Page 50 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“What’s your source?” Ken demanded.
“Mysource?” Keith laughed. “How ’bout my own eyes?”
“Sweetheart, your dad and I watch the news every night. And you would not believe some of the things they’re doing. Voting for dead relatives. Taking names off of tombstones. They have to cheat in order to keep the pedophiles in office.”
“Wait—what pedophiles?” Keith asked. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
Ken’s face went as red as a candy apple. “Boy, are you calling your mother crazy?”
“No!” Keith insisted. “But—”
“I did not raise you to talk back!” Ken bellowed.
In the seconds that followed, Keith let the silence stretch out. Then he nodded. “You’re right. Good night, folks. I got an early day tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”
Ken kept an eye on his son’s door. When it closed, he reached for the book that Keith had left behind on the couch. He flipped through the pages and stopped at a random passage.
The Lost Cause is a movement that gained traction in the late nineteenth century that attempted to recast the Confederacy as something predicated on family, honor and heritage rather than what it was, a traitorous effort to extend and expand the bondage of Black people.
“I knew it!” he whispered. Then he passed the open book to his wife. “This is some of that CRT stuff. Our boy’s been brainwashed.”
Ken leaned over his wife’s shoulder as she traced another selection from the book. “This can’t be true, can it?” she asked.
“It’s mind poison,” Ken said. “We are not sending our child back to that school.”
“I’m not a child.”
Keith was there, holding out his hand.
Ken reluctantly handed the book over. “We’ll be talking about this in the morning.”
“We’re having an intervention!” Kari announced.
“Y’all can have whatever you want,” Keith said. “I sure as hell won’t be here.”
Keith got down on his knees by the side of the bed and prayed for his mom and dad. Back when he was younger and his parents were busy with things like Little League and PTA meetings, life had been different. With the television off, all they’d had to guide them was common sense and good hearts. No one told them to be scared, so they weren’t. No one told them who their enemies were, so they didn’t have any. No one warned them to avoid dangerous books, so they read whatever called out to them—mostlyJohn Grisham. And maybe he was wrong—maybe he’d just been a little kid—but everything had seemed perfectly fine. Keith prayed they could return tothosedays.
And when he finished, he lay down on his bed, opened the book he’d brought home, and started to read.
Chapter 21
Outlaw
Dr. Chokshi was not looking forward to the next patient. The man was sitting in the reception area between Logan Walsh and Sheriff Bradley, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. He’d need stitches, which meant they’d soon be spending some quality time together. When he’d moved to Troy eighteen months earlier, the doctor had never anticipated he’d find himself treating an injured international movie star.
The doctor added that to the long list of things he’d experienced in Georgia that he’d never expected. He’d been shocked by just how different a homegrown peach could taste. Delighted by the old lady who paid him in produce and insisted on making him his first tomato and mayonnaise sandwich. After that, he’d eaten one every day and mourned for weeks when tomato season came to an end. He’d been touched by how thoughtful people could be, inviting him to their homes, churches, and cookouts—and introducing him to their local cuisine, one remarkable dish at a time. Brunswick stew—always with peas—hoecakes, succotash, and an astounding amount of fried chicken.
Then there had been the less pleasant bombshells. Like being called a terrorist in the Walmart parking lot by the douchebag motherfucker sitting to the right of Mitch Sweeney.
Dr. Chokshi waited until his previous patient was out the door. Then he stepped into the reception area.
“Mr. Walsh, you have no business here. Please wait outside until I’ve finished.”
“Why?” Walsh shot back.
“I’m not stitching anyone up till he’s gone,” Dr. Chokshi told the sheriff. “You want to sit here all night?”
“Son, just do it,” the sheriff told Walsh. He’d clearly had enough.
