Apology Letter from Starkburg County Jail George Singleton (bio) Your mother never suffered acne, Max. I need to go ahead and start at the beginning, I feel. If you come across that photograph of her, know that the raised red splotches across her cheeks, neck, and forehead diminished for the most part by the end of our honeymoon. I don't know if this will make you feel better or worse, but she wouldn't leave our hotel room down there on Tybee Island—the El Dorado, which might've been swanky back in 1940 or thereabouts but couldn't exude any flair other than constant mildew by 2001, while your mom and I hid out for two whole weeks, which was enough time, evidently, to conceive you. I know that, in time, you will google my name, and your mom's—especially after this latest incident. You will find a mug shot of her all swollen-faced and raw. Know that she got bailed out right after the wedding reception, and that your uncles and aunts and grandparents on my side of the family dropped all charges. Know that it was me—me!—who talked sense into everyone. I'd be willing to bet that by the time you read this you will have heard my name connected with other words like "ne'er-do-well" and "reprobate" and "son-of-a-bitch." I understand. I won't deny occasions when those words might connect with my being. (I just got out my old English book from my one semester in college and found out those words might be called "appositives." Or "synonyms." Or maybe both. I found out that you don't need Google to get stuck in a vortex, as long as you keep turning a book's "leafs," or "pages.") In my defense, I don't know why your mom had a pistol strapped to the inside of her thigh during the entire wedding ceremony, even if it was one of those tiny, tiny pearl-handled .38 pistols marketed toward women. I blame her brother—who would be your uncle—Cade. He never liked me. He stood up in the middle of the rehearsal dinner the night before and lifted a glass to say, "Here's to marrying out of your station," which made everyone on his side of the family, the Pryor side, laugh hard and nod and clink their Scotches, while everyone on my [End Page 139] side sat there wondering what a station might mean. Listen, Max, my side of the family might not be as savoir faire as your mother's, but goddamn we could buy them all up with the money we got over three generations of selling "authentic" hillbilly slingshots at every Stuckey's, fireworks outlet, peach stand, Petro truck stop, South of the Border, pecan stand, and roadside attraction between about Missouri and West Virginia, Kentucky to Florida. When your uncle Cade said that thing about "station," I imagine that most of my people sat there with an image of all our mom-and-pop convenience stores where we sold hillbilly slingshots right up on a stand near the cash register, probably next to pepperoni rolls in West Virginia, or pecan logs most everywhere else. I don't want to knock your momma, Max, but we could take her formally educated Pryor relatives, box them up, and use them for tax deductions at the Goodwill or Salvation Army every December. I don't want to beat a dead drum, Max, but if the Joy side of your genes was so stupid would we have known to diversify into corncob pipes, or jars of okra advertised as pickled turtle dicks? ________ That photo you'll find of your mom resulted from my decision to offer one-of-a-kind thank-you gifts for the groomsmen and bridesmaids. It's not even the groom's charge to buy gifts for the bridesmaids. I've been in some weddings over the years, Max, and here's what I've gotten in return: a pewter beer mug, a non-pewter beer stein, a money clip, and a Zippo lighter. I thought that one...