Returning to the garage, I searched for something to cut the packing tape, but unless I was willing to use a double-sided axe, there was nothing. I made do with my keys, the very same ones that opened the front door, giving me a bellyful of false hope.

The first box contained everything that had been in my top dresser drawer. Things weren’t arranged in any kind of order, like she and Andre had opened up the box, pulled the drawer, and poured everything in. A small bottle of Cool Water cologne was packed along with a few buckled snapshots from my childhood and some pictures of Celestial and me, taken at the beginning. Why wouldn’t she at least save the photos? At the bottom of the box were the seedy remnants of a dime bag of weed. In another carton I found my college diploma, safe in its leather case, which I appreciated. But an egg timer and half-empty prescription for antibiotics? I didn’t see the logic in it all. A glass paperweight was cushioned in a purple-and-gold sweater, which I pulled over my head. It smelled like a thrift store, but I was glad to have something between me and the chill.

I didn’t care about any of this stuff anymore, but I couldn’t stop myself from ripping open box after box, pouring the contents out on the grass and, sifting through, hunting for a tiny chip of bone. Looking at the house, I noticed some movement at the window. I imagined Celestial peeking out. Over my shoulder, I felt the eyes of the lady across the street. There was a time when I knew her name. I waved, hoping that she wasn’t getting antsy, thinking of calling the police, because a close encounter with law enforcement was the last thing I needed. She waved back, placed a stack of envelopes in her mailbox, and lifted the red flag. Between Big Roy’s Chrysler riding up on the curb and me out here ripping open boxes and trash flying everywhere, it must be the type of ghetto scene they are not familiar with on Lynn Valley Road. “Merry Christmas,” I called, and offered another wave. This seemed to put her at ease but not enough that she went back into her house.

Highlights from the final box included a mason jar containing bicentennial quarters that had been with me since I was six, along with a couple of stray keys, but I didn’t find my original tooth. I ran my fingers under the cardboard flap in case it was hiding there, but what I found instead was a pale pink envelope bearing my mother’s schoolgirl writing in sky-blue ink. I sat down on the cold wooden bench and unfolded the page inside.

Dear Roy,

I am putting this in writing so that you can take this message to heart and not cause confusion with backtalk because you are not going to like what I have to say. So here it is.

First, I want to say that I am very proud of you. I may be too proud. There are many at Christ the King who are tired of hearing me talk about you because so many of their youngsters are not doing well. Boys are in jail or headed that way and the girls all have babies. This is not true for everyone, but it’s true enough for there to be a spring of jealousy and envy against me and mine. This is why I pray a prayer of protection for you every single night.

I am happy to hear that you have found someone that you want to marry. You know I have always wanted to be a grandmother (tho I hope I look too young to be a “granny”). You do not ever have to worry about taking care of your father and me. We have set aside money since the beginning so that we can manage our bills in old age. So do not think that what I have to say has anything to do with any type of money consideration.

What I want to ask you is if you are sure that she is the woman for you. Is she the wife for the real person who you are? How can you know if you have not even brought her to Eloe to meet your father and me? I know that you have been spending time with her family and you are very impressed by them, but we need to meet her, too. So come pay us a visit. I promise that we’ll make everything look nice, and I also promise that I will behave.

Roy, I cannot say an ill word against a woman that I have not met, but my spirit is troubled. Your father says that I do not want you to grow up. He points out that a lot of spirits were troubled when him and myself “jumped the broom.” But I would not be your caring mother if I didn’t tell you that my dreams have come to me again. I know you don’t believe in signs, so I am not going to tell you the nitty-gritty. But I am so worried about you, son.

Your father could be right. I admit to holding you a little too close. Maybe when I meet Celeste I’ll rest easy again. She does sound nice from what you say. I hope her parents won’t think your father and me are a couple of little country mice.

Read this letter three times before you tell me what you think. I am also including a prayer card, and it would do you some good to pray on this every night. Get on your knees when you talk to the Lord. Do not call yourself praying by lying in the bed thinking. Thinking and praying are two different things, and for something this important, you need prayer.

Your loving mother,

Olive

I folded the letter and slid it into my pants pocket. The breeze bit, but my body was sweaty. My mama tried to warn me, tried to save me. But from what? At first, she was always trying to save me from two things—prison and fast-tail girls. When I finished high school without catching a charge or getting anyone pregnant, she felt like her work was done. Putting me on that Trailways bus to Atlanta with those three brand-new suitcases, she held up her fists, crowing, “We did it!” I can’t say she worried about me again until I told her I was getting married.

I sat myself down on the bench to read the letter again. I didn’t believe in Olive’s “prophetic dreams”; besides, it wasn’t Celestial that was my undoing, it was the State of Louisiana. Still, I took some comfort in the tenderness lacing my mama’s words, but I was cut to the quick remembering how I’d reacted all those years ago. I responded, hemming and hawing, but I was a hit dog, hollering. Don’t be ashamed of us, she said without saying. I read the letter over again and again, each word a lash. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I slid it back into my pocket and looked at the mess I’d made with the boxes. Something as small as a bottom tooth could be easily lost among the rubble, easily hidden between blades of grass. Maybe it was only fitting that I move into this uncertain future without it. The grave robbers of the next millennium would find me incomplete for all eternity, the story of my life there in my jaw.

I swear to God my plan was to leave right then. I would gas up Big Roy’s car and get back on the highway, taking nothing with me but my mama’s letter.

But then I thought I spotted a tennis racket in the garage. It had been expensive, and more important, it was mine. Maybe I would give it to Big Roy; when I was little we used to hit tennis balls at the rec center in town. I walked up the sand-white driveway, thinking of Davina and what Celestial told her after Olive’s funeral. “Georgia,” I called to the air, “you are not the only one who’s a terrible person.”

I scanned the garage wall. Sure enough, the racket dangled from a little hook. I pulled it down and found it to be warped with age and disuse. When I bought this racket, it was the finest to be had in all of Hilton Head. Now it was reduced to corroding metal and catgut. The grip had gone gummy, but I mimed my backhand, butting up against the bumper of Celestial’s car. The first blow was an accident. The second, third, and fourth were more purposeful. The car alarm squealed in protest, but I didn’t stop until Celestial entered the garage with her bag on her shoulder and her keys in her hand.

“Honey, what are you doing?” She used a little remote to silence the alarm. “You okay?”

The pity in her voice scraped over my skin.

“I’m not okay. How am I supposed to be okay?”

She shook her head, and again there was that soft sadness. I have never struck a woman. Never have I wanted to. But at that moment, my hand itched to slap all that concern off her lovely face.

“Roy,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

She knew full well what I wanted her to do. It wasn’t that complicated. I wanted her to be a proper wife and provide a place for me in my own home. I wanted her to wait for me like women have been waiting since before Jesus. She kept talking, but I didn’t have any patience for damp cheeks or noise about how she tried.

“Try spending some time as a special guest of the State of Louisiana. Try that. How hard could it be to stay off your back for five years? How hard could it be to make a tired man feel welcome? I picked soybeans when I was in prison. I have a degree from Morehouse College and I’m working the land like my great-great-granddaddy. So don’t tell me about how you tried.”

She was sniffling when I attacked the car again. The tennis racket wasn’t much match for the Volvo. I couldn’t even bust out the windows. I did get the alarm to wail, but Celestial silenced it immediately.

“Roy, stop it,” she said, sighing like an exhausted mother. “Set down that tennis racket.”

“I’m not your child,” I said. “I’m a grown man. Why can’t you talk to me like I’m a man?” I couldn’t stop seeing myself through her eyes: hot and funky in my Walmart clothes and high school sweater and swinging a raggedy tennis racket like some kind of weapon. I dropped it to the floor.

“Can you please calm down?”

I scanned the neatly labeled rows of tools, hoping to find a heavy wrench or a hammer that I could use to bust out every window on that vehicle. But there, just at arm’s length, was the double-sided axe and I liked the look of it. Lo and behold, as soon as I got my hand around that thick wooden handle, the room leaned in a different direction. Celestial sucked in her breath, and there was raw fear on her face. This grated, too, but it was better than her pity. I lifted the axe as best as I could in that cramped space between the Volvo and the garage wall. The window burst, sending safety glass everywhere. But even though she was terrified, Celestial had the presence of mind to again turn off the alarm, keeping things quiet.

Still gripping the axe, I walked toward her as she shrank back.

I laughed. “You think I’m dangerous now? Do you know me at all?” I walked out of the garage with the axe slung over my shoulder like Paul Bunyan, feeling like a man. Stepping out into that cold sunny day, I was set to head back to Eloe with nothing but the axe, my mama’s letter, and the fear in my wife’s eyes.

Isn’t there something in Genesis about not looking back? A stupid glance over my shoulder showed her expression relaxing, glad I wasn’t taking anything that couldn’t be replaced and glad I didn’t destroy anything that couldn’t be repaired.

“Do you care for me, Georgia?” I asked her. “Tell me you don’t and I’m out of your life forever.”

She stood in the driveway with her arms wrapped around herself like she was freezing. “Andre is on his way.”

“I didn’t ask you about no Andre.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

My head hurt, but I pressed her. “It’s a yes-or-no question.”

“Can we talk when Andre gets back? We can—”

“Stop talking about him. I want to know if you love me.”

“Andre …”

She said his name one time too many. For what happened next, she would have to take some of the blame. I asked her a simple question and she refused to give me a simple answer.

I turned from her and made a sharp left turn, pounding across the yard, feeling the dry grass crunch under my shoes. Six long strides put me at the base of the massive tree. I touched the rough bark, an instant of reflection, to give Old Hickey the benefit of the doubt. But in reality, a hickory tree was a useless hunk of wood. Tall, and that’s all. To break the shell of a hickory nut, you needed a hammer and an act of Congress, and even then you needed a screwdriver to get at the meat, which was about as tasty as a clod of limestone. Nobody would ever mourn a hickory tree except Celestial, and maybe Andre.

When I was a boy, so little I couldn’t manage much more than a George Washington hatchet, Big Roy taught me how to take down a tree. Bend your knees, swing hard and low, follow up with a straight chop. Celestial was crying like the baby we never had, yelping and mewing with every swing. Believe me when I say that I didn’t slow my pace, even though my shoulders burned and my arms strained and quivered. With every blow, wedges of fresh wood flew from the wounded trunk peppering my face with hot bites.

“Speak up, Georgia,” I shouted, hacking at the thick gray bark, experiencing pleasure and power with each stroke. “I asked you if you loved me.”