The Lost Saints of Tennessee

by Amy Franklin-Willis

  You’d like Cousin Georgia. She’s real sweet. I’ve told her a lot about you.

  Classes are tough. I’m taking biology, Greek and Roman mythology, American history (since before the Revolution), algebra, and basketball. My favorite professor is Dr. Fitzpatrick. He teaches the ancient myth class. He’s from Scotland, and it’s hard to understand him when he speaks fast, which he does all the time because he gets so worked up about what we’re reading. This week we discussed the Iliad, and when this basketball player said it was the most boring, longest poem he’d ever read, I thought Dr. Fitz might punch him, he got so riled.

  There are a lot of rich kids. When people find out I live with the Laceys, they think I’m rich, too. Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? I’ve made friends with a guy named Frank Chancellor. He’s from Richmond. He knew all about the Laceys. His daddy works for one of Osborne’s brothers. Frank said I was lucky to come from a family like the Laceys. I told him I was lucky to come from a family where five kids slept in one room in a house that didn’t have indoor plumbing until 1957.

  He laughed and said, “No shit?” And I said, “Only in the outhouse.” We have biology class and play basketball together. I’m not good enough to be on the team, but there’s a group of us that play intramural. Frank lives on campus in one of the dorms. I have one night class, biology lab, on Tuesday nights, and I sleep on Frank’s floor those nights. It’s kind of nice to stay where all the other students are.

  Will you come visit me soon? Homecoming is next month and I would love to take you to the dance. Think about it, will you? Promise?

  Love,

  Zeke.

  October 12, 1960

  Library

  University of Virginia

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  Dear Carter,

  Hey brother of mine. Why haven’t you written back? Too busy to write a few lines about what you’ve been doing? You’re going to be in trouble when I come home in June.

  Cousin Georgia took me to the Appalachian Trail last weekend. I wish you could’ve seen it, Carter. The trees and the colors—dark fiery red to pumpkin orange to gold spread over the mountains like quilts. It reminded me of how Lavice Valley looks when we climb up the steps of the Tipton Trail tower.

  Daddy taking you fishing much? I know he’s gone mostly, but you ask him nicely next time he’s home for a bit and he’ll take you.

  Sometimes I miss home so much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for Cousin Georgia and Osborne and all they’ve done for me. But I don’t fit quite right here. Everybody’s so different. I’m keeping up with the schoolwork and have made a friend or two.

  Should be studying for my biology midterm, so I’d better get to it. Miss you, buddy.

  Love your brother,

  Zeke

  November 1, 1960

  Lacey Farms

  Bailey, Virginia

  Dear Jackie,

  I sure am sorry you couldn’t come up for homecoming weekend. Train tickets cost a lot, I know. I guess I was just dreaming. We won the football game—27:21. Frank and I went. He’s gone to military school since he was six and says the university is like being set free. Frank has a girlfriend over at Raintree Academy. Her name is Brenda and she’s real sweet. I showed her your picture and she said you were pretty. Frank took her to the homecoming dance, and she had a friend named Shelly who really wanted to go, so I took her. We had a good time but she’s not nearly as good a dancer as you.

  I have a big favor to ask. Carter hasn’t written me since I’ve been gone. Could you check on him? I know he’s fine but it’s strange not hearing one word from him. I promise to bring you the best darned peaches in the state of Virginia as a thank-you next June. (That’s a joke, unless you want me to.)

  It’s strange being away from Carter. Our whole lives, from the very beginning, we’ve been together. Here, almost no one knows I have a twin brother. And sometimes it’s nice. I get to just be Zeke. Not Ezekiel, Carter’s brother. The other day I figured out that I hate pork rinds. Can’t stand them. But I’ve eaten them all these years because Carter likes them. When you’re a twin, you feel like everything you do is connected to this other person. That you really can’t exist without him. Truth is, you can.

  Biology is my hardest class. I got a C– on the midterm. I don’t think I’m going to be a bio major. Dr. Fitzpatrick is still my favorite professor. He gave us an extracredit assignment of writing an epic poem about our own life. I gave it a try and Dr. Fitzpatrick gave me an A. He said my writing showed “great promise.” What do you think about that? I wrote Momma about it and she said that was just fine but not to forget I was meant for greater things than writing.

  She wants me to be a doctor or a lawyer. And you want to know the truth? I don’t want to be anything close to a doctor or a lawyer. My mind doesn’t work that way. I don’t know what I want to be but I think a writer doesn’t sound too bad. Cousin Georgia said it’s a fine profession. Osborne said being a farmer is a shade better but, all in all, I could do worse.

  I hope you’re doing okay. I miss you every day. Write me. I miss holding you. I love you, Jackie.

  Love,

  Zeke

  November 30, 1960

  Lacey Farms

  Bailey, Virginia

  Dear Mother,

  I had my first Thanksgiving away from home last week. Laceys from all over descended on the farm. Folks started arriving on Wednesday afternoon. I swear that Cousin Georgia, Sallie (she helps cook sometimes), and Alice (Sallie’s sister) cleaned and cooked for two weeks straight before the actual holiday. Every room was aired out, since most of the relatives stayed over Wednesday and Thursday night, some even Friday and Saturday.

  On Thanksgiving morning, Georgia, Osborne, his parents, and I went to church at St. Timothy’s. It was the “Blessing of the Hounds” service—you remember how there are a bunch of rich folks here who ride around on their horses trying to catch a little old fox? Every Thanksgiving morning all of the foxhunters, their horses, and their dogs gather outside the church to be “blessed.”

  When we got there, the bagpipers in their plaid skirts were just starting. The fog wrapped around the gravestones in the cemetery. The sound of those lonely pipes and the quiet of everyone—five hundred people came but no one said a word—was like nothing you’ve ever heard. I felt filled up somehow.

  All the foxhunters were dressed in scarlet coats and shiny black boots with their dogs sitting at their sides. And the horses! These great big beasts—their coats gleaming in the sun, stamping and snuffling, itching to get on with things and start the hunt.

  Osborne told me the Blessing of the Hounds comes from St. Hubert, patron saint of hunters, who lived in eighth-century France. The prayers said are to protect the hunters and offer thanksgiving for the harvest. A little different from Thanksgiving service at First Baptist, isn’t it? When Georgia and I had a minute to ourselves, she said the folks who go to St. Timothy’s are the descendents of the first English people to settle this area and they take their traditions a little too seriously for her liking. When one of the horses took a poop right in the middle of the service—you could see the steam coming off it in the cold air—Georgia rolled her eyes and whispered, “Good grief.”

  I hope you and the family spent a good holiday together. I sure missed being with everybody. Did Daddy let Carter help carve the turkey this year? I did it last year, so this year was Carter’s turn. I didn’t help carve the turkey here. That’s old Mr. Lacey’s job. Thirty-five people came for Thanksgiving dinner. And all of them relatives. I always thought five kids around a table was a lot but the Laceys beat us.

  Cousin Georgia says she misses seeing the Parker family. She told me the last time she saw most of the Parkers was at her wedding and that was a good fifteen years ago. She says the Laceys are pretty much the only family she ha
s now, with her parents dead and her sister living all the way out in Wyoming.

  We’re getting ready for final exams. The only class I’m a little worried about is biology. My friend Frank and I have a whole study plan worked out—we’ll meet every day for an hour and a half until exam day to go over the material. Dr. Fitzpatrick told me I should write for the school newspaper, so I’m going to check that out for next semester. You write about campus life, sports, stuff like that. He said it would be good experience for me. I know you don’t think much about me writing but I know I can do it and still keep up with my studies. Don’t worry. I know you already have your graduation dress picked out.

  Would you please tell Carter to write me a letter? The lazy guy hasn’t written me one word since I’ve been here. What have you got him doing that he’s too busy to write his brother?

  Love to everyone,

  Ezekiel

  December 7, 1960

  University of Virginia Library

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  Dear Jackie,

  You’re never going to believe this. Cousin Georgia knocked on my door last night and asked if she could speak with me. She’s never done that before, so I got worried I’d done something wrong like eaten steak with the salad fork again or left my muddy shoes by the front door. But that wasn’t it at all.

  She came in and sat on my bed and said she and Osborne had been talking about what to give me as a Christmas present. They’d been thinking really hard about what I needed most, and they thought about books for school and clothes and things like that, but then she said they both looked at each other and they knew—what I needed most was to go home and be with my family. So they’re giving me a round-trip train ticket and some spending money for the trip and a little extra to buy presents for the family.

  Can you believe it? I’ve got two more finals, and now I feel like I can survive them knowing I’ll see you in only a week. I went to the train station this morning before my history final and got the ticket. I’ll be home on December 21. The train gets into Corinth at five minutes after seven o’clock that night. Will you meet me in Corinth, Jackie? Please?

  Got my bio final tomorrow, so I’ve got to study now, but I love you so much and will see you in two weeks. Fourteen days.

  Love,

  Zeke

  PS: Don’t tell my family about me coming home, will you? I want it to be a big surprise.

  Thirty

  1985

  “Death does funny things to people, Ezekiel.”

  Georgia sets her purse on the kitchen table, looking up as Osborne walks upstairs. They attended Joe Cummins’s funeral this morning. I offered to go but she told me not to be silly. Why attend a funeral for someone you don’t know?

  “Most people walk around thinking it will never happen to them—they’ll never die, no one they love will ever die, things will stay just as they are forever. And then when it happens, and it always happens, people are shocked.”

  I lower the heat on the stove’s burner and flip over a sandwich. She peers into the pan.

  “Smells good.”

  “Let me fix you one. It’s my specialty.”

  My father taught me how to make fried ham-and-cheese sandwiches the summer Mother spent three days in Memphis with Aunt Charlotte. Mother cooked a whole ham and left it in the fridge for us. Ham for breakfast, ham for lunch, ham for dinner. When she came home, Carter ran up to her and said, Momma, I don’t want to eat ham ever again.

  “Eliza is beside herself.” Cousin Georgia selects a bottle from the pill-filled lazy Susan in the middle of the table and holds out a tablet. “Take this. It’s vitamin C. I feel like I’m getting a cold. Don’t want you to get it.”

  “I’m not much of a vitamin taker.”

  She waits until I pop the sour thing into my mouth. Only then does she turn back to the sandwich and milk I set before her.

  “This is good, Ezekiel. Did you put Miracle Whip on before you fried it?” She takes another bite and chews appreciatively. “Eliza keeps asking me why. Why would God take her Joe home now, when they were just beginning to enjoy life?”

  Noise comes from the second floor, the sound of furniture being dragged. Georgia rolls her eyes. “Oz is moving the chair over to the window so he can see the lake. He’ll sit there for the next four hours looking at the damn lake.”

  I finish frying my sandwich and take a seat. Osborne hollers from upstairs for a cup of coffee. Cousin Georgia slides out her chair but I motion for her to stay put. I put the kettle on and search for the Folgers jar in the cabinet.

  “Left-hand side,” she says. “Osborne said his good-byes to Joe at the funeral home yesterday. He came out of the viewing room sobbing like a baby. I was afraid he might collapse. I’ve never understood the point of talking to the dead shell of a person. Joe’s spirit is with God now. If we want to talk to him, we should be praying.”

  “Does Osborne like it strong or weak?”

  “Weak. Two sugars and a splash of milk. Just like his father.”

  Georgia feeds Tucker a crust of bread underneath the table. When I ask her to stop because he’ll turn into a scraps beggar, she says the dog is old enough to do whatever he wants.

  “You know what makes Joe’s death hard? It’s that Osborne and I both know we’ve reached the age where this is only the beginning. Our friends will begin to die off in ones, twos, and threes. And, of course, Osborne’s own illness . . .”

  She joins me at the sink, still chewing on the sandwich, and we stand side by side looking out the window. Stray branches still lie here and there on the rear lawn. Both our gazes are drawn to the empty rectangle of land directly in front of us. The orchard. Georgia sighs. I notice the faint tinge of a yellow bruise on her temple.

  “What’s this?” I gently touch the bruise and she flinches.

  The kettle lets out a high-pitched whistle.

  “Last week I reminded Oz to take his blood-pressure medicine and he refused.” She moves to the stove and takes the kettle off the burner. “We got into an argument. And he hit me.”

  She prepares Osborne’s coffee, stirring in the sugar slowly. “Don’t worry. It’s normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “It’s the disease. I’ve started going to a support group at the hospital. And when this happened, they said it’s one of the symptoms. Bursts of violence. Oz didn’t mean it.”

  The coffee spoon clatters against the stainless-steel sink where Georgia tosses it.

  “Show me pictures of those beautiful girls of yours. I haven’t seen any since they were babies.”

  I want to ask if she feels safe but am not sure what to say. She puts her hand to my face.

  “Ezekiel, having you here makes me feel like I might get through this.”

  Her expression reveals a grief already beginning for the husband she knows.

  “Enough of this,” she says, pressing her fingertips to the inside corner of her eyes. “Show me your girls.”

  I dig out last year’s school pictures from my wallet. ­Louisa’s shy smile is covered in braces, a recent development since Curtis could pay the $2,500 to put them there. She hovers somewhere between child and young girl. Honora’s hair is dyed dark black, with one side cut longer than the other, and dark lipstick covers her mouth. The dark hair makes her wide blue eyes stand out even more. She could be a budding vampire.

  “They’re darling,” Georgia says. “Honora must be the spunky one.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I’ve always loved your daughters’ names. Such beautiful old names.”

  Jackie and I had argued for hours about Honora’s name when she was born. I hadn’t liked it. Said it sounded too fancy and people wouldn’t say it right. Her whole life she would have to tell people, No, it’s Ahn-or-ah not Hahn-or-ah. />
  Osborne yells down the stairs again for coffee.

  When I take the coffee up to his room, Oz is sitting in the leather chair next to the bed. Anglers Monthly magazine lies open in his lap.

  “Just set it on the table there.”

  “Need anything else?” I ask.

  “Make Georgia lie down, will you? She was up all night with Eliza and only worries about me. I’ll be fine.”

  He closes the magazine, running a hand along the front cover, which features a sixty-something guy in a boat reeling in a large-mouth bass. Standing over Osborne’s shoulder, I can see shiny pink patches of his scalp where the hair has thinned.

  “Every time a new issue came in the mail, Joe and I called each other. We talked about the new lures or planned a fishing trip to one of the places in the magazine. We both knew we’d never actually go there but it didn’t matter. It was more fun to talk about going than going could ever have been.”

  He stares down at his hands as if they don’t belong to him. It is hard to tell if he wants to be alone or if it’s better to stay. The gentle step of Cousin Georgia on the stairs echoes in the hallway. When she enters the room, she goes straight to her husband, kneeling next to him and taking his hands in her own. Oz looks down at her and his mouth lifts.

  I step out of the room, closing the door as quietly as possible. Their devotion is almost painful to watch. In the beginning, my own marriage seemed similarly destined. We felt so much love for each other. And then, we didn’t. Jackie says I withdrew from her and the girls when Carter died.

  But things between us were changing even before then. Jackie herself became distant. I would ask her what was wrong and she would shake her head and say, “Don’t borrow trouble, Zeke.” After hearing this answer a few times, I asked what the hell did that mean? She started to cry. Never being able to stand tears, I gathered her in my arms and made love to her, trying to bridge whatever trouble lay in her heart. A month later Carter died, throwing marital concerns far from my mind.