Fiona, my other sister, was seventeen. But
Fiona has always been his pride and joy. Pops would never hurt his
precious Fiona.
Fiona and I don’t get along. She’s very much
like my father.
Then it happened. The fucker just couldn’t
keep it to himself. He thought I’d left the house, because I’d
wanted to catch him in the act, so I’d pretended I was out and had
made a big deal out of it; and I heard it, heard him , behind
Janice’s door. And I heard her saying, “No, no,” just softly,
lightly. Fragilely.
I exploded.
But I’d planned for this.
You must remember this is NRA country we’re
talking about. Sweet Virginia. Welcome to the South.
This wasn’t gonna be no “fist in the face and
then it happens again some other time” kind of fight. In this case, Logan Travers, my father, was going to learn to
back the fuck off or else he was gonna lose his crown jewels.
Violently. I busted the door open, because it was locked. And I
cocked his rifle in my hand. And I said, slowly, “Get the fuck away
from her.”
Pops was sitting on her bed, his hand on her
bare leg. She was lying in her nightgown, shivering. They always
shiver. Always. Mom had also shivered. But mom had made a choice to be with him. Janice had made no such choice. Even
from eight feet away I could smell the liquor on his breath. He was
unshaven, white hairs peeking out from his chin and cheeks.
“What the fuck are you gonna do with
that thing, boy?” he bellowed, thinking I didn’t have the guts.
He got up, walked in my direction. I put the
rifle to his chest, and pushed him back with it. “Try me, old
man.”
Reason dawned in his eyes. He knew I was
serious.
“You’re gonna regret this, little boy. Oh
you’re gonna regret this!”
“Janice, pack a bag,” I said.
She didn’t move. She was in shock.
“Janice, pack a fucking bag NOW!” I realized
I’d been harsh. I was stressed. She was probably freaking out. I
was freaking out as well. “Baby, I’m sorry, just please back a bag,
OK?”
Dad chewed, shook his head. He was livid,
ready to kill. But I was the one holding the gun.
Dad has other guns around the house. Plenty
guns. A good Southern Military man. But he didn’t carry one on his
person when he was inside the house. At least not in those
days.
Janice started crying. “What should I pack,
Ace?”
“Anything, baby. Anything you want. You and
me are gonna go out of town for a bit.”
“That’s kidnapping, boy,” he growled.
I growled back. “You fucking try me, old man.
You just. Fucken. Try me.” I pushed the rifle against his chest
harder. Pushed him back. He stayed still. My finger squeezed
tighter on the trigger, almost pushing it to the point of no
return. In that instant, in my mind’s eye, I even saw the spray of
red blood behind him against the window and the wall, gray matter,
pieces of smoking flesh...
“Tell people we’re on vacation. I got nothing
to lose. If mom and Janice are OK, I don’t care what happens to me.
And I sure don’t give a damn what happens to you.” With the rifle
between us, he knew what I was talking about.
“Janice, you done?” I asked.
Janice wept some more. She’d packed a messy
bag with pink and white things dangling out of it. She was still in
shock. She sat on the bed.
“Janice, baby, come over here to Ace.”
She wept more.
Pops saw his chance. “Janice, tell Ace here
he was just mistaken. Tell him you and I were just havin a little talk .”
His tone was threatening. He was trying to
scare her. Bastard.
Janice got up slowly, walked around my
father’s outstretched hand, and joined me at my side.
A part of me melted there, knowing she was
counting on me, knowing I was her only hope. I almost shot the
fucker right there.
It was in that moment I decided to get my
tattoo. This was the defining moment of it, the design, the quote,
something Aaron always used to say to me—it all formed in my head.
Right there.
We eased out of her bedroom, down the
Fiona has always been his pride and joy. Pops would never hurt his
precious Fiona.
Fiona and I don’t get along. She’s very much
like my father.
Then it happened. The fucker just couldn’t
keep it to himself. He thought I’d left the house, because I’d
wanted to catch him in the act, so I’d pretended I was out and had
made a big deal out of it; and I heard it, heard him , behind
Janice’s door. And I heard her saying, “No, no,” just softly,
lightly. Fragilely.
I exploded.
But I’d planned for this.
You must remember this is NRA country we’re
talking about. Sweet Virginia. Welcome to the South.
This wasn’t gonna be no “fist in the face and
then it happens again some other time” kind of fight. In this case, Logan Travers, my father, was going to learn to
back the fuck off or else he was gonna lose his crown jewels.
Violently. I busted the door open, because it was locked. And I
cocked his rifle in my hand. And I said, slowly, “Get the fuck away
from her.”
Pops was sitting on her bed, his hand on her
bare leg. She was lying in her nightgown, shivering. They always
shiver. Always. Mom had also shivered. But mom had made a choice to be with him. Janice had made no such choice. Even
from eight feet away I could smell the liquor on his breath. He was
unshaven, white hairs peeking out from his chin and cheeks.
“What the fuck are you gonna do with
that thing, boy?” he bellowed, thinking I didn’t have the guts.
He got up, walked in my direction. I put the
rifle to his chest, and pushed him back with it. “Try me, old
man.”
Reason dawned in his eyes. He knew I was
serious.
“You’re gonna regret this, little boy. Oh
you’re gonna regret this!”
“Janice, pack a bag,” I said.
She didn’t move. She was in shock.
“Janice, pack a fucking bag NOW!” I realized
I’d been harsh. I was stressed. She was probably freaking out. I
was freaking out as well. “Baby, I’m sorry, just please back a bag,
OK?”
Dad chewed, shook his head. He was livid,
ready to kill. But I was the one holding the gun.
Dad has other guns around the house. Plenty
guns. A good Southern Military man. But he didn’t carry one on his
person when he was inside the house. At least not in those
days.
Janice started crying. “What should I pack,
Ace?”
“Anything, baby. Anything you want. You and
me are gonna go out of town for a bit.”
“That’s kidnapping, boy,” he growled.
I growled back. “You fucking try me, old man.
You just. Fucken. Try me.” I pushed the rifle against his chest
harder. Pushed him back. He stayed still. My finger squeezed
tighter on the trigger, almost pushing it to the point of no
return. In that instant, in my mind’s eye, I even saw the spray of
red blood behind him against the window and the wall, gray matter,
pieces of smoking flesh...
“Tell people we’re on vacation. I got nothing
to lose. If mom and Janice are OK, I don’t care what happens to me.
And I sure don’t give a damn what happens to you.” With the rifle
between us, he knew what I was talking about.
“Janice, you done?” I asked.
Janice wept some more. She’d packed a messy
bag with pink and white things dangling out of it. She was still in
shock. She sat on the bed.
“Janice, baby, come over here to Ace.”
She wept more.
Pops saw his chance. “Janice, tell Ace here
he was just mistaken. Tell him you and I were just havin a little talk .”
His tone was threatening. He was trying to
scare her. Bastard.
Janice got up slowly, walked around my
father’s outstretched hand, and joined me at my side.
A part of me melted there, knowing she was
counting on me, knowing I was her only hope. I almost shot the
fucker right there.
It was in that moment I decided to get my
tattoo. This was the defining moment of it, the design, the quote,
something Aaron always used to say to me—it all formed in my head.
Right there.
We eased out of her bedroom, down the
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