The Lost Saints of Tennessee Read Online Free Page A

looked back at me, his eyes big. I pretended to write in the air to show him what to do. Miss Ryder pushed back from the desk. Her chair scraped against the floor, causing the hairs on my arms to stand up. She gave Carter the chalk.
    By now, half the class was giggling. In the moments before Carter’s hand began to move, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed harder than I ever had. Dear God, please help him. Please make him write his name. It would be a miracle if he did, but Preacher Dawson was always going on in church about miracles happening every day.
    Carter drew row after row of o, the only letter he knew how to write properly.
    Snickers spread through the class. Our friend Tommy Jackson told them to shut up. The teacher smirked.
    â€œWell, now, Carter,” she said, “that’s the strangest spelling of a name I believe I’ve ever seen. Son, why don’t you go on along home? Come back when you’re ready to do your own work.”
    The chalk dropped from my brother’s hand, splintering into powdery pieces across the dark wood floor. He ran for the back entrance, not even looking my way. I took off, ignoring Miss Ryder’s threats of a whupping tomorrow. The air outside cooled the heat on my cheeks—flushed from rage and from the double dose of shame over Carter’s ignorance and my own momentary wish that he was not my brother.
    His figure sprinted down Main Street. After chasing him three blocks, I finally caught up by the crossroads. Tear tracks made dusty pathways down his face. His chest heaved with loud, hiccuping breaths.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said.
    The words sounded empty. My brother understood more than I may have realized. Life might have been easier if he had been less intelligent. He would not have grasped that there was a whole world out there he would never join, a world sure to pull me away from him.
    Carter placed his hands on the back of his neck, cradling his head between his arms, as if shielding himself from an attack.
    â€œWon’t be okay,” he said. “No, sir.”

Four
    1985
    Clayton’s only gas station is empty when the dog and I swing by on the way out of town.
    â€œYou’re late, Zeke. Boss is going to chew your ass,” Gerald Watson says, easing off a stool behind the counter to ring me up.
    Gerald graduated from Mabry three years after me. He was drafted into Vietnam, something Carter and I avoided due to our age. When Gerald came home, he had lost part of his left leg and gained a weird sense of humor. When President Reagan made the joke about outlawing Russia, Gerald put the punch line—“We begin bombing in five ­minutes”—on the store sign for weeks, right underneath “Bread! 2 for 1.”
    I pay for the gas and walk back to the truck. After settling behind the steering wheel, I move to turn the key. Starting the truck leads to putting it in gear, which leads to driving. The moment of leaving is upon me and suddenly I can’t do it. My hands drop from the wheel.
    Tucker pins me with a pitiful look. Snacks. We’ll need sustenance for this trip, wherever we’re going. I head back to the store.
    Moses Washington’s old Chevy pulls in on the other side of the pump. Behind his truck a thousand dust particles rise up in a small cyclone of sparkling bits. I duck in the front door before Moses climbs out. If he sees the bags in the truck there will be questions. He knows I’m supposed to be at the plant. Sometimes I think he knows everything.
    Moses and his wife, Pearlene, have been around me my whole life. Pearlene delivered Carter and me when we came too quickly for Mother to get to the hospital. Some people say Moses has lived in Clayton long enough to have seen Yankee General Edward Ord march his soldiers over Davis Bridge.
    The inside of Gerald’s Gas consists of three aisles whose crammed shelves contain every item a person might need. Bread. Extension cords. Tylenol. Fish