Of course Franklin blamed it all on Anne. Saying that what had kept me here in “Klan country” was not my high-minded clerical desire to keep God’s will and shepherd his flock among the tobacco patches and hogpens, but one high-minded, high-yalla, rich, militant-talking Northern girl with sweet poontang, who had descended from her mighty chariot and declared for herself the South, the big bad, bloody South, to be her mission field, and had sweet-talked, brainwashed, and pussy-whipped me into believing that this was my place as well, down in the trenches preaching the Gospel while she handed out sandwiches, bandages, and ammunition, convincing me—in Franklin’s characteristically salty words—that some Goddamned thing could actually be done.

There are times I think that Franklin might not be far off the mark.

At Anne’s funeral Franklin attempted to apologize, not verbally, but the way brothers do. He never pretended to like Anne. She knew it and didn’t have to pretend that it didn’t bother her. In fact I believe it was only the circumstances that made them adversaries, for they went about it with a certain relish, as if it were a game and they merely playing roles: the harsh, direct older brother looking out for what he sees as his weak younger brother’s better interests; and the equally direct, strong, and gritty sister-in-law who is firm in her convictions, and will be all politic and smiling with her brother-in-law but will brook no interference in her marriage. At times I thought they would have made a spectacular couple with the energy they had . . . maybe even better than Anne and me. But he made it clear after the funeral what he was thinking: Now that she has left you here, there is nothing holding you back. Now you can leave.

More and more I wonder if he was right and if my “mission” is just fear on my part. Anne had true courage. She left a comfortable life in upstate New York, family and friends, for the hot backwoods of the Southeast, to make sure that pregnant mothers with umpteen children, living in trailers with no running water, had milk and heat in the winter, and to make sure that men and women stooped with age had enough food and a way to the doctor, and even a doctor to go to.

Anne was not a romantic; I am.

So was Horace. But he had something more, that damned curiosity . . . with a capital C.

I keep dreaming about him, about that morning. Keep thinking there was something I could have done. Said. If not that morning then before, long before . . . but that’s just me being a romantic.