I was 19 when it happened. My mother and sister were held hostage by a junkie with a bad haircut.
That was the worst of it. But it wasn’t the first of it.
It was all very Cape Fear. A family affair that lasted several years. Between Rich – That’s what I’ll call him – and ourselves.
T tells me not to talk about it. Definitely don’t blog about it. “He might read it. And I don’t want to get that started, darling.”
He wont read it. Other people might. And they might not like it. But it’s out there. It’s been in the public domain for years.
So, like I said, it was all very Cape Fear. Except The Old Man didn’t scare. Not even when he had a gun leveled at his head. He never gave an inch in his whole, hard life. Not even to the people he cared for. When the sometimes-vagrant pointed the pistol at him, he wrestled it away and whipped him with it.
We all watched through the living room window. I still remember the look on my mother’s face. A little shock. A whole lot of disbelief. But The Old Man could care less. When he got over being mad, he was over it.
Rich wasn’t. He came back. More than once.