by David Crow
Paper bag in hand, I crawled back to the carport and under the Capri. Staring at the wall of windows in the front of the house, I checked again for any sign of light or movement. Was I hallucinating, or did I see Dad’s face against the glass? My heart thumped so loud I felt certain he would hear it inside the house.
After seeing no change for several minutes, I got to work. I shaved the potato to the approximate size of the tailpipe and shoved it deep inside and then wiped the residue from the tailpipe with the rag and placed the peels in my pocket. Another look at the house, and I rolled to the outside of the car and pried off both hubcaps. I removed the lug nuts, put them in my pocket, and twisted the valve cores slowly to keep them from whistling. Back on with the valve caps and hubcaps—everything in place so it wouldn’t look like the wheels had been disturbed.
Next, the license plates. I rolled under the car again and pulled myself to the front bumper, unscrewed the plate, and wriggled to the rear and took off the other one. Returning to the woods, I shoved both tags under the neighbor’s woodpile. It would be years before anyone found them.
I grabbed the five-pound bag of sugar and letters and sat for a while looking at the house. Nothing except the rippling light.
Crawling back to the car, I headed for the gas tank, located on the driver’s side, away from the house. I removed the cap, inserted the funnel, and poured in the entire bag of sugar and then made sure to screw the cap back on so Dad wouldn’t notice anything wrong.
Now for the last, most crucial part. I took several deep breaths to prepare.
Again, I studied the house. No light or sound from inside. Slowly, I stood up next to the car and taped the letters in their envelopes side by side on the windshield under the wipers.
Dad could have easily gotten me.
But still nothing.
As the coup de grâce, I placed glue on the back of the final letter and stuck it on the windshield. The red words of his confession glowed eerily in the streetlight.
I crept back into the woods, imagining the outraged look on his face when he read the letter and saw that it was glued tight to his windshield. And when he read the other letters, he’d realize he would be caught. It seemed almost worth it to hang around and watch him.
After snaking my way through the trees, I ran to my car and took a circuitous route back to my hotel in downtown DC.
I felt powerful and invisible again.
FOLLOWING A FEW HOURS OF fitful sleep, I called Sally. “You’ll be hearing from Dad, and he’ll be furious. He’ll demand to know if you’ve heard from me. Tell him you haven’t.” I rubbed my eyes, trying to push away the fatigue.
“Will he think I snitched?”
“We’re way beyond worrying about that. Dad had to be stopped. I promise that’s been done. He’ll be angry with you but overwhelmed with rage at me. That’ll divert him. He won’t be driving his car for a while.” I flashed to the letters, especially the one glued to the windshield, and let out a nervous chuckle. “And he won’t be going to Hatteras anytime soon. You’ll be fine.”
“What’ll I do if he shows up and tries to hurt me?” She cried softly.
“He won’t hurt you.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “He’ll probably threaten you, but he won’t hurt you, and he won’t go through with Mona’s murder. He accomplished his mission, though. I’m resigning my job.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“I betrayed him by rising above him and not going along with his crimes any longer. He wanted revenge.” My voice choked at the thought of battling Dad to the death for simply living my own life. “He knew you’d call me, and he expected me to fall into his trap. It was how he raised us. He’s already damaged my reputation beyond repair—or he will soon.”
“That’s crazy. You aren’t making sense, big brother.”
“None of this makes any sense unless you know what makes Dad tick, and I do. He won’t kill Mona without your help. And you won’t help him. If you did help him, and he got away with it, he’d inherit her pension and property. You’d be beholden to him for life. He’s a weak man who manipulates others to do his dirty work. Don’t let him control you any longer. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
“How’d you stop him?” she asked.
“By remembering everything he taught me.”
CHAPTER 54
I TOOK A SHOWER AND called in sick again, this time telling the truth about having a migraine. After eating breakfast at the noisy hotel buffet, I drove aimlessly, staying far away from Bethesda. My mind raced with all the possible scenarios.
My department would likely accept my resignation. Why wouldn’t they? Plenty of talented candidates were available who wouldn’t embarrass the department. Resigning would deliver a fatal blow to my career in Washing-ton—no one does that without having a serious problem. In my world, losing this job would mean a complete loss of face and reputation. Dad counted on it, along with me being stupid enough to confront him in Hatteras.
My sixth sense told me that he wouldn’t strike anytime soon. He’d wait for another opportunity when he could catch me off guard. Maybe he would cut my brake lines or ambush me at night or get an accomplice to kill me. Given his history, all those possibilities were very real.
Where could I go to hide from him? At first, driving to Arizona felt like the right thing to do, but the more I thought about it, the less satisfying it felt. My education, contacts, and job skills were all aimed at government and politics. What could I do there?
Albuquerque probably had the best opportunities, but it also had Mom. She would want to see me regularly and might even believe I moved back because of her. Even if Gallup had the right prospects, she’d be only two hours away. Living almost three thousand miles away from her was a blessing. She and Wally wouldn’t drop in on me in DC.
After burning through a tank of gas, I went back to the hotel, more worn out and confused than I thought possible. Only one thing was clear—leaving Washington because of Dad would be a cowardly act. I’d be running from my fears again.
ON MONDAY MORNING, AFTER STAYING at the Harrington all weekend, I made my way to work at the usual hour. I needed to give my resignation to Randy Russell, Secretary Block’s most trusted advisor and one of my few friends at the USDA. When I burst into his office, I found him deep in conversation on the phone, so I went back to my desk. My heart pounded like a jackhammer. Another thirty minutes went by before Ann said, “Randy just called and said you could see him now.”
My hand shook when I gave Randy my letter of resignation.
“What’s got you so upset, my friend?” he asked.
“I don’t know what . . . what to do,” I stammered. “My life is such a mess and I can’t fix it. I’m resigning to keep from embarrassing our department.” My eyes filled with tears.
“You’re a dear friend and a good guy,” he said. “It can’t be all that bad. Relax and let’s try to sort this out. Surely you don’t have to resign. You worked hard to get this job. You beat out a lot of people for it, and you’re doing great.”
“No, I’m not doing great. My father planned something horrible, and if word got out, it would be very embarrassing to our office. I can’t stay in good conscience.”
“Have you done anything wrong?”
“No, but my father wants to destroy me.”
“I’m on your side, and so is the big boss. If you haven’t done anything to cause us to fire you, we’ll stick with you. But you have to believe in yourself too. I heard about your father’s antics from some of your colleagues. Ann told me she’s worried about you. Didn’t you tell me he retired on disability? He can’t hurt you here anymore.”
“If only that were true, Randy.”
“You’re exhausted and distraught. My advice is to calm down, think about your future without being scared, and make the best decision you can for the long term. I won’t accept your resignation and neither will Secretary Block. You aren’t thinking clearly. Work hard, keep yo
ur head down, and let’s talk in a couple of weeks.”
“But—”
“No buts. Get to work and follow my advice. I’ll always have your back, don’t forget that.”
When I returned to the bull pen, Fran grabbed my arm. “Are you okay, buddy? What’s in the big envelope you gave me?”
“I can’t tell you. Can you please give it to me? You’re a good friend, but for now, I can’t say anything about what’s going on. I’m sorry.”
THE DAY CREPT BY, MINUTE BY MINUTE, hour by hour, and I expected the worst. Would Dad show up at work? Would he have a gun? Nothing was off the table with him, even if this crisis had passed. Then late that afternoon, Ann strode across the bull pen, her face pale and her eyes a little too wide.
“Your father is on the phone.”
I jumped up and hurried to the closest office. Luckily both of them were empty. “I’ll take it in here. Thank you, Ann, for everything.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Closing the door behind me, I watched the yellow light blink for several minutes. Sweat trickled down my back once again. I sat at the desk and slowly picked up the phone.
“I’ll get you,” came Dad’s deep, threatening voice. “You’ve accomplished nothing. Your little stunt can’t stop me. You’re a child playing with a man. This ain’t over, boy. And you know it. You better watch your step because I’ll be right behind you. You’re a goddamn cow—”
I quietly set down the receiver, knowing he’d speak for a while before realizing I’d hung up. A sense of calm settled over me. Instead of reacting with my usual false bravado, I had at last refused to listen to his threats.
The greatest insult of all was to ignore him. Leaning back in my chair, I let out a sigh. My left hand shook uncontrollably, showing how much fear remained inside me.
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, SALLY CALLED me in the late afternoon. “Dad met me in the parking lot at school. He was waiting when I pulled up. I didn’t recognize the car. It wasn’t his Capri. I was so scared, David.” She started crying. “He said that you were no longer his son and if you ever interfered with him again, you would pay with your life. And he said I betrayed him too, and if I ever did it again, he’d make me regret it.”
“I’m so sorry, Sally.”
“He asked if I knew anything about the letters you wrote, if you had mailed them. He asked me at least three times. I kept telling him I had no idea what he was talking about.”
“Good, the threat worked,” I said. “The letters are insurance against him doing anything to Mona or you. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the whole story—for now, let’s put this behind us, okay?
“I’ll try, but it doesn’t feel like he’ll ever let us go.”
“He will if we stop giving in to his demands.”
“Easier said than done, big brother. He lives only a few miles away and can drop in at home or school anytime.”
She hung up crying. He still had control over her. I grimaced while putting down the phone, feeling a deep pang of failure because nothing had been resolved by my actions. Dad wouldn’t change his ways or leave us alone.
I continued my job, but Dad wasn’t finished with me no matter what he said to Sally. Within days, Mona chastised Sally and me in separate phone calls for not being respectful or helpful to our loving father. “Your father asks very little of you in exchange for a lifetime of love and devotion,” she said. “He raised you and got rid of your mentally ill mother, who would have destroyed you. The least you can do is help him when he asks.”
The irony of it all.
FOR THE FIRST TWO WEEKS after the showdown, I stayed at a friend’s apartment. Everywhere I went, I looked over my shoulder, waiting for Dad’s next move.
When I returned to my house, I bought dead bolts and slept in a sleeping bag in the kitchen. I left for DC before dawn, ran my five miles there, and took a shower at work.
I stayed at the office until very late. When I went home, I parked blocks away and walked slowly to my house. I left every light on.
I hid a handgun in a window well. I even placed rocks in front of the doors in an arrangement that would let me know if they’d been disturbed.
I befriended a retired neighbor across the street who almost never left his house and asked him to keep a watch.
At work, people constantly asked why I seemed so jumpy and paranoid. I couldn’t answer, of course.
Dad didn’t get away with his plan, but he left me so rattled I could barely function. He made me feel permanently vulnerable to future attacks, not just physical ones, but ones that would finish off my career.
In that sense, we both scored.
Who would ultimately win?
THE SUMMER CAME AND WENT without any contact from Dad. As Christmas approached, I slowly became less fearful of an attack. Another year passed and still nothing.
Then on a cold, gray day in late January 1983, Ann walked across the bull pen. “Your father is on the phone,” she said softly. “Do you want to take it?”
“No, but I will anyway.”
Sweat immediately formed on my brow, and my left hand started to tremble.
His voice was as gruff as ever. “Your older sister has been totally disrespectful, and Sally isn’t a damn bit better. Your brother isn’t any help to me either.”
Somehow, I was the best of the four at the moment. I chuckled to myself at the absurdity.
“I don’t get any thanks or appreciation for all that I sacrificed and especially for getting rid of that crazy bitch mother of yours. No one visits me.”
He acted as if we had been talking regularly. Had he forgotten our last conversation, or was this his way of pretending it had never happened—like his plot to kill Mona and what I had done to stop him?
In true Crow fashion.
After fifteen minutes of complaining, he said, “You’re the only one I can talk to. Stay in touch. Why do I have to be the one who calls you?”
A WEEK LATER, IT WAS Mom’s birthday. She and I hadn’t talked since my Albuquerque visit almost six years before, so I took the special occasion to reach out to her again.
“I don’t have your phone number, your address, or the phone numbers of any of the other kids,” she said in her usual whiny voice. “If you don’t want a relationship, don’t ever call again.”
“Can we start with happy birthday and go from there? I’ll give you my home number, but I’m not there much. And you can have my office number, but only if you promise not to call too often because we’re really busy. I’ll try to call you more if you don’t always bring up the past wrongs of the Crow family.”
“What else is there to talk about?”
“Anything, beginning with your son, Wally, how things are going in Albuquerque—anything else at all.”
Within minutes, she had launched into the same old bitter script, and I told her I needed to get back to work. I waited a month and tried again but got the same results. Every call was a painful reminder that her life had not moved forward.
Then she began calling the office. If I was out or busy, Ann would tell her I’d call back when I was available. But Mom would call repeatedly until I talked to her.
Ann didn’t know what to do. “How can I make her understand?”
“You can’t,” I said. “Something’s wrong with her. When I tell her to stop calling so much, she claims she doesn’t do it. She’s stuck in some kind of arrested development as an angry child.”
Mona called too, though not often. Sometimes she left messages on my answering machine. They were nearly identical—angry reprimands for not caring about my poor father who’d given every measure of devotion to his children. Each of us went through periods of being disowned, only to be back in his good graces when another one of us did something he couldn’t tolerate.
That was mostly what the four of us talked about when we got together. No one ever brought up our childhood. Where would we begin? We had each moved forward in o
ur own separate way, not staying in touch much.
But I did learn a few years later that Dad pestered Sally to help him kidnap a rich Jewish woman for millions in ransom money. Sally simply didn’t show up at the rendezvous point, which presumably stopped him. She wasn’t sure.
As time passed, Sally saw Dad on many occasions in Hatteras with younger women. “They all look like they’re on their last dime,” she said. “How the hell does he find them?”
He just wouldn’t quit.
EPILOGUE
I WORKED. I READ. I RAN. My understanding of politics and history deepened, but my inner world remained stunted. Friends told me I was guarded. I turned every serious conversation about myself or the Crow family into an inappropriate joke. Marriages failed.
By my early fifties, I still hadn’t found any measure of peace—guilt and anxiety followed me everywhere. The self-help books lining my shelves hadn’t helped, nor had the many therapists I’d seen. They were willing to listen forever to the story of my childhood but couldn’t help me move past it.
I took several trips to Gallup and Fort Defiance, convinced I could somehow defang my childhood by reliving it. I remembered everything vividly, even the tiniest details—names of my classmates, street addresses, phone numbers, sounds, and smells. But the memories from 306 South Cliff Drive remained a scary blur.
One afternoon I sat in my car across from our old house for several hours. Finally, the owner came over to me and asked me why I continued to show up. “Are you watching me?”
He was a thin, short Mexican man, like Ray Pino, but without the devilish smile. Nearly bald, he wore horn-rimmed glasses and had the softest voice for a man I’d ever heard.
I told him the Crow family had lived there many years before. He didn’t believe me until I described the interior, including the chipped green-and-black tile in the basement, the crack in the shower, and the creaking, brown varnished steps that led to the kitchen.