I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not.

Dear Dad,

Mom officially lifted my grounding today. I asked her to put it back.

At work, she’d finally gotten over her embarrassment of me and told her co-worker Don Padgett about the cookie contest. She said Don laughed for 10 minutes straight. “Maybe it’s funnier than I first thought,” said Mom. Then she told me, “And I just can’t keep you grounded, Trev. So we’ll call it done today.”

I got really mad at Mom, which surprised both of us. I yelled, “I should be grounded! You shouldn’t lift it! Why can’t you stick with anything?” Her eyes got really wide and she stuttered out a few animal sounds.

“If you want, you can stay grounded, I suppose. But you don’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“You’re giving in too easy,” I muttered.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m saying you’re not grounded anymore.”

“I know that’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying that’s dumb. I should be grounded. You should stick to it.” I stomped into my room and slammed the door so hard I knocked a dumb old trophy off a shelf.

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not. I guess the decision is up to me, which is pretty stupid.

Anyway, the whole conversation put me in a really pissy mood. But I’ll still take your burden from you, Dad. My offer still stands.

Your son,

Trevor

I kind of longed for her to scream at me.

Dear Trevor,

 Don’t get into trouble for me. Especially for this. I don’t want any more shame piled on.

 Thanks for telling about your mom missing me. I’m not sure if it helps.

 A few months ago, when your trouble with Mudgett was making you vomit, you told me how your mom would make you feel worse when she’d baby you and call you her “poor dear.” That’s what Ev’s quick forgiveness felt like to me. It made the shame that much harder to bear.

 I kind of longed for her to scream at me. To hit me. To scratch my face and leave a horrible scar that I’d have to bear. Take a baby’s weight of flesh out of my backside. But Ev has never worked that way. She’ll take the sins of the world on herself to avoid causing anyone pain.

 Trevor, tread carefully around the cookie business. Cookies can be dangerous. Get a teacher sick and you could torch your school career. A vengeful teacher can make a kid pretty miserable.

 Dad

Do something irresponsible to slap me out of this hangover.

Dear Trevor,

 If I were to talk about this to your mother, what would I say? She knows what happened. She knows I was there, in charge, when the future of our baby girl was eliminated, when your mother’s own joy stopped breathing.

 It’s strange how quiet tragedy can happen in real life.

 If I could have fought and lost, it would be so much easier to bear. If I’d been bloody and battered, laying half dead next to the all dead baby body, it would have been easy for Ev to forgive me.

 I’m wallowing. I know it.

 I thought this purgatory—if that’s what you call this place—would slowly scrape this burden off of me. But I took it with me into the woods and packed the whole thing back out again. Now I sit with it on my front porch. Maybe it’s like my hunch. Is that what you call it? My lump? I mean, if I were a hunchback, my deformity would be this lump of shame. I’ll take it with me everywhere. It will burn along with the rest of my bones in hell. Maybe it will make heaven a bitter place for me forever.

 I can’t imagine going to heaven, being surrounded by perfect people, and still walking around, hunched over with this crap on my back.

 Enough.

 Trevor, distract me. Tell me about the cookie contest. Shock me. Do something irresponsible to slap me out of this hangover.

 I remember when Keith was little and he’d bang his head on the kitchen counter. He’d whimper about his injury. Steffan would walk up to Keith and gleefully stomp on his foot. Keith would howl with pain and grab his smashed toes. Between sobs, he’d say, “Whadja do that for?”

 “You should thank me,” Steffan would say. “Now your head doesn’t hurt.”

 That’s what I need, Trevor. I need a pain so great that it will make my head stop hurting.

 Dad

Most things are somebody’s fault.

Dear Dad,

I know I asked you to tell me all this stuff, but it’s a lot to handle. I feel like you should be telling this to Mom, not to me.

I guess I knew most of it—the basics at least—but I never really felt it before, you know? And it’s weird to think about Meredith like she was a real baby. Before your letters, she was a name out of an old story. And she was a tombstone. Or a name on a tombstone. That flowery little stone in the children’s section at Washington Memorial that we visit with Mom once a year. Mom still puts baby flowers on the grave. Baby’s breath, I think it’s called. I never thought about how weird that was until I wrote those words just now. Baby’s breath.

Maybe it’s too early to ask, but I’m wondering if you feel any better. I had this screwy idea that if you talked about what happened, you’d have some sort of weight lifted off your shoulders. Anything?

In movies about stuff like this, people always say things like, “It’s not your fault!” Then they shake the person by the shoulders and everyone cries, then look out at a sunset or stare out a rainy window or some moody crap like that.

But I think maybe it was your fault. Most things are somebody’s fault. We try hard to work things out so no one has to take the blame, but maybe on this one you do need to take the blame. I mean, you screwed up.

So now what?

Your son,

Trevor

Death got covered in equipment.

Dear Trevor,

Sorry it’s taken me a few days to respond to you. No excuses worth noting here other than it’s taken me that long to find the gumption to finish this story.

Back on that day, the next fifteen minutes were the most mind-bending of my life. Ev walked upstairs, still angry with me. I could hear what sounded like your mother crying in the distance and I thought, “What could she possibly be crying about now? All I did was watch a football game.” Then I heard her voice, still soft from upstairs, but broken with sobs, telling me to call 911.

I knew right then. At least that’s where my imagination went. I imagined the worst–that our little Meredith had stopped breathing. I picked up a cordless phone and dialed. The operator came on and asked my emergency and I told her just that–that our baby had stopped breathing. She calmly said an ambulance was on the way and asked me to describe what had happened. I said I didn’t know. Then I ran upstairs.

Ev was trying to breathe life back into that tiny baby. The baby wouldn’t have it.

I was glad for the operator on the phone. I needed someone to talk to other than Ev. I laid out the scene for her until the paramedics took over our house. From that point on, things got really technical. Death got covered in equipment. Bulbs and tubes and monitors. It seemed more official that way.

Your mom cried for days. Weeks. I don’t know if I ever did.

We had a funeral. The saddest of sad days.

We went on to fill our house with four more kids. You included. That stopped the crying pretty well. Nothing takes your mind off a dead child like a house full of chaotic joy.

Then I died. And here I am. It all makes a kind of sense. I fixed the problem by replacing Meredith four times over. I paid my debt in a sense. Now I’m serving my time. Least that’s how I see it.

If your mom had asked to have 10 more kids, I would have said yes. I would have said yes to almost anything.

Dad

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

Dear Dad,

We need to talk.

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

We put the canoe and the rest of our gear into the back of Donnie’s truck and headed up to the park. We unloaded by 10 and figured we be to the pick-up spot by about 3. Donnie’s mom made sure we had Donnie’s cell phone in a Ziploc bag. Donnie even opened the bag to make sure it was charged and on. Last but not least, she made us promise to keep our lifejackets on.

We got into the water and started floating down the river. It was awesome. Even at 10 it was already pretty warm. I took my life jacket off and sat on it. I was just wearing sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

The river was high, but most of the time it was pretty mellow. We planned on taking it easy, anyway. We talked with Donnie’s dad the night before and promised that if we came to anything too rough, we’d carry the canoe around it. Donnie’s dad called this a “portage,” which sounded cool in a Lewis-and-Clark sort of way.

So that’s how it went for a long time. We shot a few small rapids and portaged a few big ones. After a couple hours, we stopped at a sandbar and ate lunch—sandwiches, water, brownies and Fritos. No Bugles. Then we skipped rocks for a while, until Donnie said we should get going, because he knew that if we were very late his mom would freak.

It was really warm by then, until the river went into this kind of canyon where the sun couldn’t get. The canyon kept getting narrower. Cliff walls went about 30 feet up on both sides. Lots of shadows. No banks.

Up ahead, I could hear rapids, but I couldn’t tell how big they were or how far away. We paddled stupidly toward them.

We came around a bend and the rapids sucked us right in. They weren’t too bad at first, but we could see curling whitewater ahead. Donnie let a few curse words fly and we both started paddling for the smoothest section of water. Then the river grabbed us and started slamming us around. Right in front of us, a huge boulder seemed to pop out of nowhere. The river spun us sideways right toward it. We slammed into the boulder so hard that Donnie and I instantly flipped out of the boat. The river sucked Donnie downstream. I grabbed the bottom of the upside down canoe and held on through the rapids, banging my shins on rocks as I went.

I caught up to Donnie a few minutes later. We dogpaddled the canoe over to the bank and lied on the muddy shore, catching our breath. After a few minutes we turned the canoe over and saw the hole in the side. It was about as big as a softball and below the waterline.

We’d lost most of our stuff, including Donnie’s cell phone and cooler, my life jacket and both paddles. We were soaked and cold and about ten miles from our pick-up point at the Highway 18 Bridge.

We tried stuffing a wadded-up t-shirt into the hole in the canoe, but the water still pored through. We ended up stashing the canoe in some bushes on the river’s edge, then started walking. Most of the way, it wasn’t too bad, because there were train tracks that followed the river. But it felt like it took forever.

When we reached the pick-up spot no one was there. There was no place to call and we had no phone, so we started walking toward Donnie’s house, another couple miles away. We finally got there about dark—eight o’clock—and there were a bunch of cop cars out front. Mom’s car was there, too.

I guess they all thought we were dead. At six, Donnie’s mom called the cops and the cops sent out Search and Rescue. The Search and Rescue guys found the canoe and my life jacket and were scouring the bank for our bodies.

The police lectured us, lectured Mom and Donnie’s parents, then left. Then me and Mom left and she started lecturing me. She was really upset. She started crying while she was driving. I asked her why, since I was OK. She said she thought she’d lost another of her children.

I knew what she was talking about. Meredith. The sister I never met who died as a baby. Mom

Dad, does this have something to do with your shame?

Your son,

Trevor

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dear Trevor,

Have fun at the water park..

I’m back to my old routine for now, except that Carl is no longer part of it. Martin is gone. Julia was only here for a short time, but I miss her, too.

It’s down to Gordon, Sung-Hee, me, and a few newcomers I don’t have the energy to get to know. I see them wandering between the cabins or loitering at The Laughing Gull. One—a youngish black man with the nicest suit I’ve seen up here—came to ask me about The Woods. Sung-Hee had told him I’d been there.

“It’s nothing,” was my reply to his questions.

“But can’t you tell me about it?”

“I just did.”

Gordon has become my most common companion. I’m grateful for him. When I told him about Carl, he listened silently. When I stopped talking, he was quiet for a long time. We both were. He finally whispered, “pulvis et umbra sumus.” I didn’t ask him what it meant. I think I know.

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dad

Mom says hi.

Dear Dad,

Mom says hi. She says not to worry so much about how she feels. She says you were always a world-class worrier. She doesn’t think of you as some kind of stalker. I think mostly she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is here. What God would want her to do. I think she’s afraid we’re kind of meddling in dangerous spiritual stuff and she’s not sure that’s OK.

She says she’s thinking about it and praying about it. She also says to tell you not to freak out when you don’t hear from me for the rest of the week, because we’re going to some water park for spring break. I’m out of school until next week. Mom, Rhett, Rhonda and me are going. I love not going to school. I also kind of like a break from my friends. So I’ll write you on Monday, assuming Mom lets me. Until then, be good and don’t do anything crazy.

Your son,

Tom

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev.

Dear Trevor,
 
I was kind of hoping Evelyn would say hello. But I understand I’m in no position to ask for anything. I’ve invaded her home without her permission. I’ve taken advantage of her hospitality.
 
It probably seems pretty bizarre, too. In her position, I would likely assume the letters were all fake. All the work of some sort of sick predator or some other weird thing. It would be hard work making me believe that they could actually be coming from beyond the grave. I’ve never been very good at believing. The funny thing is that I’m still not. I mean, I’m here. I’m in it. I am officially supernatural now and I still doubt.
 
Your mom, on the other hand, has always actively looked for the miraculous. Evelyn, you’ve always seen every green light or tax rebate as the active hand of God. When Rhonda had so many heart problems as a baby, I saw them as a curse. You saw each day she didn’t die as a miracle.
 
No wonder I miss you so.

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev. This is a shot for me, you know, to do something for this kid of mine. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s a shot for him to do something for me. I don’t really know. I certainly don’t pretend to have any deep words of wisdom. I’m just trying to figure out my thing and he’s trying to do the same. But, you know, if a brother stumbles and all that.

Your call, though.

Dad (Hugh)

I had this talk with Mom.

Dear Dad,

 Mom showed me the letter you wrote to her. That one freaked her out as much as opening your first letter did. It kind of freaked me out, too, because I kind of get it now that Mom is a real person. I mean, she is a person who you miss when you’re not around her. You do, I mean.

 Mom also said I could write you back. And she said she wouldn’t read what I wrote. So here goes:

 A week and a half ago, I had this talk with Mom. The two of us went to Round Table Pizza, which is kind of our place. It’s weird to have a place you go with your mom, but I do. We ordered—plain cheese for me, salad bar for her, but I know she’ll eat some of my pizza. Then she got right down to it.

 “Trevor,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about, well, about me, I suppose. About my life.”

 I think I probably looked surprised, because the skin on my face felt stretched tight.

 Mom continued, as she polished a little grime off her fork. “I’ve been seeing someone, you know. John. The cabinetmaker, as Rhonda calls him.” I nodded. Mom said, “I like him. He’s nice to me. He lives just up the hill, kind of by Woodmont Elementary. He’s kind of dashing, in a cabinetmaker sort of way. I can imagine being his—being his girl or whatever.”

 “He have any kids?”

 “Three, but all grown and mostly out of the house. His youngest is the same age as Keith. I’ve met them. He told me they like me.” She kind of blushed. “His daughter thinks he should ask me to—but none of that really matters, Trev. Because I’m—I’m not going to see him anymore.”

“Why?”

 “Oh.” Mom put the fork down and started polishing the knife. “I told him earlier today over the phone. I hope it wasn’t rude to do it over the phone.” She didn’t say anything for a bit, then said, “I already have a man in my life. Men, I mean. You and Rhett. And Rhonda, too. You’re all still so much in my life. In our home.”

 “Yeah, but, if you want to—“

 “No, it’s just too complicated, Trevor. Too soon. Honestly, I never planned on seeing anyone. Then Keith and Steffan moved out and I could feel—I could feel what it might be like when you all left. It scared me. I like a loud house. I like someone to play rummy with. Someone to cook for. But it’s too early, Trevor. So I’m going to wait a few more years. I’m warning you now, though. It’s coming. And you’re the youngest. My baby. So you’ll have to put up with more of it than the others. You’ll probably be around to see it. My dating years.”

 I told her if she waited, the cabinetmaker would probably go find someone else. She didn’t say anything. She stood up and walked to the salad bar and took a long time choosing her dressing. When she came back, we talked some more. She asked me if I was interested in any girls. I said no. I said I tried that earlier in the year and it was pretty dumb. I said I guessed I was going to wait a few more years, too.

 “And I’ll be around to see it,” she said. Mom does this sort of wink thing when she thinks she’s made a joke, except instead of winking, she opens her eyes even farther and kind of nods at you.

 I asked her if she ever thought of you, of how you might feel if she dated. She said she thought about you all the time, especially when she thought about other men, which makes a weird kind of sense. It worried her, I thought, so I told her not to—worry, I mean. I said I was pretty sure Dad was the kind of guy who would want you to get out and get busy. Woah. That does not sound right. Get busy living, I mean. Yeesh.

 It was a good talk, even though it really wore me out. I felt like how you feel after crying, all kind of wilty. When we came home, we sat and watched a nature show on TV together. Mom loves nature shows. She usually says how amazing every little critter or plant is, but tonight she didn’t say much. Either did I. But it was good to sit there with her, I guess.

 So that’s the talk.

 We’re still working out this letter writing thing. I think she’s still trying to figure it out. So maybe be a bit careful in what you say in the next letter, OK?

 Your son,

 Trevor

Hi. I miss you.

Dear Ev -

Hi. I miss you.

Hugh

I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do.

Dear Dad,

 I’m back to writing to you, at least for now.

 The day before the father/son basketball game, I started feeling kind of sick when I was at school. Queasy sick. I ran out of social studies to the boys’ room, because I thought I was gonna barf. I managed to hold it in, but I skipped basketball practice and went right home with Rhett and Rhonda. I had to run in the house from Rhett’s car and barely made it to the bathroom before I totally blew. It was gross.

 I was really sick all that night. So sick that Mom stayed home from work the next day. I was either barfing or sleeping all day long. It was pretty awful. I fell asleep around 10 a.m. and when I finally woke up, Mom was sitting on the side of my bed, reading one of your letters she’d got out of the mailbox. The first time she’d got to the mail before me since this whole thing started. She kept reading it and then rereading it. She kept sticking it in the envelope and then taking it back out. She mostly looked really confused.

 My head was really fuzzy from being sick and I think I did a crummy job explaining to her what was going on. Mom mostly just sat there staring down at the letter. She said something about talking more later and left. I kind of fell back asleep, but mostly just layed there wondering what Mom must think, wondering if it would mean the end of our letters, wondering how weird it must all look to Mom, me getting letters from her dead husband.

 I asked her if I could write back to you. She said she’d have to think about it.

 I’ve been really sick then. Really. I mean, no faking or anything. I’ve had this fever of about 103 until this morning. I totally missed the father-son game. I haven’t been to school all week. Today is the first day I’ve felt anything even slightly like a human. The whole time, I’ve been having these weird fever-y dreams about you and mom and this guy mom was dating and all the stuff in our letters. Not dreams, really. Just jumbles of images and stuff.

 Mom stayed home with me all the week. I’m not sure if it was to take care of me or just to get the mail. She read the other letters you sent during that time. She let me read them too, but not until today. She hasn’t asked anything about what was in the letters or asked to see any of the other ones you sent. I’ve got a drawer full of them. I suppose I’d show them to her if she asked, but she hasn’t asked yet and I haven’t offered them. She has asked how long this has been going on. When I told her, she kind of sucked in her breath like I hit her in the stomach, but she didn’t say anything. No crying or anything, either.

 I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do, Dad. If she asks me to stop writing to you, I think I’d even do that. See Mom and I had this big talk, right before I got sick. It was kind of a big deal. I still need to tell you about that, if Mom will let me write you again. For now, she said I should write you this letter and tell you not to worry about me. Let you know I was still alive and all that. So that’s what I’m doing now. She’s gonna read this before I send it.

 I’m not sure what happens next.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing himself to me.

Dear Dad,

I told Mom I wasn’t going to play in the father-son basketball game. She frowned at me.

“Why do you want me to play in it?” I said.

“Because,” she said, “A boy needs to have a father figure in his life.”

“And you think—you think if I play in this game—“

“I don’t know, Trevor. I want you to be around some good adult males. They can give you things that I can’t.”

“I don’t even know any of these people. Except Mr. Schick. And he’s a complete—“

“—I think you need to give Mr. Schick a chance.”

“What?!”

“OK, maybe you’ve given him enough chances already. But there are bound to be other fathers there.”

“And? You think I should go up to them in the gym and ask them to take me out for ice cream?”

“Don’t get smart. I just want to make sure you’re getting exposed to male role models.”

All I could think about right then was taking a shower in the men’s locker room at the Y. “Like Mr. Schick? I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing any more of himself to me. Besides, I’ve got you and I’ve got older brothers and I’ve got Dad.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got Dad?”

“I’ve—I mean—he’s.” I took a breath. “I’m OK, Mom. I’m fine. Just don’t make me play in that game.”

She looked at me all heartbroken-like, with her eyes full to the brim and her hands grabbing at her sleeves.

“Let me think about it, OK?”

“OK.” That usually meant she would agree with me. I hope that’s what it meant this time.

I also hope you write me back tomorrow, Dad. I’m getting used to your being gone again. Is this permanent? Are you ever going to write?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom went out on a date last night.

Dear Dad,

Mom went out on a date last night. She told us. Sort of.

After basketball practice, she was making dinner. Hamburgers and french fries, which I like. But she only made enough for Rhonda, Rhett and me. She didn’t eat. She said she was having dinner with a friend.

“Who?” Rhonda asked.

“You don’t know him,” said Mom.

“Him?” Rhonda said. Even Rhett stopped eating at that point and looked up. OK, maybe he didn’t completely stop, but he slowed down.

“It’s no big deal,” Mom said. I think she actually blushed. “It’s just dinner. Just a friendly dinner.”

“Who is this guy?” asked Rhonda.

“His name is John Simon. He builds kitchen cabinets. He’s a friend of–”

“Kitchen cabinets? You’re going out on a date with a guy who builds kitchen cabinets?”

“It’s not a date. It’s just dinner. He’s just a friend.”

“Who we haven’t met.”

“Sounds like a date to me, Mom,” said Rhett.

“Eat your dinner. I have to get ready.”

“You have to get ready!” shouted Rhonda. “If you have to get ready, then it is definitely a date!”

“Eat your dinner!” shouted Mom.

“Do we get to meet him?” I asked.

“NO!”

“Geez, I just asked a question.”

“It’s not a date!”

I’m pretty sure Mom was crying when she stomped out of the room. I’m not sure if I felt sorry for her or not, because it was so weird. Rhonda seemed really pissed about the whole kitchen cabinet thing. Rhett just walked to the front door and left. He didn’t seem mad, though. He just goes out a lot.

Mom left, too, a few minutes later. Rhonda and me stayed home lone and watched TV. I wanted to watch the Olympics, but Rhonda watched some stupid show about college girls decorating their dorm rooms. She was really on edge, so I didn’t try to change the channel. I’m pretty sure she would have punched me if I did.

I went to bed before Mom came home. I didn’t ask her about it in the morning. Should I have?

And are you ever going to write me back?

Your son,

Trevor

When she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise.

Dear Dad,

I’m starting to get nervous that you haven’t come back yet. I thought this trip into the woods would be shorter, since you should kind of know where you’re going this time.

If I don’t have you writing me letters, I’m glad I have this old black dog. She’s not really old, but she’s already gray around her mouth. And she lays her head on her front paws and stares right into my eyes. So when she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise. Or understanding. At least she pays attention. When I talk to her, she hangs on every single word. I know this is mostly her listening for words like “walk” or “snack,” but I still like it. I can talk to her abour Mr. Schick (the fathead), you (the stiff) and whether or not Mom is dating (the mystery).

Mom was right about this dog. Everyone needs a companion. I guess she needs one, too.

I asked Rhett if he thought Mom wanted to date. He kind of blew me off, because he was walking out the door to some mysterious thing. He was eating leftover spaghetti out of a tupperware container as he walked. He said, “Mom? Date?” Then he sucked up more spaghetti as he opened the front door with his hip and walked out. Halfway out the door, he stopped and said, “Huh.”

Boy, it’s great to have such a wise older brother.

Your son,

Trevor

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend.

Dear Dad,

You’re not writing back, so I guess you’re tromping through the woods with Carl. I say “tromping” on purpose, because it sounds less scary. I could say, “I guess you’re wandering lost through the shadowy forest of death,” because that’s how it really looks in my mind.

I’m sticking with “tromping.”

Mom has something to say to us, but she can’t quite get up the nerve to do it. At dinner last night—just Mom, Rhonda and me, because Rhett was out with some buddies—she said, “Rhonda, Trevor?” Rhonda and I stopped shoveling spaghetti into our faces and waited. Mom stared at us for a few seconds and said, “Hurry up and eat your dinner.”

“Hurry for what?” Rhonda said. “We going somewhere?”
“Do we always have to be going somewhere?”
“What?”
“Quit talking and eat your dinner.” Mom scraped her uneaten spaghetti into Blackie’s bowl—Blackie eats all leftovers—and started doing dishes. Mom really clanged those pots around in the sink.

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend and hasn’t told us yet. I think it’s better not to think about it at all.

You son,

Trevor

It makes me wonder if God ever kills people simply as a joke.

Dear Trevor,

Maybe your mom just wants to get you a dog. I’d like you to have a dog. Maybe your mom senses that you are kind of lonely and that a dog would help. Maybe it’s not about her at all.

By the way, Chairman Mao was the leader of Communist China back in the 60s and 70s. You’ve seen pictures of him wearing a little cap with a red star on the front. And no, I never worked for him.

I drew a picture of Julia. She always looks like she is about to realize something, but never quite does. As if she’s thinking, “I just realized—oh wait. No, never mind. I guess I didn’t.”

I think that Julia waited all her years down on earth for her life to get started. And then, just when it did—just when she got married and became part of a family—she died. It makes me wonder if God ever kills people simply as a joke. I don’t think He does, but there does seem to be evidence that He has a dark sense of humor.

Here’s an example: My father died when I was young—just like you, I guess. He immigrated to the States as a young man, because work in the coal mines back at home had dried up. He worked in mines in Montana, but the work was so dangerous he wanted to stop before it killed him. So he moved to Tacoma and got a job in a gravel quarry, where he was crushed to death in a small landslide. Funny, eh? A real knee slapper.

I had a full life up until I died, but it was only half done. And there were many parts of it that were only half lived. I had a mess of wonderful, noisy children. I loved and was loved by a happy, bossy, beautiful woman. I started a business and had it going in a direction I was beginning to like. And all along this thing was waiting right outside of my peripheral vision. One day, I turned my head a bit to the left and there it was. And six months later, here I was.

I’ve got to get out of here. I need to get on with things again somehow. What should I do, Trevor?

Dad

Mom has not started dating anyone, but I think she’s thinking about it.

Dear Dad,

Who is Chairman Mao? Is that someone you used to work for?

Mom has not started dating anyone, but I think she’s thinking about it. I mean, this is pretty much just theory on my part. And on Rhonda’s. But I think there’s something to it.

Here’s why: We don’t have a dog right now. We had Val when you were alive. Based on all the stories Steffan tells, Val the German shepherd was The World’s Greatest Dog. I’m pretty sure Steffan thinks Val could levitate at will and poop gold. Supposedly, you trained the dog remarkably well and it never did a wrong thing ever.

After you died, we got another German shepherd. I guess they figured the last one was so wonderful, they should stick with the breed. Mom or someone named it Floyd. I hated that dog. Or feared it, I guess is more accurate. Whenever I went outside, it would jump on me, stand on my chest, and bark in my face. I remember being about five years old and trying to run from our house to Barry Barton’s house before Floyd could catch me. I rarely ever made it. Luckily, Floyd ran away. Good riddance.

Then we had Horace, which was an ancient beagle that some crazy lady gave to Rhonda. The crazy lady lived in a beach rental and when she moved, she asked Rhonda if she wanted a dog. Rhonda was eight years old, so of course she said yes. So she came home with this gray-muzzled, half-blind old dog who barked at anything that moved. I guess Mom couldn’t bring herself to take the dog away from Rhonda.

The best story about Horace, which is the same name as Mom’s brother, Uncle Horace, was that one summer, Uncle Horace was coming to visit all the way from Minnesota. Mom warned us kids, “When Uncle Horace is here, don’t call the dog by its name. Uncle Horace would be very offended if he found out that old dog had the same name as him.” On arrival day, we were all steeling ourselves to stay steady, when we saw Uncle Horace’s rental car pull into the driveway. Horace the dog saw it too and started barking like mad. Uncle Horace, who looked about a million years old, stepped out of the car. Mom opened the front door. Horace the dog was barking like mad. Uncle Horace was walking toward the house. Then Mom yelled, as loud as I’ve ever heard her yell anything, “Horace! Shut up! Horace! Shut up!”

Uncle Horace was really confused.

Anyway, Horace the dog died after just a few years and we’ve been dogless ever since. Recently, Mom’s been talking about how we should get another dog. This surprises all of us, as Mom doesn’t exactly love the beasts. But she’s been saying all this stuff about how important it is to have a companion and how bad it is to be lonely and Rhonda says Mom isn’t talking about us. Rhonda is pretty smart about this stuff, or so she tells me. She said, “Just you wait. Mom’s gonna start going out on dates.”

That’s all I know for now.

Your son,

Trevor

Why are you asking what I would think about Mom dating?

Dear Trevor,

Why are you asking what I would think about Mom dating? Remember our agreement to be honest with each other?

First of all, no one dates up here, but that doesn’t mean there’s no pettiness, misery, jealousy, gossip, self-doubt or any of the other benefits of dating. There are only three women regularly in our little town. One is Sung-Hee, who is hard to recognize as a woman. She claims she was married and raised children back in your world (she says they all worked for her at her hamburger stand), but she looks more like Chairman Mao than anything resembling a female. As far as I can tell, she has no breasts at all.

On the other hand, Sung-Hee loves juicy gossip. I think she longs for scandal as much as she longs for life itself.

There is also an old woman who lives down at the end of the row of shacks. I’ve never heard anyone call her anything but The Woman At The End. She has white hair down to the middle of her back and wears a dress that looks like it was made of burlap. I’ve never spoken to her. I see her drift in and out of the fog every now and then. She gives me the willies.

Then there’s Julia, who just got here but honestly doesn’t feel all here. Carl says to give her a chance. Maybe she’s still recovering from jet lag, which is what he calls the post-traumatic stress of realizing you’re dead. Martin gloms onto Poor Julia every chance he gets and she seems undecided on whether she likes the attention or not. I’m pretty certain Martin will drop her the next time a group of newcomers arrive.

If I were alone on a desert island with Julia, back on earth, I suppose I would, ehh, do something with her. Date, mate, call it what you will. Here, I just find her another vague annoyance. Like a fly. Not a mosquito trying to suck your blood. Just a fly bouncing its head against the window while you’re trying to get to sleep.

I guess you can count the ship captain as a woman as well, or as a living nightmare. I can’t think about her.

But I do want to know about your mom. Is she seeing someone? Tell me.

Dad

That poor asparagus would be a soggy, flavorless mess.

Dear Trevor,

It’s funny, because you don’t want to go out for dinner with just your mom, while I would cut off my right arm for the chance.

I know what you mean about how restaurant food can’t compare to your mom’s home cooking. She was always an astonishingly good cook, as long as you could keep her away from making casseroles.

When it came to basic food, roast beef, fried chicken, biscuits, apple pie—no one could come close to your mom. A chicken dinner on a Friday night, maybe with baking powder biscuits and a steamed vegetable. I would burn down Sung-Hee’s shack for a meal like that.

I loved to watch your mom cook. She was a master of efficiency, which she probably learned by growing up on the farm. Farm girls have a natural desire to avoid work, because they do so damn much of it.

Here’s how I remember it: First, Evelyn would turn on the oven. It didn’t matter what it was, she cooked every single thing that ever went in that oven at 350 degrees. Then she’d fill a bowl half full of flower, with a good dose of salt and pepper mixed in. She’d take the chicken pieces and douse them in the flour, then she’d lay the white, powdered pieces in a pan, all packed in together like babies in a hospital nursery. That was it. No extra spices. No secret sauces. Just flour, salt, pepper and chicken. She’d slide the pan onto the top shelf in the oven and shut the door.

Then she’d use the leftover flour as the base of her biscuits, so there was no waste. She’d add a little more flour, then pour a little baking powder into the palm of her hand and tip it into the bowl. She’d cut in some butter. Or lard if she had it. Then she’d pour in some milk. No measuring cups. No measuring spoons, other than the cupped palm of her hand.

“How do you know how much to put in?” I’d ask.

“Oh now,” she’d say, as she was kneading the dough onto a breadboard, “you just pour in enough so that it looks right.” She’d have flour on her forehead, looking all farm-girl beautiful without knowing it in the least. She’d cut the biscuits from the rolled-out dough with an upturned water glass and slide the circles onto an ungreased cookie sheet. One that was all black and burnt from so much use. Then she’d sneak the cookie sheet on a rack under the cooking chicken and start washing the vegetable. Let’s say she was making asparagus, since we’re dreaming here. She’d plop the spears in a pot of water and put it on the stove. Then she’d boil every living bit of life out of those spears. The chicken would be both crispy and tender at the same time. The biscuits—flaky and light and dripping in butter and jam. But that poor asparagus would be a soggy, flavorless mess.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

Dad

Basketball is a stupid game. I suck at it.

Dear Dad,

Mom is still harping on me to go out for basketball. I really don’t want to.

In sixth grade, I actually got a basketball hoop and backboard for my birthday. I remember the conversation about it before. “Trevor needs a place to play basketball,” Keith said. By which I’m pretty sure he meant, “If we put up a hoop, I’d have a place to play basketball.” Neither one made much sense to me. Basketball is a stupid game. I suck at it. I don’t really need a reminder of that hanging above the driveway. And Keith doesn’t even live at home anymore. What’s he gonna do? Come home on weekends just to kick my butt in a game of horse?

Anyway, they got me a hoop and a real backboard and Rhett put it up on the garage. Only problem is that our driveway is gravel. So when you try to dribble the ball, it always hits a weird rock and goes shooting off in a random direction. When Rhett notices me playing, he says, “You better not hit my car.” Then, as soon as I start to dribble, boing! The ball hits a rogue piece of gravel and smacks into his passenger door.

“I told you not to hit my car!” Rhett yells.

“Don’t park there if you don’t want me to hit it.”

“Hit it again and I’ll hit you.”

“You’re the one who put the hoop on the garage. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to stop hitting my car.”

I play anyway, mostly by myself when no one is watching. I can’t dribble real good, mostly because of the gravel. And I suck at layups, because I can never remember which foot to go off of. I spend way too much time thinking about it. “I’m making a right handed layup, so does that mean I go off my right foot? No, my left foot.” But by then, I’ve already missed the shot and it doesn’t matter.

If you were here, would you make me go out for basketball?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom thinks TV—except for nature shows—is of the devil.

Dear Dad,

Sorry to hear you’re in such a funk. I guess I was in one, too. I kind of dreaded going back to school, but I think I’m actually happier now.

I’ve always liked going back to school after Christmas, because you get to ask each other what you got and teachers are usually pretty easy on you, it being your first day back and all. That’s what happened today. I had a pretty flawless couple of hours. No one beat me up or anything. I didn’t see David Gilman at all. I also didn’t see Will Mudgett, which made me strangely nervous. I mostly hope nothing happened to him.

Lots of kids got new cell phones for Christmas. I don’t have a cell phone yet. I guess I should feel like I’m missing out on something, but I don’t really. If I had a cell phone, I’m pretty sure people would call me on it. I’m lousy on the telephone. I’d like one for the games, I guess.

In P.E., the evil Mr. Schick came in to tell us he’d be holding basketball tryouts starting next week. I have no desire to play basketball. But when I got home, I just happened to mention it to Mom. She says I need to tryout. “You should give it a chance,” she said. “Your brothers all played basketball. It’s what boys do. And if you don’t do it, what are you going to do? Sit around and play video games?”

Mom thinks video games are of the devil. She thinks TV—except for nature shows—is of the devil. She thinks all movies made after The Sound of Music are of the devil. The funny thing is, she thinks that all reading material comes straight from God. I read Mad Magazine and Stephen King and she doesn’t even blink. I can read books full of sex scenes and stabbings—even if they’re happening simultaneously. Mom never even bothers to read the covers. If it’s a book, she figures, it must be good for you.

Who knows? Maybe Mom is actually right this time.

Your son,

Trevor