Free The Lost Saints of Tennessee by Amy Franklin-Willis Page B

up. But I don’t want to risk waking her or Osborne, so I eat breakfast at the Waffle House next door. The coffee is scalding hot, and the biscuits and gravy make my stomach cramp up. Afterward, I walk back and forth in front of the motel room door trying to settle my insides and get calm enough to walk in there and call. This is a bad idea. Maybe she’s died. Maybe Osborne’s died. If they aren’t dead, the last thing two old people need is a shiftless relative and a stinky dog on their doorstep.
    Tucker yawns and licks the biscuit crumbs from his chops. My legs will not walk inside the room to make the call. I climb back in the truck. Smoke my fifth cigarette of the day. Watch people come out of their rooms, some still dressed in pajamas, looking tired and hopeless. One guy walks out in his boxers, scratches his balls, and yells back toward the open door of his room.
    â€œBitch, you better get out here and clean out this car before I leave your ass.”
    The dog and I trade a look. Fuck.
    I call at straight-up nine o’clock. She answers after the second ring.
    â€œCousin Georgia, this is Zeke Cooper.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    She’s forgotten who I am. Jesus.
    â€œCooper, Cousin Georgia. From Tennessee.”
    A pause. “Cooper?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” I speak louder. “Ezekiel Cooper, ma’am.”
    â€œOh,” she says.
    Uh oh, I think. “It’s Zeke, Cousin Georgia. From Clayton. My mother’s Lillian Parker Cooper.”
    There is an intake of breath. “Oh, Ezekiel. Forgive me. Of course. How are you?”
    I clear my throat before telling her I’m in Charlottesville.
    â€œCharlottesville?” She sounds confused and tired, not at all like the energetic woman I remember. She yells for Osborne to come quick. “When are you going to come see us?”
    â€œWhenever it’s all right for me to stop by.”
    â€œAnytime’s fine by us, Ezekiel. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Too long.”
    She asks if the girls are with me.
    â€œNo, they’re back home with their mother,” I say.
    â€œThat’s too bad. Another time.”
    â€œI’d be happy to drive over right now, if you and Osborne are home.”
    His heavy footsteps near the phone. He mutters something to Georgia about losing her mind before Georgia hands the phone over to him.
    â€œHello?” Osborne’s deep voice rumbles. “Ezekiel?”
    â€œYes, sir. This is Ezekiel.”
    He asks if I need a ride. I thank him but say I’ve got the truck.
    â€œYou get on over here, then. We’re going out on the front porch right now to wait for you.”
    The phone clicks off.

Eleven
    1985
    The twisting branches of live oaks arc across both sides of the Lacey Farms entry road, offering shelter as I steer the truck to the house. When I lived here twenty-five years ago, life offered a thousand possible destinations. Good destinations. Now, when it comes to possibilities, I tend to think of what can go wrong instead of what can go right. Maybe that’s part of getting older, like going gray. I smooth my hair in the rearview mirror, and though a touch of salt sprouts on the top, the rest remains the light brown of my youth. This gives me hope.
    The main house rises in the distance, a testament to solid antebellum glory. Five chimney towers stretch toward the sky. The first time I saw the house I didn’t even know what Greek Revival was. But I knew a mansion when I saw one. Knew I’d be happy if they let me sleep on the porch.
    A weed-filled front lawn and a sagging split-rail fence that looks like it hasn’t been whitewashed in two decades frame the house. Its shutters have faded from a glossy black to a peeling gray. Tucker perks up on the seat. He puts his paws up on the dash and looks out the window. Cousin Georgia and Osborne make their way down the front steps as we pull into the