{"product_id":"the-mailbox-isbn-9780440421344","title":"The Mailbox","description":"\u003cb\u003eFor readers of \u003ci\u003eUnbroken\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eFlags of Our Fathers\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Mailbox\u003c\/i\u003e is a sympathetic portrayal of veterans and the burdens they carry throughout their lives.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   Vernon Culligan had been dead to the town of Draydon, Virginia, so long that when  the crusty Vietnam vet finally died, only one person noticed. Twelve-year-old Gabe  grew up in the foster care system until a social worker located his Uncle Vernon  two years before. When he comes home to discover that his uncle has died of a heart  attack, he's terrifed of going back into the system--so he tells no one. The next  day, he discovers a strange note in his mailbox:\u003cbr\u003e   I HAVE A SECRET. DO NOT BE AFRAID.\u003cbr\u003e   And his uncle's body is gone. \u003cbr\u003e   Thus begins a unique correspondence destined to save  the two people that depended on Vernon for everything. Through flashbacks, we learn  about Gabe and Vernon's relationship, and how finding each other saved them both  from lives of suffering. But eventually, Vernon's death will be discovered, and how  will Gabe and the mystery note writer learn to move forward?\u003cbr\u003e   \u003ci\u003eThe Mailbox\u003c\/i\u003e is not a  story about death--though it begins with a death. It's also not a story about Vietnam  vets, although the author works with Vietnam veterans and wrote this novel, in part,  to illuminate their sacrifices and suffering. \u003ci\u003eThe Mailbox\u003c\/i\u003e is a story about connections--about  how two people in need can save each other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Mailbox\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJunior Library Guild Selection\u003cbr\u003eA Bank Street College Best Children's Books of the Year\u003cbr\u003eA Librarians'  Choices Booklist Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Shafer’s narrative is \u003cb\u003eheartfelt, earnest and moving\u003c\/b\u003e. . . and conveys the power of memory to help heal wounds.”\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warm and moving, it is \u003cb\u003ean evocative picture of the weblike nature of  human existence \u003c\/b\u003eand the interconnectedness of seemingly disparate  experiences.”\u003ci\u003e—School Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Mailbox\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJunior Library Guild Selection\u003cbr\u003eA Bank Street College Best Children's Books of the Year\u003cbr\u003eA Librarians'  Choices Booklist Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Shafer’s narrative is \u003cb\u003eheartfelt, earnest and moving\u003c\/b\u003e. . . and conveys the power of memory to help heal wounds.”\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warm and moving, it is \u003cb\u003ean evocative picture of the weblike nature of  human existence \u003c\/b\u003eand the interconnectedness of seemingly disparate  experiences.”\u003ci\u003e—School Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003eAudrey Shafer was born Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and completed her undergraduate studies at Harvard University,                           graduated from Stanford University School of Medicine,                           and finished anesthesiology residency at University of Pennsylvania.                           She currently teaches at Stanford University doing her clinical work                         at the Veterans Affairs Palo Alto Health Care System. She lives in Mountain View, CA wit her family.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Vernon Culligan was as good as dead to the town of Drayford, Virginia, for  so long that when he actually died, not many folks noticed. For decades, his  bloodshot eyes, permanent three-day stubble, rifle held over his head, and  snarl meaner than a coon dog's had naturally taught everyone to keep a good  distance from his property line. The postal delivery truck did venture all  the way to the teetering mailbox, and mail was regularly delivered through  its yawning trap into the dark, corrugated steel tunnel. Outgoing letters,  mostly bill payments, were collected, the addresses written in shaky black  ink, as if little spider legs had grouped themselves into crooked letters.  Such was the old man's communication with the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Twelve-year-old Gable Culligan Pace lived with his uncle in Vernon's simple  home cradled within a valley west of Virginia's Blue Ridge, north of Roanoke  County. Gabe had arrived in early spring, two and a half years before.  Woodland rhododendrons had splashed their purple heads against spikes of  sage green as Gabe whizzed by in the backseat of a social worker's Ford  Escort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Over the space of time and in the shadow of the mountains, Gabe came to  appreciate, if not understand, many of Uncle Vernon's habits. For instance,  Vernon always kept a fan blowing, no matter the season. He preferred the fan  to the cabinet full of smoker's lung medicines. So when Gabe arrived home  from school and saw his uncle's electric fan lying on the wooden floor in  the study, like a turtle that couldn't right itself, Gabe dropped his  backpack at the door. He held his breath and crossed the narrow hall.  Vernon's chair lay toppled to one side and Vernon himself lay motionless on  the floor, flat on his back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Gabe had never really touched his uncle, though sometimes he had  accidentally brushed Vernon's rough hand while passing the margarine tub or  clearing the table. Gabe stood by his uncle's work boots and softly called  his name. Vernon, a veteran, had had his left leg amputated below the knee  during his final tour in Vietnam, thirty-five years before. But with the  latest prosthesis, Vernon walked with barely a limp. \"The thing's a chore to  get on. Can't mau len, can't hurry it up no more, but can't stub my toe,  neither!\" Gabe saw that the fake foot wasn't angled quite right to the rest  of his uncle's body. That twist gave Gabe a little courage. He knelt and  touched the plasticized ankle, then moved up, methodically pushing one  finger against his uncle's pant leg. He stopped at the thigh, rolled back on  his heels, and looked at his uncle's face. Gently he placed a finger on his  uncle's cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The skin was cold. Gabe fetched a thick plaid blanket and lay down with his  uncle, covering them both. Gabe closed his eyes. Hours later, after dusk had  swept the last particles of light from the room, Gabe awoke. He scrambled  out from under the blanket, sat hugging his knees on the floor, and cried.  Messy crying, the kind of crying that leaves you swollen, red, and leaky.  After a while, he snuffled his nose along his arm and sleeve and stared in  the direction of the fan. He crawled toward it, fumbled for the switch, and  turned it off. The absence of the low rumble startled him. And then he  smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Gabe walked into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and fixed himself a  peanut butter and honey sandwich. The first bite brought back the first  words his uncle ever spoke to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You as skinny as a starved rat. Don't you eat? Come on, let's eat somepin.  What'll it be?\" Vernon had scowled at Gabe's silence. \"Don't tell me they's  foisting a dumb one on old Vernon.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When Ms. Rodriguez, the social worker, had nudged Gabe, he'd whispered, \"No,  sir.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No, no,\" answered Vernon. \"Let's get one thing straight. I'm no 'sir.' They  can save all they's fancy sirs and salutin' for the dress parade. No, life's  a jungle, there's no use for sirs in the jungle.\" Vernon motioned for Gabe  to follow him to the kitchen. He laid out different foods on the counter and  told Gabe to point to what he liked. Thus the first peanut butter and honey  sandwich had been made and eaten under Vernon's roof.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Gabe now carefully cleaned the top of the bear-shaped honey bottle, the way  his uncle had taught him. \"Clean him right. He don't want no scabby sores  atop his head no more'n you do.\" Then Gabe sat back down at the table and  held on to the bear's smooth, golden tummy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    With night pressing its shadows against the windows, and the trees talking  night talk, Gabe was not brave enough to go back into his uncle's study.  Every evening since he had left the bumpy, eastbound trail of foster care  homes and arrived at his uncle's, Gabe would always tell Vernon that he was  going to bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"G'night, Uncle Vernon.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Good night, Gabe,\" his uncle would always reply. Then Vernon would spoon  out a ladleful of philosophy like, \"Scum-lickin' pus-suckin' buckets of  trouble ken happen whether you're good or bad. But why git spit by skunk  muck? Stay low and steer clear of screw-ups, Gabe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Tonight Gabe couldn't bear not hearing his uncle's voice. So he didn't go to  bed. Instead, he dozed, on and off, his head on his arms at the kitchen  table. In the morning, he changed his shirt and underpants, brushed his  teeth, then stood a long time at his uncle's study doorway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A fly settled on his uncle's cheek and Gabe's eyes widened in terror as the  fly walked into his uncle's nostril. Gabe wanted to scream and stamp and  change everything there ever was. Maybe he should turn the fan back on.  Maybe Uncle Vernon's been dead a long time and that's why he kept the fan  on--to make flies buzz off and hide that he'd been dead for years. No, Gabe,  that's crazy thinking--he wasn't dead till yesterday, just turn the fan on.  Do it, do it! Instead, Gabe shocked himself and did something that would  later fill him with a shame as thick and fevered as blood. Something he  could never undo. Gabe wrenched the fan's cord from the socket, picked up  the fan, and threw it down. Again and again. He almost tingled to see the  wire frame crumple more and more with each crash. The plastic housing  cracked, and pieces scattered across the room. He screamed at the fan and  its bits running for cover under the desk and bookcase. \"I hate you! You're  not allowed to live no more! I'm killing you, you hear? You're dead. Dead!  Go away! Go away!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In his rage, Gabe didn't notice the fly leaving his uncle's nostril until  the satisfied insect had made several loops in the air and sat preening its  forelegs on the windowsill. Gabe dashed to the window, which normally sat  open two inches all through the warm months and couldn't be closed again  till winter shrank its wood. The fly escaped just as Gabe, with a mighty,  grunting heave, slammed shut the window. He stepped back, surprised at his  strength, and looked at his shaking hands. Then he knelt at his uncle's  side, carefully tucking the blanket around the body and finally covering his  uncle's face and head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He closed the door to his uncle's study, then grabbed his backpack and ran  into the morning, off to his second day of sixth grade.","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304230899941,"sku":"NP9780440421344","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440421344.jpg?v=1767740376","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-mailbox-isbn-9780440421344","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}