by Mara Jacobs
Or looking at it. As I had, at five years old, when I saw him standing over my father’s body, gun in hand. He’d lifted his index finger to his lips as he watched me watch him, in a “shhhh” motion. It wasn’t necessary. I didn’t scream. I didn’t speak. I only stared at the man who had just killed my father.
My little eyes had followed the line of his index finger as if it were pointing straight up, and saw the scar that bisected his eyebrow. I suppose I was already going into shock because all I could think at the time – and I still remember this, twenty-two years later – was “ I wonder how Uncle Chazz got that owie?”
My finger glides over the scar in the printout of the desktop photo, as if it might be embossed, and I could feel the nail in Uncle Chazz’s coffin.
I’m not sure how long I sit and stare, but I finally put the snapshot back in the envelope, careful not to look at the other picture in there. I fold up the printout and add it to the envelope. I don’t want it in my home. In fact, Nick Carpenter’s IMAC is going to be nothing but nuts, bolts and motherboard by then end of the day.
My hand slides over the gun as I place it on top of everything in the box. Yes, I silently tell it, I will be back for you soon.
I put the box back into the long drawer, call the woman in and we both lock it up and take our respective keys with us. I thank her and walk out of the bank, wondering how I can possibly drive home.
I can’t. Not yet. I’m not even sure I’d be able to find my way home, as shaken up as I am. I look at the coffee shop across the street and head over. I spend the next two hours nursing a black coffee, turning a muffin into a pile of crumbs and plotting how to kill Uncle Chazz.
My hands stop shaking at some point and I know it’s okay to drive. I clean up my mess, half expecting to see napkins littered with murder plots, but no, I’d done all the planning in my head.
On the drive home I turn over all the different ways to exact revenge.
No, not revenge. Vengenance.
Plots and schemes skim through my head, one idea more delicious than the next. I turn down my street and head toward my driveway. The entrance to my safe haven. My nest. A place I hadn’t ventured far from for four years.
A soft sound, almost a wail, escapes from me as I realize none of these plans for Uncle Chazz will happen. None can happen.
I have finally found my father’s killer.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Purchase Broken Wings at www.marajacobs.com
Mara Jacobs' books come to her as movies in her head. She sees them so clearly, every movement, every detail. The tough part – the REALLY tough part – is getting them down on paper.
She has spent most of her adult life in advertising, primarily at daily newspapers.
Forever a Yooper (someone who hails from Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula), Mara now resides in the East Lansing, Michigan area where she is better able to root on her beloved Spartans.
Mara loves to hear from readers. Send her a note at [email protected]