Free Stones in the Road by Nick Wilgus

Should we play party games? Will that help?”
    “By the way, my son is not retarded,” I blurted out, surprised at how angry I still was about that little comment.
    “You really are very sensitive, aren’t you?” She took a long drag on her vape pen. “Words are just words. People put too much emphasis on words. Everyone has to be so politically correct. How boring.”
    “I’m sure there’s a nicer word for people who pick on children with disabilities,” I said, “but I’ll settle for bitch .”
    “But I am a bitch, dear. Haven’t you figured that out? God knows I have my reasons.”
    “Well, then I guess that’s okay,” I snapped.
    Jackson gasped a little bit.
    “You’ll have to forgive my wife,” Mr. Ledbetter with a smile. “Since they upped her dosage, she just hasn’t been the same. But tell us about your book, Wiley.”
    “Yes,” Mrs. Ledbetter said, “tell us all about your book, Wilfred. After all, it’s not every day one goes out in public and blurts out all one’s transgressions for the whole world to see. I hope you made some money off it. Most prostitutes do.”
    “Give it a rest,” Mr. Ledbetter said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “I applaud his honesty.”
    “Do you really want your son hanging out with crack whores and rednecks and trailer trash? Not to speak of all these human-like creatures with bad teeth. Not to speak of the tornadoes and crocodiles and goodness knows what else.”
    “My wife exaggerates,” Stephen said easily. “Are you selling many books?”
    “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s only been a few months.”
    “Did you tell our little Bob that he’s deaf because you were a meth head?” Mrs. Ledbetter asked.
    “I was not a meth head,” I replied rather angrily. I’d been saying that a lot since the book came out.
    “That’s right. You didn’t inhale. Nobody does, dear.”
    “And his name is not Bob,” I added, irritated by her.
    “Does Bob know what his parents did?” she pressed. “Have you told him? You did, didn’t you? You sat down with him and explained that mommy and daddy were smoking crack when she got just a teensy weensy little bit pregnant, and then poor little Bob Cratchit was born as a teensy weensy little preemie baby and wound up with holes in his ears and his heart and all the rest of it? You did tell him? Didn’t you? Seems like he’d want to know that kind of stuff.”
    “There’s a time and a place,” Mr. Ledbetter said.
    “I believe children should know the truth. And if he’ll do that to his own son, God knows what he’ll do to ours, Stephen, or haven’t you thought about that?”
    “Jesus Christ, Mom!” Jackson put down his utensils as he expelled an angry puff of air.
    “You’re the one who wants to marry the bastard. I think you ought to know who he is before you tie the knot, dear. It’s only right. Stephen, care to weigh in?”
    “Don’t get involved in the love lives of your children,” Mr. Ledbetter said. “I tell patients that every day, and for good reason. The heart wants what it wants. Have you received much press attention?”
    “Sorry?” I asked.
    “For your book,” he said.
    “Well, no,” I admitted. Not a single newspaper or magazine or blog in the great state of Mississippi could bring itself to mention it.
    “I thought Mississippi prided itself on its authors,” he offered.
    “Well, perhaps not the homosexual ones,” his wife observed.
    We were interrupted by the waiter, who brought drinks.
    I glanced around the restaurant, feeling distinctly out of place and out of my element. The men wore suits as if they were an afterthought, and the women looked flawless, not a hair out of place. Somehow I doubted whether any of these moms and dads were preparing for a visit from the good souls of the DHS. And anyway, I was one of those people who liked Dollar Tree, because you didn’t have to dress up like you did when you went to Walmart.
    Frenelli’s was perhaps the