UNTIL DEATH DO US APART

In 1977, we moved from the East Coast to Montana in hopes in starting over, to get away from the past and start anew. (It was like the frontiersman who back in the 1800s waited for the whistle to blow so they can claim new land) and for the most part, it was working. Dad started his business back up and Mom found new work, and of course, I went to school. Montana, for the most part, is a very beautiful state, with blue skies, clear water and streams, and a lot of open land, and the people are quite friendly. We moved to a small town with maybe 6,000 people in it. It had a main street with buildings on either side, it was spread out. It looked like something from the fifties, a place where you did not have to lock up your house or your car at night, out of fear someone would still it. The summers were warm and winters cold, but all in all, it was a nice place. JT was back on the East Coast, and that was a good place for him, but JT was a traveling man and he did some traveling across the country. (He put more miles on his shoes than most hobos). Well, during the summer, JT showed up at our house one day pretty tired from his long journey. So, while Mom was at work, Dad and I were at home, and JT fell asleep on the couch. I awoke around eight or nine in the morning and saw JT sleeping. I asked Dad what he was doing here, and he did not say much and turned and left to finish whatever he was doing. My mind started to drift back when I could see JT and Dad start to fight and holler; this was no little pushing match or calling names. No, this was as if Dad was a heavyweight boxer and JT was a rag doll. (Dad was strong as an ox.) I could remember their fists flying and connection to JT’s face and the blood spurting out of JT’s face and JT running away and Dad in hot pursuit, cornering JT like a rat and letting him have it over and over again, until JT stopped fighting back. How I hated him. On another night, I recall the same type of fight, but this time JT picked up a shoehorn for riding boots and sliced Dad’s face wide open. JT had put a six-inch slice in his face; this time, Dad’s blood flowed like a small river, so we put him in the car and took him to the hospital. I remember the nurses saying (referring to me), “What a poor boy, seeing his dad like this.” As I came back to the present state of mind, I went and retrieved Dad’s .22-caliber pistol from his room, brought it out to where JT was sleeping, and pulled the hammer back on the pistol, ready to end it for JT. I had my finger on the trigger, ready to pull it. I thought to myself while standing there that no one would find out what happened to JT. After all, we lived twelve miles from town; our neighbor was half a mile away. At that moment, I felt my trigger finger start to tighten, when Dad came over and gently pulled the gun away. He never said anything to me; he did not holler at me or hit me, he just looked at me turned and walked away. So I went outside to try to find something to do, and soon enough it all started again. JT was babbling about all sorts of stuff. Shortly, Mom showed up and we took JT to the local police station and explained what had happened. The police told JT that if he ever showed up again, they would stick him in jail. So the police loaded him into the police car and drove him to the county line. They let him out and then drove away. And that was the end of seeing JT for me for more than thirty years.