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Show Go Love/118 word, the hard k ratcheting the roof of her mouth. I'm home. Dead in the middle of Willy Ray, my own house with my own name on the mailbox A United We Stand sign shines beside the plywood ramp where black skid marks prove Mama's driven her little power wheel chair out to the mailbox. Footprints scuff the tread marks. The box was knocked down once for one whole year-me off in Utah. On a summer trip, I watched Mama drive her wheel chair out, pick the box up off the ground, then drop it again when the mail was retrieved. The mail woman did the same Harvell, my own name on the box. Dora came outside and applauded when I cemented in a new post "Can I see Mama's doggie?" Renee says, "Yea, sweetie. If he's home " "You ready, Joey?" Trace takes my hand. Off to the driveway's left, ruts from Jimmy's gold Grand Prix. I say, "Yea," and we make the walk. United We Stand, the yard sign says. Cool air seeps through the frame, and on this leak I taste what's happened; the scent of terror and chlorine and flesh and blood misted over with Mama's own flowery room freshener named Autumn Wood or Symphonic Bouquet, Potpourri aux Springtime-Eternally Yours. Behind us, Willy Ray Street has two ends, east and west-the entirety of the place once an orchard so remnant fruit trees gnarl every yard. Miss Caroline Tippet's pear limbs are strung with King snakes-gleaming six-footers-to bring rain or impotence to some cheating man, whatever the old witch wants on any given day. Over there sits Mr. and Mrs. Penny Way Goffs mn down shed, where the touched son-about my age and stuck for all time as a fourth grader with an affection for cottontail rabbits-has built chicken wire cages. When Mama was off in Jamaica with |