Once Upon a River by Bonnie Jo. Campbell

beside her father’s bed, her head ached. From beneath it, she produced an army-green tin box. It felt like a violation putting it on the kitchen table and opening the lid in front of Ricky and Junior. The first thing she saw inside was her cut-off ponytail, wrapped in wax paper. In a bulging envelope, she found dozens of photos of her mother smiling ear-to-ear at the camera. While Luanne had rarely smiled enough to show teeth in real life, she had smiled that fake way for every camera snap. There were no photos of her parents together, not even a wedding photo. The only picture of Crane was a tiny dark image on his Murray Metal Fabricating employee ID card.
    A business-sized envelope contained a piece of lined yellow paper on which was handwritten, Last Will and Testament. Please cremate me and don’t waste money on any service. Give everything I have to my wife and daughter. Sorry it’s not much. Signed, in full faculties, Bernard Crane , October 14, 1971 . Margo would have been almost eight years old then. Nothing bad had happened yet.
    “That’s clear and simple,” Junior said. “Are the cops all the way out the driveway?”
    “ The Man is gone,” Ricky said.
    “Then it’s time to light up.” Junior dug something out of the pocket of his jean jacket. It was a plastic baggie containing several joints. He sat on the kitchen table. “What happened to your chairs?”
    Margo shrugged and sat next to him.
    “They shouldn’t have let you come home last night.” Junior straightened out one joint carefully and lit it with a white lighter. He took a long toke and held it out to her.
    “I don’t know.” Margo let her legs dangle beside Junior’s. She noticed how her cousin’s hair had been cut short at the military school, so it no longer curled down his neck. She’d heard last night that he’d be going back to the academy again right after the holiday weekend, so this might be her only chance to see him.
    While still holding his breath, he elbowed her and said in a squeaky voice, “This will help you. I stayed high for three months when Grandpa died.”
    Margo accepted the joint, took a long draw, and coughed. She passed it to Ricky, who inhaled as he studied the will, turning it over several times, though the back was blank.
    “Too bad this will isn’t notarized,” Ricky said.
    The next time Junior passed her the joint, Margo inhaled deeply and held the smoke. She didn’t like to feel disoriented, but she hoped the pot would dull her feelings. They passed the joint in silence until it was gone. Then Ricky began to rifle through the papers in a more serious way. “Divorce papers,” he said. “Finalized eight months ago.”
    Margo wished she could puff on the joint once more. Crane had never mentioned anything about a divorce.
    Junior was reading over the land contract with an absurd intensity. On the third page it was signed by both their fathers.
    “Are you going to stay with Cal and Joanna?” Ricky asked.
    “Ma said you’ll have to stay with us,” Junior said. He was gazing intently at Crane’s employee ID card now. “You can’t stay alone when you’re fifteen. Where else are you going to stay?”
    “I turned sixteen on the twentieth.”
    “If you’re staying with an aunt and uncle,” said Ricky, “maybe the cops won’t have to get social services involved.”
    “Social services?” Margo took the ID card out of Junior’s hand. She had heard that kids who got involved with social services ended up living in group homes and with strangers who did weird things to them. And she was sure it would mean living far from the river. “I wish you were going to be home, Junior,” she said in a voice that felt slow. “Then it would be easier to stay at your house.”
    “Me, too. I’ll be back at Christmas. Maybe then I can talk them into letting me stay home after that.”
    Ricky and Junior seemed to move in slow motion as they pulled papers from the box—birth certificates, the title to