The Lost Saints of Tennessee Read Online Free Page B

bait. I grab two six-packs—one RC Cola and one Budweiser. Barbeque pork rinds are a favorite of Tucker’s. Five bags of those go on the counter. MoonPies for me. Beef jerky.
    The bells above the door announce an arrival. Moses walks in. There is nowhere to hide. He takes in the large load on the counter.
    â€œLooks like you and the dog are going on a trip. Where you headed?”
    â€œLeaving is all,” I say.
    Moses nods, like he understands. This will not be the end of the conversation. Besides serving as town handyman, he’s also the closest thing Clayton has to a Father Confessor. We don’t have a Catholic around here for miles but most folks like to talk. And Moses likes to listen.
    Gerald takes his time ringing up my items. I hand over a twenty.
    â€œWell, hell,” Gerald says, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco into an old Maxwell House can. “I’m out of ones, Zeke. Hang on a second while I go grab some out of the safe.”
    Moses stands alongside me holding a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo and pressing the other hand into his hip, claiming the arthritis is acting up again. The morning gas rush, such as it is, has long passed and we are the only customers.
    I keep my eyes focused out the window. Jessie Canthrop pulls into the dairy bar across the street and orders her first ice-cream cone of the day. Most folks put her weight somewhere between three and four hundred pounds. Last year, Jessie’s Girl Scout cookie order alone was enough to send the Clayton troop on an all-expenses-paid trip to Dollywood. Tucker sits in the truck, his eyes tracking me, unsure of how this day is unfolding.
    â€œI don’t think I caught where you were headed,” Moses says in a friendly tone.
    When I play deaf he shifts his weight beside me, clearing his throat. “You running away from something?”
    Sweat pools in the small of my back, dampening the elastic on my briefs. The idea of leaving had seemed so easy at home—get in the truck and go.
    â€œI’m not running.” This is a lie. I know it and he knows it.
    Part of me wants to tell him, to say the words out loud and hear them vibrate off the air. I’m going to kill myself, Moses .
    â€œPearlene and I been talking about doing the same thing for years. Moving ourselves over to Memphis where we can pass more black folks than white folks in the street.”
    Moses and his wife are several shades darker than the darkest white person in town. For a fact, everybody in Clayton knows that at least one person in his family has a little bit of Cherokee or black or both. And everybody, except Moses and Pearlene, pretends like they don’t know.
    â€œWe never have left, though. At least not yet. We still got some time, I imagine.”
    I stay quiet.
    He reaches a big-knuckled, scarred hand in my direction. Pats my shoulder. “Don’t you go and be a chicken shit.”
    How does he know?
    A smile covers his face but the pressure of his hand increases until I have to try hard not to squirm. “You’ve got two sweet girls,” he says. “They don’t need a daddy leaving town.”
    It won’t help to tell him I’m not even sure the girls will miss me.
    â€œI’ve known you your whole life, son, and you’ve had a rough go of it lately. But with those blue eyes like your mother’s, just a matter of time before another good woman lands in your arms, and you got that smart head to figure out what you need to be doing with yourself. You just need a new beginning is all.”
    Gerald’s large gut precedes him through the back door. “Damn safe is a bear to open.”
    He heaves himself back up onto the stool with the help of a cane and counts out my change.
    I turn to Moses to say good-bye. The old man and I stare at each other. The thing about looking at Moses is his whole life story can be glimpsed through his eyes—the warmth in them telegraphs all the love he’s