Deeve's the one responsible for the disfigurement, a gas canister strapped to his back and the flame waves warping skyward from the homemade blowtorch every time he squeezed the trigger.
I'd long ago dubbed him Evil Deeve, which my mom didn't like, but when we pulled into the gravel driveway that evening, half the trees on our property were already ashed-out.
Deeve's back was to us, shoulders hunched, and the low-slung metal lawn chair, where my mom liked to sit and read in the shade, was upended, paint peeled and twisted.
As God is my witness, don't you ever lift a hand to my son." And from me, not another peep, though wishing, for all the world, that my dad would appear out of thin air and stomp Deeve half dead with his size thirteens.
And Deeve, staring beyond her at me, as if unaware of why I was running full tilt toward where he stood above that slight depression, the grass there still deep green, and my mom on her knees, head lowered, and hugging herself and shivering.
No priors, no history of arson or assault, his "Vote Satan" bumper sticker not so much telltale as it was, according to the judge, Deeve's First Amendment right.