The Lost Saints of Tennessee (15 page)

Twenty-Five

In the days after Ezekiel left for Virginia, Carter moped
around the house. On the first Saturday without his brother, I decided to take Rosie and Carter in to Mabry to see a movie.
Please Don't Eat the Daisies
was playing at the Downtown Theater, and Carter loved Doris Day.

Saturdays were my hair days. Wash and set at Ruby's at two o'clock. Kept that appointment for over thirty years. Until she up and died on us the year Reagan became president.

I dropped the kids off a little before two for the matinee. They grinned when I pressed an extra quarter into each of their hands for popcorn and Raisinets.

“Wait for me outside after the movie. By the box office,” I yelled out the window.

I started to pull away from the curb, then stopped. Carter had never been in town without his brother before. “Rosie, come here.”

Dressed in the rolled-up jeans I hated and sneakers, she jogged over to the car.

“What is it, Momma?”

Carter stood by the movie poster studying the picture of Doris Day and David Niven.
She's almost as pretty as you, Momma,
he'd told me once.

“You look after your brother.”

Rosie gave me a soldier's salute.

“I mean it,” I said.

“Yes, ma'am.” The words were tossed over her shoulder as she ran back to the faded yellow awning.

Ruby was running thirty minutes behind schedule. The mayor's wife had shown up without an appointment first thing in the morning and thrown everything off.

“I'm sorry, Lillian,” Ruby said. “You have a seat and read a magazine. I'm giving everybody a free Coke today.”

I didn't mind waiting. Thirty more minutes to myself sounded good. The movie would get out around 4:30, making me a few minutes late to pick up the kids, but they could behave themselves.

Ruby talked me into putting my hair up that day. It took a little longer to fix but it was worth it. We both agreed it was a real shame I didn't have anywhere but home to go, looking as fancy as I did. When I pulled up to the theater, I daydreamed I was driving a red Studebaker Lark convertible instead of the old Ford Deluxe.

I turned off the engine and sat for a few minutes thinking about what to cook for dinner—not beans and corn bread again, I couldn't stand it—when movement near the side of the theater caught my eye.

A half circle of people stood watching something, their backs to me. The theater manager, Bob Dunlap, hurried out of the box office toward them. A white sneaker flew over the shoulder of a kid standing in the crowd, landing a few feet from the curb with a thunk. It looked like Rosie's. I got out of the car.

Rosie was screaming. I couldn't make out the words until I got closer.

“Get off my brother! You're killing him!”

I couldn't see yet who she was screaming at. Running now, I broke through the circle to find Jed Smith holding Rosie up off the ground as she thrashed around, landing scratches and kicks wherever she could, and Bob Dunlap pulling a bloodied Earl Smith off of my boy.

“Go inside and call an ambulance,” Bob yelled. “Police, too.”

One of the older kids ran off to the theater. At the mention of the police, Earl broke free from Bob's grip and started running down the street, knocking people out of his way as he went. Jed stared after him, still holding Rosie, who kicked backward, landing the heel of her foot in his crotch.

Carter lay still on the sidewalk. A dark stain flowered onto the cement beneath his head. It was my turn to scream. I knelt beside him. Blood ran from a deep gash across his forehead and down his right cheek. I tore off the scarf from my neck and pressed it to his head. Within seconds, it was soaked through.

“The son of a bitch used this. Goddamned cracker kid.” Bob held the bottom of a broken Coke bottle in his hand, splatters of crimson dotting the jagged edges.

“Earl wouldn't stop hitting him, Momma. We were waiting out here and then Earl came up to Carter and said, ‘Didn't you and your brother get my dad in trouble with the revenuers a few years back?' Carter told him no. Earl said, ‘You're not Ezekiel. You're the dumb brother, aren't you?' And then he started hitting. I tried to get him off. I tried. He kept slamming Carter's head into the pavement. I yelled for somebody to help us. Carter fought back. He did. Oh, God, Momma, look at him.”

Rosie fell to the ground beside me, reaching for Carter. The world stopped, leaving only the boy in my arms and the girl holding on to him. Both of us talking love words to him. Both of us whispering apologies. Both of us praying. Begging.

Twenty-Six

For the first time since the rubeola when he was little, Carter stayed at Tolliver Hospital. The days dragged into weeks and the wind began to blow the leaves off the oak trees lining the front entrance, each leaf wider than my own palm. The nurses brought a cot into his room for me. Coffee and cigarettes were the only things I could manage after Carter fell into a coma. To have a child dance so close to death a second time filled me with a kind of anger I hadn't felt before—it spread to every part of my insides until sometimes, at night, I would have to go down the hall to the toilet and throw up awful yellow bile.

My husband got called for a big job in Mississippi and left a month after our boy got hurt. With the bills piling up, he had to go. I'd never felt more lonely in my whole life.

Carter's body slowly began to heal itself on the outside. The bruises along his broken jaw faded. The stitches on his face came out the second month, leaving a deep scar that ran from his forehead over his right eye to his jawbone. He would never see the same out of that eye again. Spiky brown fuzz sprouted from his scalp, shaved by the nurses that first night for the emergency surgery. Scars formed a map across the back of his head, their lines intersecting at points, like a tic-tac-toe board. Every day I touched his feet, his legs, his right arm, his hands, his chest. Every place those Smith brothers hadn't. And I prayed over him.
Thank you, God, for these strong legs. These beautiful fingers. Thank you for these lungs breathing in and out.

My son woke up two months and three days after the beating. He didn't recognize me. Didn't remember a thing, not even his own name. The doctors had warned me this might happen, given the swelling around his brain, but nothing prepared me for those first days after the coma. Carter just sat in bed with his hands folded in his lap, staring out the window. Wouldn't even get up to go to the bathroom, though his legs worked fine. He didn't speak a word. When I talked to him, I knew he didn't hear me. This ghost boy was almost harder to bear than the comatose one. I wanted my son, my Carter, back. All of him.

Violet brought me dinner and drove her sisters over to the hospital every other day. I found out later that Rosie spent the night in the McNairy County jail after setting fire to the Smith boys' house. They were out on bail (one of their cousins was a bail bondsman) and sleeping in their beds when she did it. Their mother smelled the smoke and called the fire department. Most of the house burned. Violet's husband, Louis, had played high school basketball with Sheriff Duffy and was able to sweet-talk him into letting Rosie go.

The Smith family knew we would nail their boys to the cross if given half a chance, so they offered us a deal. They wouldn't cooperate with the police about the arson if we wouldn't press assault charges. I called Carter Sr. in Jackson and he yelled curse words I hadn't even heard before. My husband had been making calls of his own and found out why Earl thought our boys had said something to the revenuers about the Smith family
still—they were known for making the best moonshine in ­McNairy County. Carter and Zeke used to swim in a pond near
their still, and Earl caught sight of them once. Revenuers showed up a week later and destroyed the still, so Earl figured it was our boys that told. When Earl saw Carter without Zeke at the movie, he saw a chance for payback. Mr. Smith said Earl didn't mean to really hurt Carter. Just “rough him up a little.”

Of course we agreed to the deal with the Smiths. I didn't want Rosie anywhere near a jail, juvenile or not. But no one felt like justice was served. Preacher Dawson told me God would reckon with those boys in ways we couldn't imagine, and I said that was fine for the hereafter but I had to live in the here-now.

By November, Carter's memory began to return. He recognized me. His sisters. The first words he spoke were
Where's Zeke?
And this is where I messed up. I know that now. But at the time, I did what I thought was best.

After the attack, I refused to let anyone in the family write to Zeke or call him about it. It would only have taken him away from schoolwork. The thought of my boy studying in some grand library was the only happy thought I had during those hospital days. Carter Sr. wanted to send a telegram, but I said,
No, we'll wait and see.
If Carter's not better by the first of the year, we'll send the telegram.

Ezekiel's stream of letters to his brother went unread and unanswered. I wrote when I could and told of things like the weather and how much we all missed him and how proud we were of him. It was too expensive for Zeke to call us on the phone back then, even though Cousin Georgia wouldn't have minded, so it had been pretty easy to stop the word from spreading.

When Carter asked for his brother, I reminded him
Ezekiel was in Virginia.

“Get him,” Carter said. He talked funny, garbled, like his mouth was full of rocks.

If my son had asked me to get him Bob Pettit from
the St. Louis Hawks, his favorite basketball player, I would
have. If he had asked me to get him the moon, I would have called NASA and done my best. But I would not give him Ezekiel. His brother was where he needed to be. If he came home now, he might never return to school.

The only other thing Carter kept mumbling about
sounded something like
Where's my yo-yo?
When I mentioned this to Rosie, she closed her eyes for a second before telling me one last detail of that afternoon at the theater. Every Saturday and Sunday matinee show, Bob Dunlap held an audience contest during intermission—silly games like how fast can you drink a Coke or sing a famous song backward. That Saturday it had been the yo-yo contest. Carter loved yo-yos, so Rosie urged him to go up on the stage. He beat out everybody else by keeping the yo-yo going the longest and won a brand-new glittery red Fli-Back wooden. Rosie figured it must have gotten knocked out of his pocket during the attack, so I called up Bob Dunlap and asked him about getting Carter another one.
Sure thing, Mrs. Cooper,
he said. I gave it to Carter the very next day, assuring him that it was, in fact, the exact same one he had won.

As Christmastime grew closer and Carter continued to get better, however slowly, the hospital began pestering me to take him home. The circumstances of Carter's injuries led the staff to be kind to us in the beginning, to give us the benefit of the doubt about our ability to pay for the room, the medicines, the tests. The third week of December, the doctor took me aside. Bone skinny with a tendency to stutter when he had difficult news to deliver, Dr. Sidwell spoke in a tone meant to ease my mind.

“Institutionalize him, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “Or care for him the rest of his life. Th-these are your choices. We've done all-all we can for him here.”

“I'll discuss it with my husband.”

“Soon, Mrs. Cooper.”

As I watched him walk down the hallway, I reached inside my purse for a cigarette, my hand groping among the lipstick I hadn't used in months and the scraps of paper with notes I'd scribbled.
Call Charlotte to pick up Rosie. Remind Violet to get mail. Tell Carter stories from when he was little. So he'll remember.
My hand found the pack. Empty.

I went home that night. Got dinner ready for poor Rosie, who had barely seen me or her daddy since the beating. It was the first time I had cooked. The sizzle of the corn bread batter as it hit the hot skillet made me happy. This meant the bread would have the crispy bottom and soft top Rosie liked. She sat at the kitchen table working on algebra homework.

“You're going to like this, baby girl.”

She smiled without looking up from the math problems. Carter Sr.'s truck wheezed to a stop in the driveway.

“Daddy's home.”

“You go on and finish your homework in the living
room, okay? Your father and I need to talk.”

Rosie stared right back at me with the look she'd been giving me since she was two, the look that said,
I'll be damned if I'll do anything you tell me.

“Just go. Please.”

“Fine,” she said, picking the paper and books up from the table. “Go ahead and fight. It was better when you stayed at the hospital.”

If she'd been closer, I'd have slapped her. But Rosie was smart. She was already halfway to the living room and out of reach. The sound of Carter's heavy footsteps came up the back stairs. I busied myself at the stove, pushing hamburger around in another pan. I could hear him taking off his work boots, one, then the other, dropping into the dirt with a solid weight. The slap of the screen door shutting made me jump.

My husband filled the doorway. The smell of the cold outside air clung to him. He was not a tall man. I could wear one-inch heels but no higher during the forty-two years of our marriage. His shoulders and arms were the biggest thing about him, built up from years of welding together pieces of pipe. There was a space within those arms where I felt safe and treasured. He came up behind me and rested his hands on my hips.

“Nice to see you cooking, Lillian.” He kissed the back of my neck, letting his mouth trail down inside my blouse.

I kept stirring the hamburger, steeling myself against the kisses, focusing instead on the faint smell of sweat on him.

“Where are the girls?” he asked.

The question came as his hands reached the roundness of my bottom. He kneaded the flesh gently.

“Daisy's over at Charlotte's helping with the kids.” My mind skittered toward the bedroom, and I tried to put space between our bodies.

“Rosie's in the living room, Carter.”

He mumbled something into my neck, his teeth nib
bling at my skin.

“The living room,” I said again, louder.

“Nothing wrong with a man loving his wife, Lillian.”

There had been nothing of man and wife between us since Carter went into the hospital. Rosie walked in.

“Hey, Daddy.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Finished my homework. I'm going to Aunt Charlotte's for dinner.”

She spoke this to her father, not me, knowing that I would object.

Carter's hand squeezed my waist. “Sounds fine.”

I shook my head. “I made your favorite meal, Rosie. You'll stay.”

My husband whispered, “Don't,” into my ear. He peered over my shoulder into the pan. “Looks great. I'll eat Rosie's, too.”

My daughter knew the battle was won and she left. When the front door shut, announcing that we were alone, Carter walked over and turned the lock. He came back to the kitchen and put the latch on the back door.

“Never mind about dinner,” he said, pulling me to him. “We'll eat later.”

I let him lead me into the living room, wanting to
feel close to my husband again. To forget the weight of the
hospital and what was to come.

We left a trail of clothes behind us. My blouse. His shirt. My bra. His belt. In the living room, Carter took the wedding-ring quilt draped over the couch and laid it out on the floor. We kissed standing up. On and on we kissed, the silence of our never silent house wrapping around us. His hands found my breasts and we lowered ourselves to the floor. The old fabric of the quilt was soft and smooth against my back. Carter slipped into me quickly and easily. We moved together and let ourselves cry out. Loud. Without fear of a teenager stumbling upon us.

The chill of evening dropped down on us. Carter pulled
another quilt from the couch on top of us. We lay there, arms entangled around each other, for a long time. Not talking. I wanted to stay like that for another hour. Another day. Forever.

I broke the silence first. “We need to talk about Carter.” On our backs, we faced the ceiling. I didn't turn to look at my husband, just kept talking.

“The hospital's done all it can for him. They want us to take him home or put him in the state institution.”

He went still beside me. I could feel his rib cage push against my own as he took a breath.

“We'll bring him home, then, Lillian Grace.”

The use of my first and middle names meant he would not argue the subject. It was the response I had expected. It was the answer I wanted to give. But couldn't.

“Who's going to take care of him? You're gone most of the time, Carter. I've taken care of that child and four others for the past twenty years. We don't know what's going to happen to our son. He could get worse.”

“He could get better.”

I got up and found my blouse, stood with my back to him, buttoning it.

“You're his mother, for God's sake.” He came up behind me, put his hands roughly on my shoulders to turn me around.
“You'd rather see our boy in a crazy hospital. Are you sure
about that, Lillian?”

Of course I wasn't. But all I had been thinking about on the drive home from the hospital was how tired I was. How
Ezekiel was gone. How Carter would never get better than
he was. All I could see were days stretching ahead of me that looked the same—get up, cook breakfast for Carter, help him bathe, help him put on clothes, do housework, keep him out of trouble, fix lunch, take him shopping, where everyone would stare at him, fix dinner, get him ready for bed. On and on until my hair turned gray and so did my son's.

“I can't.”

The words came out so quiet I didn't know if Carter
Sr. heard me. He placed a finger beneath my chin and tilted it upward, the wetness on my face visible. In our years of marriage, I had never said those words to him. Not when he left for a whole year to look for work, leaving me with the kids and ten dollars. Not when his mother took sick and I invited her into our home and turned the dining room into a sick room, caring for her until the day she died. I had done what needed to be done for our family. And more.