“These here your cousins,” Betty told Lincoln, “Ned and Boo. Say hi.”

“Hello,” said Lincoln, suddenly shy, sweating in the UPS shirt.

Boo leaned down. “You must be the deliveryman.”

“Huh?” Lincoln was now hot, shy and confused.

“Says so right there,” he said, tapping Lincoln’s chest. “UPS. So you must be the deliveryman. What’d you bring us other than your old grandma?”

“Leave him alone,” said Betty. “Let’s get to the church.”

“Okay,” he said. He turned to Lincoln, “But from now I’ll just be callin you Delivery.”

Once they were inside Betty patted Lincoln on the knee and leaned over.

“Don’t let him bother you. Reason they call him Boo is he’s as white as a ghost. Sometimes he acts that way too.”

Boo laughed. “That’s right, Delivery. That’s for damn sure. Up here we got mixed-blood Indians and purebred dogs. In Canada they got mutt dogs and purebred Indians.”

Betty laughed and Lincoln found himself giggling and secretly amazed. He has never seen her act so loose and easy.

Try as he might, he cannot remember the funeral. Perhaps it is because they did not let him see the body during the wake or at the church, where they’d closed the casket for good. When he tries to see it, to form it in his mind, he sees the mortician’s house. Memories of Caroline are fading fast. If he tries hard he can see her curling her bangs in the messy bathroom before a date. Other memories are harder and harder to come by. The touch of her hand. The sound of her voice when she argued with Betty, or told him stories when she came home drunk. He barely remembers how she’d crack his door open and stick her head inside his room.

“Hey, little guy. Hey, you awake?” she whispered. She tried not to trip on his toys as she plopped down on the bed. She felt warm, her breath sticky and sweet. She stretched out next to Lincoln and groaned.

“Good God, I’m drunk off my ass.”

Lincoln curled into her and put his arm across her stomach. Tell me a story.

“Jesus. I’m too drunk to tell you anything, except never, never get this drunk.”

“Tell me something,” he murmured. “Tell me how I got my name.”

“Good God, again? I don’t really know. Truth is, your daddy’s dead and your mamma run off. Them’s the facts. There you were, though, right in the middle of all of it. So we named you Lincoln. Cause Lincoln, Nebraska, is smack dab in the middle of the whole damn country.”