Shaking the Sugar Tree by Nick Wilgus

Jackson didn’t blend into the background. He was too well-dressed, too well-groomed, had no facial hair, and didn’t scratch his ass from time to time just to remind the world that he was a goddamn man, by God, 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 embarrassment. “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 flustered. “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 embarrassment 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 embarrass 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.”
    I offered directions and we were there within ten minutes. Walking through the mall, with Noah between us and holding our hands, I felt like any other family on an outing to the mall. We got looks, of course. Looks of curiosity, of disapproval, of disgust. The love that dares not speak its name ought not to dare to walk through the mall with a child in hand like a couple of hussies with their love child in tow, is what the looks said. Don’t want no sodomy-based marriage here, thank you!
    At the Italian place, we ordered hot sandwiches, a plate of meatballs, and pizza. Jackson insisted on paying. We claimed a table and had ourselves a good eating.
    “It’s good,” Jackson said.
    “You’re just saying that,” I replied.
    “No, really, it’s good. A little greasy….”
    “The grease is part of the charm,” I pointed out.
    “Said the heart attack to the clogged arteries.”
    “You’re in the South now, boy. Grease is one of the four main food groups.”
    “Ain’t that the truth!”
    “You’ve got to say it like you mean it,” I said. “Obesity doesn’t just happen. You’ve got to work at it.”
    Noah stuffed himself with pizza and got sauce on his face, which I wiped at with a napkin.
    “You seem upset today,” Jackson said. “What’s going on?”
    I glanced at him and bit at my lip, not wanting to answer.
    “What?” he