Stones in the Road (35 page)

“Done!” Mr. Ledbetter exclaimed. “Five hundred dollars!”

“Stephen, you surprise me,” she said coyly, grinning like a schoolgirl.

T
HE
N
EW
Albany Pickers closed with “We Shall Wear a Robe and Crown” and accepted a final round of applause for their efforts. Father Ginderbach, playing the role of emcee, announced that karaoke concert hour had arrived.

“But first, we have something special,” Ginderbach said. “This feisty young lady has a set of vocal chords on her that will melt the butter right off your corncob, and she and her friends have agreed to do a few numbers for us just to get things underway. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the irascible Mary Cantrell and the Cantrellites!”

Polite, rather unenthusiastic applause ensued.

Mary, followed by cousin Tina and three girls from the youth group at First Baptist, took the stage in a very diva-like manner.

“Hey, y’all!” she called, the excitement in her voice obvious. “If you know me, then you know that Wiley Cantrell is my uncle, and as much as I love my daddy—hi, Daddy!—just about everyone in these parts knows that my Uncle Wiley is the bomb! So to get things started, I thought I’d sing a song just for him, because he’s been feeling a little down lately with the tornado and all. And oh, yeah, his boyfriend was a dick, so they’re no longer engaged.”

A chorus of sympathetic groans swelled around her.

“You watch your mouth, young lady!” Shelly snapped from the front row.

There was laughter.

“Yeah,” Mary went on, “Uncle Wiley gave him his ring back and told him to ride his horse back to Boston or wherever in tarnation he’d come from. God knows these Yankees do come and go!”

Laughter.

Mary was a natural, a natural performer, a natural ham, a natural comedian.

“I want to tell you a story about my Uncle Wiley, just to show you what kind of man he is. When I was a little girl, my Memaw gave me one of her bunnies for Easter. I was so happy about that bunny. I took him outside and put a crate over top of him because I wanted him to have some grass to eat. And… well, I went back inside and started playing and plum forgot all about that poor little thing.”

Groans.

“Yeah. I was so ditzy. I didn’t mean to, but I just plain forgot about that gosh-darn bunny. I went out there a couple of days later, and that poor bunny was a goner, and my Uncle Wiley was visiting, and I went crying to him because I didn’t want to tell my daddy what I’d done, ’cause I knew my daddy would beat my butt to within an inch of my life. That’s my daddy. ‘
This is going to hurt you more than it does me
.’ Ha, ha, ha! So Uncle Wiley made me go to my room and told me to say some prayers that the Lord would fix this mistake for me. So I went to my room, and I got down on my knees, and I said, Jesus, Lord, oh, you’ve got to help me get my butt out of this mess, ’cause my daddy gonna kill me. Gonna kill me dead. Gonna tie me on the back of his four-wheeler and drag my sorry butt all over Union County. Now Uncle Wiley told me to stay in my room for one hour, and to pray. And he said if I did that, the Lord would hear me, and the Lord would help me, so I prayed my little guts out. Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Well, an hour went by, and I went wandering around looking for my Uncle Wiley, and I couldn’t find him. So I went outside the house and out back and looked at the bunny again, and what do you know? My bunny done had a resurrection! He was alive, just as pretty as you please, chomping on that grass, looking all sweet and fine like the Lord Jesus himself on Easter Day. Then I turned around, and Uncle Wiley was standing there, and he was just smiling. And I said, ‘Uncle Wiley, my bunny’s all right! He done come back from the dead! It’s a miracle!’ And he said, ‘I told you so. Just take it to the Lord, girl, and the Lord done gone make everything all right, the Lord gon’ find a way.’”

She paused, looking over in my direction.

“Well,” she said, “in later years, I realized my uncle had gone off to Memaw’s house and got me another bunny and put it under there while I was in my room praying. And I was a little mad when I realized that, because I thought he’d tricked me, and I don’t like being tricked. But then I realized he felt so bad for me he just wanted to make it right any way he could. And that’s my Uncle Wiley. He’s always doing stuff like that. Oh, I know he likes to run his damned mouth—”

“Mary, you watch your tongue!” Shelly exclaimed in annoyance.

“Sorry, Mama!”

More laughter

“I know Uncle Wiley likes to run his mouth, but he’s got a heart of gold, and I want to sing this song for him. And Mr. Jackson Ledbetter, if you’re out there, you’d better listen up, because if you don’t shake my uncle’s sugar tree, you gon’ find yourself wearing a pair of concrete boots while you’re looking up at the surface of the lake while my daddy drives his bass fishing boat away, and I ain’t fooling. I’ll pour the concrete myself, you Yankee snake, ’cause that’s just how we roll! Ladies, you ready to kick this thing?”

She looked to Tina and her backup singers, one of whom hit the play button on the karaoke machine.

Pam Tillis’s “Shake the Sugar Tree” poured out of the speakers.

Mary proceeded to scold us for being lazy lovers and not tending what we’d planted.

At some point during the first chorus, Jackson Ledbetter stood and, in front of everyone, offered me his hand, wanting to dance.

Bastard.

I let him stew in this grand gesture for a few moments longer than I should have before finally offering my good hand. He pulled me to my feet, and we began to slow dance. Noah giggled. Mama rolled her eyes. Then two old ladies—the Meredith sisters, both long retired now and both fervent members of Saint Francis—got to their feet and started a sort of two-step. They were followed by many others as Mary’s sweet, pitch-perfect voice washed over us.

“I hate you,” I whispered to Jackson as we held each other and moved in a small, slow circle.

“I know,” he said.

“And I miss you too,” I added.

“I’ve missed you too, Wiley.”

We said nothing further. Holding him, breathing him in, feeling his body against mine, his breath against my cheek—suddenly the aches and pain and sorrows melted away, and those dark clouds in my mind retreated. I looked around from time to time, surprised to see that no one seemed to care much that two men were dancing at the church fundraiser. They’d made their peace with it, the looks said. Live and let live. Or perhaps, since I’d tried to save Papaw’s life, I was entitled to some leeway.

Noah could not remain in his seat long, not when people were dancing, and certainly not when his two daddies were leading the way. We formed a threesome of sorts, slow dancing together, Noah’s smile so large I was afraid his lips would break.

The applause Mary received when the song was finished was well deserved. She had a tremendous set of pipes and a genuine stage presence. I used to perform in my younger days, but I was nowhere near as good. If any Cantrell was going to sing their way out of Mississippi like Mr. Elvis Presley had, it was going to be Mary—and she seemed to know it.

She offered a beautiful rendition of Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Stones in the Road,” finished with “Happy,” and we laughed as Mrs. Rivers coaxed Father Ginderbach into showing off some moves. Of course we demanded an encore, and of course Mary was only too happy to oblige. Minus the Cantrellites, she took the stage alone.

“Y’all are so sweet,” she said, beaming at us with gratitude. “I actually have one more song prepared for y’all, and this is a request. Now I’m not going to say who it’s from, but he’s a Yankee, and y’all know what that means. That’s right—he got himself a taste of Southern sugar and he can’t let go. Also, he can’t cook worth a crap and thinks fried chicken is bad for you. Can you imagine? And this particular Yankee don’t seem to realize that when you mess with us, you mess with the whole gosh darn trailer park! Anyway, like my uncle says, if you love Southern men, raise your glass. If you don’t, raise your standards! Now this Yankee I’m talking about called me on the phone and asked me if I would sing it for his sweetie, who just happens to be related to me. I can’t say who it is because that person will kill me for embarrassing him. That’s if he don’t kill me for singing one of those weepy songs he can’t stand. So I’ll just put it like this. Here’s a song by Mr. Ronnie Milsap, and it comes from this Yankee’s heart—not that that Yankee bastard has one, but that’s what he asked me to say. Y’all ready?”

We were.

Ronnie Milsap’s “Almost Like a Song” began to play, and Jackson Ledbetter touched my arm.

Talk about a tear-jerking ode to lost love.

Mary sang with such sweetness and clarity, you’d think she’d been performing her entire life. Even her mom and dad seemed a little starstruck by their little girl’s abilities. By the time she finished the first chorus, I was in tears, the words tearing away at me. I could so easily picture Jackson Ledbetter feeling and saying all those words.

I wiped miserably at my eyes, overcome with emotion.

Damn Jackson Ledbetter to hell.

Mary finished, took her bows, but the crowd was not ready to let her go.

“Guess what, y’all?” Mary said. “My Uncle Wiley knows a thing or two about singing.”

I stared up at the stage in sudden horror.

“Y’all want to hear my Uncle Wiley sing?”

There was loud agreement. Indeed they did.

“We used to do a wicked version of ‘If the World Had a Front Porch.’ Y’all remember that song?”

Yes! Yes! Yes! Was there so much as one Southerner who didn’t know Tracy Lawrence’s ode to country life? It was the updated version of John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”

“Come on, Uncle Wiley,” she said. “Don’t be shy!”

“Yes, Wiley,” Mrs. Ledbetter cried. “Go sing!”

I merely shook my head. I was in no mood to sing. But my objections were overruled, and I found myself being dragged to the stage by Josh and Eli, who seemed to relish the thought of their Uncle Wiley making a fool of himself.

The music started, and I turned to face the crowd, which had grown rather large during the course of Mary’s mini concert. I cursed Mary for springing this on me, but I should have known she would. At least she’d picked a song we had done together at one of her church things.

When the opening riff hit the airwaves, a whole lot of folks got to their feet, the older ones immediately starting a line dance.

We alternated lines and then launched into the exuberant chorus. Jackson and Noah danced in front of the stage, Noah glancing up at me now and again and grinning a goofy, happy grin.

Somehow I managed to get through the song without forgetting any of the words, all the while ignoring the angry throbs inside my chest caused by the deep breaths I was taking. When the song ended, I offered a few nods and prepared to walk down the steps and back to my seat, but Mary had another surprise—the opening riffs to “Black Water“ drifted over the crowd, which was seized with a sudden frenzy of Southern nostalgia.

Mary sang about building herself a raft, daring me to abandon her.

We offered a spirited rendition of the song, but let’s face it. No matter how badly that particular song is sung, a crowd in Mississippi is going to go absolutely nuts over it. It’s the swamp rock ballad par excellence.

Noah danced happily with Jackson and Mrs. Ledbetter. Even Bill and Mama got up and did a two-step while Cousin Tina showed off her swamp moves.

By the time we were finished, Mary had earned herself a rousing and well-deserved ovation.

A
FTER
THE
concert, I wandered away, needing time alone. Since the church grounds were swamped with people, I decided to go inside the church itself. I sat down in the very last pew, looked for a long moment at the large crucifix hanging in the sanctuary. Children’s laughter drifted in through the open windows on one side of the church, a tortured rendition of “Coal Miner’s Daughter” from the karaoke stage on the other.

Father Ginderbach had once told me I needed to forgive God. It seemed outrageous.

But….

Truth be told, I was pretty mad at God. Mad that I was gay. Mad that my boy had birth defects. Mad that he might one day—and very soon—not be here anymore. Mad that I had fallen in love with someone who had hurt me.

None of this was God’s fault, of course. And since I couldn’t imagine that God cared one way or the other about me, it was pointless to be mad at him.

Yet I was.

Most of all, though, I was mad at myself.

Jackson Ledbetter showed up rather silently and suddenly.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“You all right?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he said.

“Damn straight I am.”

“You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt, Wiley. I hope you believe that. You don’t know how bad I feel.”

“If you feel anything like me, you must be sucking face with the bedrock of the earth.”

“Well, there’s the bedrock. Then if you go about five hundred miles deeper right into the pits of hell, you’ll catch up with me.”

“You haven’t learned the fine art of Southern exaggeration yet, I see. Now if you’d said five hundred miles right into the depths of a hot, mushy turd, well, that sort of rolls off the tongue.”

He smiled.

“But I take your point,” I added.

“Wiley, I hope you believe me when I say I’m sorry about everything. I really am. I fucked up big time.”

“You could say that.”

“And I would not be wrong?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“I’m trying.”

“It’s nice to see you making jokes. You can be a little scary when you’re mad—I hope I never see you like that again. Remember the first time we argued?”

I smiled.

“I bought you chocolate and flowers, and you dumped them in the parking lot at Food World and walked away. Man, what a bitch! But I deserved it.”