The Lost Saints of Tennessee

Amy Franklin-Willis

Atlantic Monthly Press

New York

Copyright © 2012 by Amy Franklin-Willis

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.

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

FIRST EDITION

ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9484-8

Atlantic Monthly Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

12 13 14 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Wendy—with all my love and thanks.

To Georgia, Gracie, and Giovanna—the best trilogy I will ever have a hand in creating. I love you, my three Gs.

Sometimes being a brother is even better than bein
g a superhero. 

—Marc Brown

Are the saints perfect people?

No. They persevere.

And
that's
what makes them saints.

—Reverend Mark Spaulding, rector,

Holy Cross Episcopal Church

PART I

EZEKIEL

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid?

Job 3:23

One

1985

The late August air lies still, its weight pressing down on me in a way it didn't when I was a boy. Fords, Oldsmobiles, and the occasional late-model Chevy crowd the parking lot of Grayson's Café. I sit in the truck working my way through one cigarette, then another and another. Sweat melds the back of my shirt to the seat. Each time a newcomer opens the restaurant's door laughter spills out. The Mabry High School class of 1960 gathers inside for its twenty-fifth reunion. They are ­drawing together in a moment, happy to see one another, to talk of times past. When I go in they will avoid saying anything about our classmate and my former wife getting married last weekend
.
They will fail to mention my brother Carter's name, even though he drowned almost ten years ago. And none will have the guts to ask the obvious question—how did the smart boy with a full scholarship to the University of Virginia end up living in a converted shed in his mother's backyard and working on the line at the Dover elevator plant?

A loud tap on the passenger-side window startles me. Tucker snorts awake on the seat, raises his head at the sound. It's Jackie. The chance to see her is the only reason I'm here tonight. Without a word, she opens the door and climbs up. The “ex” before wife does not stop her.

“Scoot over, Tucker.” She holds a sweating Bartles and Jaymes bottle in one hand and pushes eighty-nine pounds of dog toward me with the other. “Dinner's almost done, you know. The beef tips didn't taste good warm. They surely aren't going to taste good now.”

Her voice floats over me, sweet and slow. I grip the steering wheel a little harder and look at her out of the corner of my eye. A mistake, of course. Looking at Jackie makes me want to touch her. Tonight she wears a bright blue dress. The front dips two inches into the cleavage she is so proud of. She likes to say those breasts didn't cost her a penny. All it took was two pregnancies, fifty hours of labor, and a push-up bra.

The scent of wild honeysuckle growing next to the road drifts through the truck, carrying memories of rained-out baseball games, walks through the woods behind Mother's house, and Jackie's perfume.

I nod in the direction of Grayson's. “How is it?”

“How do you think it is? Bunch of forty-something fat people.” She picks at the label on the wine cooler, pulling until it rips off. “Everybody keeps asking where you are. Jesus.”

Jackie spies the Marlboros and eases one out of the pack, leaning toward me for a light. Her fingers brush mine. As she settles back against the seat, her gaze rests on the MoonPie wrappers and old
Auto Trader
magazines covering the truck's floor, sharing space with empty cans of barbecued Vienna sausages, the contents gone but their smell still present beneath the Tucker odor.

“Where's Curtis?” I ask.

Jackie married him last Saturday at the Mabry Methodist Church. Our daughters were the flower girls. Louisa showed me a picture when I took her and her sister out for a burger last night.
We looked nice, didn't we, Dad?

“Curtis couldn't make it. Dealership conference in
Memphis.” Jackie shrugs. The shiny material of the dress moves with her shoulders. I wonder when I kissed them last. Christmas Eve a year ago. Before Curtis popped the question on Christmas Day. Before the divorce, legal for two years by then, felt final to either of us.

“Aren't you going to tell me congratulations?”

She is trying to pick a fight.

“No honeymoon?”

“We spent two days in Memphis. I didn't want to be away from the girls too long. And then there was the reunion and all.” The thumbnail of her left hand goes into her mouth, giving her away. There is more than she is telling.

It would be helpful if I couldn't read these signs anymore. If the knowledge accumulated over the years of who she is, of what she likes—kisses on the soft flesh at the back of her knees—and what she's afraid of—water moccasins—if it could all be erased.

“Congratulations.”

The word tastes like dust. Jackie is now someone else's wife. Despite efforts to consume more after-work beers than previously believed possible, it is a fact I can't make go away.

Somewhere between Sunday's end-of-the-weekend drinks
and the early hours of Monday, the notion of suicide floated past my mind for the first time in forty-two years of living. Sobriety did not make it disappear. My daily choices have evolved from whether to have chili or a Swanson's Hungry Man dinner to kicking around suicide methods.

Gun to the head is too messy. And what if you miss? A person could end up with half a face and be a vegetable for life. Hanging oneself seems tricky. If the drop isn't far enough to break the neck instantly, a person can suffocate for as long as seven minutes. That's six and a half minutes longer than I'm up for.

It's clear the best way is a drug overdose. If it was good enough for Elvis, it's good enough for me. I've got a stash of pain pills in the house, saved up after the accident at work. The doctor raised an eyebrow the two times I went in for a checkup and asked for a refill on codeine.

So far, the only member of the Cooper family to rob God of his right to terminate a life was Uncle Leroy back in 1956. He did it with a 12-gauge
shotgun in the barn. On Christmas Eve, the selfish bastard. His ten-year-old son found him on Christmas morning. Story goes there wasn't even a head left, just pieces of gray stuff stuck in the blood-soaked hay. That ten-year-old boy is now thirty-nine and spends his time in a Mississippi jail serving twenty-five years for killing a guy in a bar fight. We all knew Uncle Leroy had good reasons for doing what he did. But when a person decides to check out, the rules should be no major holidays, birthdays, or anniversaries. No messy clean-up for the loved ones.

Most people seem to follow a road map for their life—do this and you'll be here. Do that and you'll live happily ever after. Get married. Have kids. Work. Go to church. I got a map, early on, and followed it. Got good grades. Went to college. And then the Smith boys got ahold of Carter and the map changed.

Scratch that. The map disappeared.

Tucker decides Jackie is ignoring him and struggles to sit up, making awful wheezing sounds as he does.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Reverse sneezes.”

Jackie cocks her head to one side, the motion exposing the length of her neck.

I stroke the soft space between Tucker's eyes, tell him to take it easy. “The vet says it's something about the sneeze getting caught. Sounds like he's having an asthma attack but he isn't. No harm in them.”

“If I ever saw a dead dog walking, it's Tucker.”

Her words hit me and I turn my face to the door so she can't see the pain register.
Keep it up and I'll be glad you divorced my ass.

She can't have forgotten who found Tucker. Rescued him from a ditch on the side of Highway 57 thirteen years ago, brought the dog back to our house cradled in his arms with tears running down his face. “He's broken. Legs don't work,” my brother said. “Found him all tucked up in a ditch.”

Turned out the puppy was almost dead of starvation. Legs worked fine after we put some weight on him. He's long past his Puppy Chow days now, with clumps of hair falling out on a regular basis, cataracts in both eyes, and arthritis so bad he limps more than walks.

Jackie covers her face, massages the temples. The fading sun catches the diamond on her left hand and glints of light bounce around the cab, the stone easily ten times the size of the one I put there two decades ago. Business at Curtis's Ford lot must be good.

“I didn't mean that about Tucker.”

She strokes the dog's gray fur, whispers into his ear. His mouth hangs open, the tongue unfurled in the dog version of a smile. It's possible he misses Jackie as much as I do. Despite her constant complaints about his smell and general good-for-nothingness, she never failed to return from the grocery store without a bone from the butcher or a new box of dog biscuits. She is the one who first let Tucker sleep on our bed, unable to take his puppy whining from the designated dog area in the garage.

“Well, I did mean it,” she says, “because he's getting old, you know. But I didn't mean to be mean. Okay?”

I take a drink from the bottle she offers. The taste is too sweet, like Kool-Aid, but the cold feels good as it slides down the back of my throat. A car pulls in beside the truck and its occupants, a couple I don't recognize, move through Grayson's front door. Jackie takes the cigarette from her mouth and smashes it into the truck's crowded ashtray.

Without looking at me, she asks, “Are you going in or not?”

She knows I'm scared and will be understanding, up to a point.

“Come on, Zeke. Come with me. It'll be like old times. Right?”

Jackie laughs, and this, more than anything else about her, has changed. The laugh used to come up from deep in her belly and sound like it could go on for days. Now it stops in her chest, almost as if something is blocking the way, forcing it out harsh and loud.

“You okay?” I ask.

The air around her shifts, electrifies. Her ribs expand beneath the dress as she takes a breath, slices out an answer. “I'm fine.”

She climbs out of the truck fast, taking all the air with her.

“Jacklynn, wait.”

She stops, leans against the passenger side door. Her body f
aces away from me. We spent hours in similar positions
during the months before the split, talking at each other's backs.
Five years ago she asked for a divorce in the tone she reserved
for telling me news like the washer is broken or Honora's
braces have to stay on another year. She said,
Ezekiel, you can't love anybody right since Carter died; the girls and I deserve better.

“Follow me.” She calls the words over a shoulder as she begins walking away.

“Not sure if I'm up for it.” I slide across the seat to the passenger window, calling out to her. “Just seems kind of pointless, don't you think? Everybody sizing each other up.”

Jackie stops. She turns around, tilting her head as if the words don't make sense. She retraces her steps. Our faces are inches apart. The sight of small wrinkles framing her mouth and the corners of her eyes strikes me as unfair. Age was not supposed to find her.

“No one's going to call you a loser, if that's what you're worried about,” she says.

“Maybe not to my face.”

“Come on.”

Her eyes hold mine. There is no anger in her gaze, not even a flicker of disappointment. It has been years since she looked at me without an accumulation of hurt piled up. She wants me to go inside with her. Is it love or just an unwillingness to walk back into the party alone? If I lean forward the slightest bit, our mouths will touch.

Jackie steps back, out of reach now.

“Can't do it, can you?” She shakes her head. “Can't even walk in the door to see people you see every day and who've known you since you were born?”

I want to say,
Yes, yes, I can, if we go together,
but she is already on a roll. Her look morphs from the tender Jackie I married twenty years ago to the more current royally pissed-off version. She speaks in a low tone that gradually rises in volume.

“Ezekiel, you're not special. What happened to you and your brother is not all that different from a hundred horrible things that happen every day. That's the part you can't stand, isn't it? You hold on to all that pain like it's a kind of treasure.”

“Shut up, Jackie.”

The shriek of a fire engine goes past, cutting the silence between us. Jackie lowers her head for a moment.

“Last chance,” she says, adjusting her hair in the side mirror. “I'm going inside.”

“Be there in a minute,” I say.

The wine cooler rests against the seat. After draining it, I drop the bottle to the floor. It rolls around and falls into the door well, slamming against the metal with each curve along the familiar seven miles back home to Clayton. At mile three it hits me that the divorce was Jackie's final attempt to make me better.