“There’s always been a distance between us,” he said simply.
“So he’s gay because you weren’t there for his baseball games?”
“I was there as much as I could be, but my work kept me busy.”
“And what do you do, sir?”
“I’m a psychiatrist. Didn’t Jackson tell you?”
No, he did not.
“Anyway,” he said grandly, “there will be plenty of time for talk later once we’ve become acquainted. I must say I’m very curious about Mississippi. It’s a solid red state—and we need all the solid red states we can get.”
“We do?” I asked, incredulous.
“Of course we do. We need people who believe in the American dream and the American values of hard work and self-reliance, not a bunch of moochers on food stamps drowning us in debt.”
My jaw fell open.
“I don’t know if we can take much more of Obama,” he went on. “The man’s not even American.”
I closed my mouth, felt something tighten in my belly. I looked in the rearview mirror and tried to catch Jackson’s eye, but he was busy talking to his mother.