There were seven men in the beginning. John H. Smith, Samuel A. Johnson, his brother Ned, the Burming twins, Al and Jim, old Dr. Schoating, and me. Then, after Ned lost his leg, both he and his brother quit the organization and took to farming onions in North Dakota or some godforsaken place. Then we were five. Five became four, after Al married creamy-skinned Jennifer Green, who always smelled of wild lavender and wore homemade dresses so totally unflattering to her figure that, when she birthed little Ben, 8 months after the wedding, no one in town had even known she was pregnant.

Four was a good number, though. We felt strong as four. Confident. Powerful.
It wasn’t until Doc. Schoating decided to call it quits, last December, that we started to worry.

“Boys,” he announced, in his gravelly voice, “I’m out.”
That’s how he said it, too, just like that. I’m out. No explanation of his actions. No apologies. Just a simple, I’m out. And then he was out. And we were three.

We kept the name, though, obviously: The Seven Saints.

Oooh, kind of makes you shudder. The Seven Saints. Al came up with the name. He was always good for that kind thing; he had a real artistic flair. If he hadn’t gotten married and thrown his life away on mortgages and raising children and becoming a responsible member of society, he could have really made something of himself.
Oh well, what can you do? He left us dim older brother. That’s worth something, isn’t it?

And the name, of course. You can’t forget the name.

So he we are, John, Jim, and me: The Seven Saints.

Ok, so the “seven” part is clear, you say, patting yourself on the back, grinning with every one of your smug little teeth. There used to be seven men. That’s easy enough. But your smile falters. “What about ‘saints,’?” you ask. You still haven’t said anything about what makes you saints.

And now I smile. And I motion for you to sit down. And I look at your chubby little legs. I fear that they may not be able to support you throughout the duration of my story, and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. No, I certainly wouldn’t want that.

I pull out a dictionary:

saint (sānt) noun
1. A person officially recognized, especially by canonization, as being entitled to public veneration and capable of interceding for people on earth.
2. A person who has died and gone to heaven.

January 19, 19___, was a Wednesday. It was Sunny. Ask Jim, he’ll tell you. He remembers.

When he was 10 years old, he was hit in the head with a baseball. It damaged his brain. It took away the piece that allowed him to read emotions. He is no more moved by watching his own mother crying than he would be watching a baseball game. Tears mean nothing to him. Neither does laughter. Or anger. He can no longer understand people, you know?

But he’s good with dates. And the weather. He can remember the day of the week and the weather for every date since his accident. Every single rainy Monday, cloudy Friday and sunny Sunday. Every single one. He’s always right, too. We’ve tested him. Wouldn’t you?