Legend had it, if you left your truck running in the alley behind the Thunderbird Motel, laid a ten-dollar bill on the front desk, and asked the clerk for a cherry donut, a woman would appear and take you to her room.
Sarah never said it, but she agreed with the other kids that riding on the bus over Meredith Moore’s skull felt like riding over a big rock.
The pineapple was flying! It paused at the pinnacle of its arc, weightless, and then began its descent—slow, sinking, faster, faster—finally landing with a thump into the tall grass beside the road.
Walking through the courthouse, Newman felt like an alumnus on a campus visit. Both at home and out of place. A collision of past and present.
The cantaloupe a friend gave us sits on the table. My father, who’s visiting from California, says, “It’s like a pumpkin waiting to be carved.”