A Murderer in the House

I received my letter from Reno today, a thinly-veiled apology within a list of excuses. Pointless, really. She signed it with her shaking hand, not a stamp. If she felt remorse, it wasn’t legible in her cursive, nor in the empty words that had been typed for her. I don’t blame her.

My dad’s here staying with me, and it’s uncomfortable for both of us. He didn’t bring Jessica, and that’s good. It’s hard enough just the two of us. With her here, I don’t know. It’s not like there could be more silence. He flew here on his own dime, has been here for three weeks since the memorial. I’m ready for him to leave, but he’s still clinging for that last bit of connection to family.

He ran off with the flight attendant, Jessica, five years ago, right after I got out of high school. It was no secret things weren’t good between him and mom, and it was only half-heartedly concealed that he’d been banging the waitress at the omelet shop for a couple years previous. She was okay. I don’t care for Jessica.

Dad and Jessica lit out for Australia, settled into a small town outside Melbourne. There have been calls and cards and letters inviting visits, but I have no interest. The snakes and spiders and the tension are all too poisonous for my taste. Mom had become a fragile figure in those years before he left. And once he did, she moved to Waco.

I am almost certainly the result of the last time my parents had sex. I have often wondered what must have passed through their minds when it was over. Were they hopeful? Were they drunk? Was it angry make-up sex after another bitter argument? Were they just having one last ride on his way out the door when they suddenly realized they weren’t careful?

It’s funny the things we inherit from our parents. Every relationship that crashed on me ended with one last roll. I was careful, mostly. The last time, not so much, but that’s been two years ago and I haven’t gotten any phone calls, so I guess it worked out. My older brother kids me about it, but I think it’s jealousy. He’s been married for ten years to a great woman. He told me once they’ve never had a fight. They don’t know the passion of make-up sex, that angry, “take that” attitude that makes the rest of us shudder and weep. But they work, and that’s good.

I showed my dad Reno’s letter, and he grunted oaths against the administration. A life-long Republican, his heart didn’t bleed. “Shoulda gone in there whole-hog that first time,” he said. “Shouldn’ta carried on so long.” It makes no sense to me, but I let him talk.

There was no chance of it ending well. We knew it from the start. Those things never end well. I know they had their reasons for moving in; Janet’s letter was full of them. But there was no harm in waiting. They weren’t suicidal. This wasn’t Jonestown. This was religion and guns, but nothing more. Sure, the guy was a lunatic, but his people were happy. Those that weren’t were allowed to leave.

You can hear it in a person’s voice when they aren’t convinced what they’re doing is right. I talked to my mom a few days before the end. I tried calling for hours before the busy signal lifted. I talked to David first. He started in on his rant, how they were being abused by the government, how they wanted to be left alone. “I just want to talk to my mom,” I told him. “I know she’s not coming out of there.” And then he put her on, and she told me she was happy. Scared, but happy. They thought it would end peacefully, and that gave them hope. Three days later I sat in an ocean-side bar and watched the compound burn to the ground live on CNN.

My mother had been shot in the hip during the assault, no telling whether it was from her people or the feds. She was wounded by the bullet, unable to leave her room, and burned to death under her bed. You have no idea how much heel-dragging goes on when you try to get dental records for identification purposes.

She must have suffered like hell that day. Koresh took the easy way out with a bullet in the head. He didn’t even have the balls to do it himself and made Schneider do it. What a pussy.

The people in charge always take the easy way out. My dad too. He was the breadwinner, paid the bills, sat at the head of the table. When the time came, when he’d had enough, he made the choice to leave. He left a big check on the table, grabbed some clothes and his life-insurance policy, and he never looked back. When she died, he felt obligated to return, to be here for Max and me, to be a shoulder to lean on, but we had each other and that was enough.

I don’t have much grief about it. She was doing what she loved. She was happy. And yet dad’s doing what he loves, and I want to tear his fucking throat out. If he hadn’t left, she’d still be alive. I blame him more than Koresh. I blame him more than the ATF. He’s the one who killed her. I have a murderer in my house and he won’t leave.

Tomorrow. I’ll ask him to leave tomorrow. Julie hasn’t been here to stay over in three weeks, and that’s too long. Three weeks is a long time to wait for sex, regardless of what you may think. If you think otherwise, you’re too old or you’re getting it plenty. Not that sex is what it’s all about, but I need the comfort of her arms around me, of her legs around me. I need to be as close to her as possible. But she can’t be here now, not with him here. I don’t want them to meet.

It won’t last forever, Julie and I. We work together at the paper, and there’s bound to be an issue someday. She’ll object to a line I’ve written and I’ll take it personally. There will be a closed-door meeting with tense lips and grinding teeth, then we’ll carry the argument home, I’ll insult her dinner, we’ll fuck the balls out of each other, and she’ll leave and not come back. There is no escaping it.

Patience has always been the enemy. We can claim to be strong and confident, but waiting makes everyone but Buddha crazy in time. Dad ran out of patience with the distance at home. Reno ran out of patience with Koresh. My hands are shaking from my own withdrawals, running out of patience for the desire to be touched. My heart hurts. Tomorrow I will take it out on him. It will start calmly, and if he puts up a wall I will tear it down, not brick by brick, but I’ll blast the thing to bits. I’ll come in swinging, and knowing him, how quick he is to turn tail and run, one little nudge will send him burning to the ground.