Hallelujah Dave’s in jail. I cannot believe that this is what’s become of my mama’s life, or mine. We are good stock, or at least that’s what she always says. If one of us isn’t feeling right about something, like when Daddy’s roofing business suffered and we had to “tighten our belts,” she’d say, “Don’t you worry, honey. We are good stock. This is a bump in the road, but we are good stock and we’ll be fine. You can have faith in that.” And we always did. But at some point I guess Mama stopped believing it herself. It’s like the cross around my neck. The shine wore right off, and suddenly Mama was hurling herself onto the floor of a strange church at a strip mall and crawling all the way to Florida with a guy who goes and gets himself thrown into jail. I rub the cross. I like it. It’s familiar. But my mama? I don’t even know who my mama is anymore. “Ivy. You’re shivering,” says Paul.
