paula Deen would stop telling her viewers to slather their creations in sugar and b.u.t.ter. I had no career to speak of, no future, no money in the bank, no man to go home to and make love to and be with, no chance in h.e.l.l that I would ever get gay-married and live happily ever after.

I don't often throw myself a pity party, but I threw one for myself that afternoon, sitting there on the bench staring into s.p.a.ce. I couldn't help but feel that maybe Bill and my mother were right, maybe there was something really wrong with me. Maybe I didn't deserve happiness. Maybe there was no room in the Magnolia state for souls like mine. Maybe I really was born at the wrong time, in the wrong place, living a life that fit me about as well as Elvis's sideburns or Honey Boo Boo's baby fat.

I looked up at Elvis and sighed.

If you could make it out of here, I thought, I thought, why can't I? Or do we worship you precisely because you made it out, and we know we never will? why can't I? Or do we worship you precisely because you made it out, and we know we never will?