Shaking the Sugar Tree by Nick Wilgus Read Free Book Online Page B

answering. I only shook my head and offered him a look that showed how much his words upset me.
    “Haaahhhhhhhhh,” he moaned, tears springing suddenly to his eyes. He got up from the table and ran to his room. “Aaaaahhhhh!”
    I went after him.
    I heard crashing and banging as he threw things about in typical meth-baby fashion. He had grown out of the worst of it, but there were times when it came back with a vengeance.
    When I went into his room, a Rubik’s Cube went flying past my head, sailing out the door and landing in the hall behind me. Robinson Crusoe was next, followed by Huckleberry Finn . He went to his dresser, yanked on a drawer, spilled its contents. Then he began to bang his head on the top drawer, slamming his head with such force that I rushed over and grabbed him, afraid he was going to bash his brains in.
    He beat at me uselessly with his small fists, wailing and moaning all the while, in complete, unbridled rage, carrying on the way he had as a child in the throes of meth withdrawal. He keened in the back of his throat, which sounded like a “hmmmmm!” Then he opened his mouth wide and groaned, which came out as an “ahhhhhh!” His body was like a bag of snakes. I grabbed him up in my arms and sat down on the bed with him, hugging him to my body, waiting for the anger to pass.
    After a couple of minutes of useless struggling, he settled down, burying his head against the crook of my neck, sobbing, his arms wrapped around me tightly as if he were afraid to let go.
    “Hush now, baby,” I said into his ear.
    I knew he couldn’t hear me. But he could feel me. His ear was against my throat, and he could feel the vibrations of my voice in my throat and chest. So I did lots of loving on him. I said “hush” and “shush” and “be quiet” and “it’s all right” and called him “sweetie” and “baby” and “honey” and “my little man” until he fell silent. Then I laid him down on the bed, got a tissue for his snotty nose, and turned on his fan to get the hot air circulating. I sat with him, watching him as he lay there looking up at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes. When he didn’t want to talk, all he had to do was not look at you so he couldn’t see you signing or speaking.
    I lay down on the bed next to him and stretched out, feeling incredibly tired. I took his hand in mind and held it and said nothing.
    Five minutes later, he was fast asleep.

12) Having jumped off the bridge
     
    I N THE morning I padded to the kitchen in boxers, opened the kitchen window, and switched on the overhead fan. How we were going to get through the summer without air-conditioning, I did not know. It seemed to get harder each year. I didn’t think Noah noticed it as much as I did.
    I got a pot of coffee underway, flipped on the radio to listen to KUDZU, sat down at the table, thought—briefly—about getting my laptop off the counter and getting back to work on my latest novel.
    I wasn’t in the mood for writing. The novel wasn’t going to write itself, unfortunately, but it wasn’t going to be written that particular day either.
    Our kitchen table, a cast-off from someone or other, had once sat in a garage where the legs had been chewed by a rodent. One had been chewed so badly it was missing a couple of inches, and I had to put a cinder block beneath it to keep the table even.
    “ You can’t tap your feet to the songs on the other stations ,” KUDZU said. “ Why? Because no one’s feet can tap that fast! Keep it here on Classic Country KUDZU 104.9! ”
    Bobbie Gentry began to explain about Billy Joe McAllister jumping off the Tallahatchie Bridge. There really was such a bridge over in Greenwood, Mississippi, I knew, but Gentry said she made the song up. The bridge itself collapsed in 1972. Rolling Stone did a famous expose on it, deciding it wasn’t a very promising spot to commit suicide since it was only a twenty-foot drop.
    I sighed.
    I should not have taken Noah to see his mother’s