DECEMBER ISSUE 2012

Trailing On The Blood Of Christ By: Grace Constantine One hot, sultry, Louisiana summer evening, he came home drunk, filling the air with fear and chaos. He was yelling and screaming at everyone. I really don’t know what set him off. Willard occasionally had flash backs from serving in Korean War. All I know is, he scared the crap out of us.

April, my older sister, sneaked out of the window, ran to the neighbors to borrow their phone, and called the police.

Hatred and chaos seemed to fill the air as Willard ranted and raved about how he was going to kill our mother. He thought she had cheated on him.

We lived about fifteen minutes from town, so by the time the police arrived; he was hiding behind our bedroom door, with a gun. Momma talked to the cops when they arrived, but when they asked where he was, she only nodded, for fear of him hearing her tell the police where he was.

He would have considered that an act of betrayal, and would only escalate the situation.

At first, he refused to come out like they asked. When he did, he kicked them in the butt and made them get out of the house. The police called for backup. Willard sent all of the kids to bed around five in the afternoon. As all five of us lay in the small bedroom, adjacent to the kitchen, we could hear the police surround the house. We began to hear the police outside talking through a megaphone, trying to get him to come out of the house.

He only yelled back, and began shooting at them through the windows.

We were so terrified, we were afraid to move. Through the darkness, we could hear an officer, talking through the oscillating fan we had in the window, asking if we were alright. It was Uncle Emmett, and boy was I glad he was there. We whispered that we were ok. While they were getting into position, you could hear momma and him struggling in the bathroom.

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