A New Death: CJ's Story Page 2

  ***

  “What is it Dad? What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Come with me,” he replied, ignoring my questions.

  He led me into their bedroom, where Mom was sitting on the bed. She had her back turned to me, but she was talking on her phone. I could hear her nose sniffle from the crying. I also noticed my Dad’s pistol sitting on his nightstand.

  As we passed the bed going towards the bathroom, I overheard my Mom talking to my grandparents. They were on their way here and they had Aunt Laura with them. This information was strange, because they hardly ever came out to our house, especially on a weeknight. They lived about 45 minutes away, clear on the other side of Savannah.

  My Dad walked into the bathroom and into their adjoining walk-in closet. Clothes had been pulled out and piled on the floor. While my parents weren’t known for keeping their closet clean, I knew this was messier than usual. Aunt Laura might have a cow because she just helped my Mom reorganize this a month ago. Dad stopped right past the door and turned to his left.

  Now I was really worried.

  He had taken me to the gun safe.

  He opened it after punching in the four-digit passcode and began pulling out our guns. I watched as he pulled the two hunting rifles, a Savage .308 heavy barrel and the Ruger .45 carbine. Next was my late great-grandfather’s 12 ga. double barrel shotgun, which had seen better days but was still fun to shoot. Then came some of our “heavier artillery.” Dad set out the Romanian AK-47 and his DMPS 5.56 AR-15 from the gun safe. Lastly, he pulled out my .22 rimfire rifle and handed it to me. The look on his face was solemn and focused. He knelt down to my level and looked me in the eyes. He always did that when he was about to say something important.

  “CJ,” he started. “Something is going on, and we’re going to have to leave the house. We are going to head out to the cabin and hang out there for a few days. I want you to take your .22, go upstairs, and get you and your sister packed for at least three weeks. Clothes, toothbrushes, shoes, and belts, anything you have to have. Son, leave the toys. Your sister can bring a few, but I’m going to need you to leave your’s. Go and get this done. Quick.”

  I nodded slowly, processing my father’s requests, then threw the .22’s strap over my shoulder and turned to walk back upstairs. As I got to the bathroom’s door, I heard my Dad say my name one more time. I turned to look back at him.

  “Son, I love you.”

  I nodded again, told him ‘I love you too’ and turned to leave. Now I knew something was wrong. My Dad wasn’t one of those Dads who hid their emotions or feelings from his children. He was always telling us how much he loved us and how much he loved our mother. I had it good. I knew a lot of kids whose families weren’t like ours. But it wasn’t the fact that he told me he loved me. It was the tone in his voice. I had never heard that tone of voice in my Dad before, and hearing it, sent shivers racing down my spine. The tone I heard was fear.