his path. Andre snaps back off balance, watches his bag sail away.
“Sir, I know I’m young,” Brendan says. “You should know I have a master’s in econometrics.”
“No one’s questioning your academic qualifications.”
“I’ve also been through the firm’s twelve-week analytic training.”
“I’m sure you’re qualified, Brendan.”
“You seem a little upset.”
“I’m not.”
“You sure?” Brendan studies his face. “’Cause you look pissed.”
The girl with the tricorn hat circles yet again, zooming, and Andre wants to smack her. Or, at least, smack her parents. He clears his throat, hoping to catch their eye, but both mother and father are too busy reading their phones. He’s ready to approach, to say, Damn it, control your brat, when Brendan tugs his sleeve. As the girl makes yet another pass, Brendan inches his foot forward, just enough for the girl to take a tumble, crashing hard against the black-and-white tiles, her tricorn hat thrown through the air and landing yards away. The girl rises quickly, shamefaced and near tears, eyes shifting from Brendan to Andre and back to Brendan.
“Brendan, did you tell me your last name?”
The kid says, “Fitzpatrick.”
“And Mrs. Fitzpatrick is—”
“My nana.”
Chapter Two
Comfortable in his passenger seat, Andre counts another cross. The past mile, he’s spotted six, not including those that grace bumper stickers, cemeteries, or billboards predicting the apocalypse. He could’ve counted any roadside attraction—election signs, dead deer, strips of tread torn from tires—but instead, for reasons he can’t articulate, his mind has settled on the cross.
Their Jeep hits a stretch of broken pavement, and for the first time, Andre wonders exactly to where he’s been exiled. The past hour, since leaving the airport, he’s passed through miles of old-growth forest, deep into tall pine trees broken by an occasional lonesome town. He knows little about South Carolina, and what he thinks he knows, he dislikes. He associates this state with slavery and segregation, with Sumter and secession, with firebombed churches and bus boycotts and the bodies of dead black babies. Fifty, sixty years ago, this very road must have terrified blacks traveling at night. A siren in the rearview mirror would portend a gruesome death. For all he knows, it still could.
Andre’s not the least bit comforted by assurances that the South has changed. The New South, he’s been told, appreciates diversity. The New South elects black activists to Congress and sends the children of Indian immigrants to governors’ mansions. The New South, they say, has achieved Dr. King’s dream. And yet, as white teenagers in a faded pickup whiz past, horn honking, music blaring, Confederate flag cloaking the rear window, Andre suspects that the New South looks an awful lot like the Old.
“You think the same person puts up all these crosses?” Brendan says. “Some guy who heard the voice of God and now drives around the state in his pickup with a bunch of two-by-fours. You know, like the guy who planted all those apple trees, you know, what’s-his-face? Johnny Appleseed? You think Johnny Appleseed was real? You think that was his real name?”
“Brendan, do you say everything that pops into your head?”
“I’m Irish. Chattiness is part of our charm.”
Andre likes his new assistant, really he does, though, yes, the kid talks too much. The past hour, the kid’s shared his whole life story. Graduated high school at sixteen. Earned his bachelor’s three years later. He spent last year studying in Dublin on a Fulbright, an experience that inspired the kid, who’s now twenty-two, to reclaim his Irish roots. The boy wonder started doctoral studies last fall, applied mathematics, but something interrupted those studies, compelled the kid to assume a voluntary one-year leave of absence. The kid gets sheepish talking about his leave, acts like an ex-con trying not to share the details of his crime. Andre doubts the obvious: cheating. Kid’s far too bright, too straitlaced for that. Maybe the kid mouthed off to the wrong professor; perhaps he seduced the department chair’s wife.
Brendan reaches behind his seat, retrieves a monogrammed cigarette case. The silver case, once opened, is empty except for a few flakes of tobacco. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”
“I don’t.” Andre discreetly sniffs the air, detects a hint of smoke. “Listen, I don’t care if you smoke, but I’m guessing the rental agreement forbids smoking inside the Jeep. Companies take that shit seriously.”
The two cruise across the next few miles in silence, the faint stench of smoke, now found, impossible to ignore.
* * *
The Carthage TravelMart, bright beneath stadium lights, is an island of roadside