The stay with her was chock full of small anecdotes of her crime. Observations of her of misdeeds that brought the family to it's knees. I knew what she had done. She knew I knew. I saw the endless parade of men to her bedroom each day. I saw my father die. I was there when her and her boy friend committed the murder that undid us as a family.
The closest she came to acknowledging her role in my father's suicide were these words.
"I don't know why he did it. ....I gave him some that night."
Like her vaginal magic would be enough to give any man hope. She never mentions the first part of that week end was spent with the guy she had left him for.
My favorite words out of her mouth was a remark about what lousy luck our family had. Like damn! Try to whack a guy in your driveway and park him and his car out on a country road, and every body gets all pissy about it.
After she demolished my rose tinted lens, the holocaust on our family was complete. Every one is gone. Save my sister and me.
My sister moved as far away as she could get without a boat. And I kept my head buried in the sand.
I never lost the walking on egg shell feeling in her presence. I rationalized, minimized, and justified her behavior for the next 40 years. Not living with her allowed me the illusion of the quintessential southern boy in denial, trying to love his mother and see beyond her faults.
It was all behind me.
Not good enough.
As lily white as she projects herself, she likes her instability on the back burner so you don't forget.
She minimizes her past. Unless she volunteers full disclosure.
Peppered in conversation about women being sluts. Men and their bothersome penis's. And how every one is a grifter and charlatan who have her pegged as a mark.
Every one alive has screwed her over.
Every single person.
Oh except you!