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born, Mama didn’t give me the last name of my real daddy. She gave me the same name as hers, Willard. It was the best decision Mama made concerning men. The name Willard became an asset the day Poppy and Nana picked me up from the bus station. Fewer questions from nosy people like the school secretary. I was one of them, and the same name proved it. For all people knew, I was their own son. I heard Nana talking about some lady at her church who’d had a child during the change. People probably thought I was like that. A child that changed their lives.
    We exited Stalwart Elementary that day to find a green boat attached to Poppy’s truck. “Bought it this morning when they auc-tioned off old man Randell’s belongings.” Poppy ran his hand down the boat’s side. “Figured you’d help me try her out.”
    A tradition was soon born, and during Friday homeroom I’d try to guess if this would be the afternoon Poppy would show up to whisk me away. Nana only gave in to our ritual after I begged a little more than usual. “You just make sure you don’t get behind with your lessons,” she said, inspecting the string of fish we proudly displayed.
    Some days we’d sit in that aluminum boat on Ricer’s Pond, and Poppy would talk about a new hog he had bought or the olden days when he ran the filling station and fixed fancy cars that passed through town. Mostly we’d just be quiet and listen to the locusts buzzing deep in the tall grass and watch the water crack and shatter with the landing of our lines. Only one time do I recall Mama floating into the conversation.
    Poppy pulled the green cap with the John Deere logo low on his head. “How’re you managing?”
    “Fine.” I didn’t look up as I reached inside the faded cottage cheese container and found a worm wiggling to the bottom.
    Poppy’s voice cleared, and I heard the steady drum of his boot tapping against the boat floor. “You know, it’s a real shame your Slow Way Home
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    mama’s turned away from us. Used to be a good girl and then . . . But, now, none of that has a thing in the world to do with you.”
    Residue from the earthworm made my hand stick to the pole, and I gripped it even tighter. I cast the line extra hard hoping the pop would drown him out. The sound echoed, and a white bird flew away from a patch of lily pads.
    Poppy reeled in his line and stared straight ahead. “Never figured out why she started using dope.”
    I jerked the line and gasped all at the same time. For added effect, I jerked the line and pretended to strain.
    “The way I see it, she just let a bad habit run away with her.”
    “I got something,” I moaned.
    The boat rocked as Poppy slid to offer assistance. Grabbing the light rod, he cut his eyes towards me.
    Staring into the murky water, I shrugged. “Must’ve broke free.”
    There was no need to talk about Mama. I was getting my fill of that from the guidance counselor, Mrs. Hanson. Every Monday while the others lined up for the lunchroom, I was pulled aside, and together Mrs. Hanson and me would have lunch in the conference room by the principal’s office. If the door was open when we walked past, I’d search the wall high and low for the electric paddle. The only thing that came close to being something that could cause bodily harm was a golf club tucked in the corner next to the flag.
    Mrs. Hanson was wrinkled but had hair as pink as cotton candy. I liked how two curls on each side of her head twisted and hung free like clumps of grapes. But I did not like how Mrs. Hanson would ask me how I felt about Mama and then turn her head and make an attempt to smile. Her smile always ended up lopsided and looked like any minute she would bust out crying.
    “How’s Nana and Poppy doing?” she asked between sips from her chocolate-milk carton.
    “Fine.” I studied the pictures that lined her wall. A girl, little babies, and one old man who most likely was her husband. “Who’s that?” I asked pointing to the girl