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I rarely stayed at home by myself. It just did not happen. We were a family of seven who always had guests. If anything, I remember praying to be alone. That happened in the fields when I drove the tractor. And, it happened one weekend when I was fifteen.

There was no work to be done and no one arguing to watch a different television show. I owned the couch and had little ambition to leave the cushions. Occasionally I got up and twisted the knob to change the channel. It was hardly strenuous and required little thought since we only had five stations to choose from. There were thirteen numbers on the dial, but most were not needed.

For a moment, that afternoon felt right. The phone did not ring, and the reception was good. The guys in white hats were winning, and I was dosing off. But it was not a peace that would last. Both the movie and my innocence were interrupted by a long, shrill scream.

I looked out the window and witnessed a neighbor running from her trailer and the small television that had been hurled through the air at her head. Her pleas were unintelligible, but the path towards me was clear and certain. From her doorway a man yelled obscenities as she raced across the yard. I was wide awake when the lady reached our back door, and he leaped out of their mobile home after her.

Suddenly her cries were crystal clear. She shrieked, “He’s got a gun!”

Gun or no gun, I stumbled, caught my balance, and ran to the front door. The woman was on my heels when I exited and raced around the corner to an unoccupied mobile home. By the time the man started into my house, we had entered the unlocked trailer, bolted the door, and hidden where no one could see. Thankfully he charged in the opposite direction and towards the truck stop near the highway.

Oddly, I don’t know what happened after that. It was as if her eventual departure and my returning home never happened. The rest of the story is still a blank. I am as confused today by the loss of those memories as I am by the loss of humanity that leads to acts of abuse and domestic violence. What do victims remember? What do they want to forget?

When I was ten, my cousin Clarence handed me a pistol and let me fire it. Pulling the trigger was easy enough, but the target couldn’t have been safer. Despite standing on top of the tin can, the bullet kicked up dirt a yard away. Yet, over the years, that errant shot and the laughter that followed are clearly ingrained in my head.

The can was shiny and had a remnant of the label stuck to it. The only hole in it was where the lid had been removed. So, if I can picture the western handgun and the target, why can’t I remember what the women who ran through my house looked like, how long we hid in the trailer, and how I felt about being alone at home afterwards?

Since I don’t know what eventually happened, the story has no happy or sad ending; and I am certain that it has no heroes. I only knew that she was behind me because she grabbed my hand as I rushed out of the house and because she was still with me when we hid.

The woman, maybe a fair maiden, was in danger, but no white knight appeared. Fear pushed me out of my comfort zone and through the front door. I had no plan, just the good fortune that an unrented trailer was open and that her angry acquaintance had gone the wrong way.

Adrenaline and luck were effective allies that day, and a boy became an awkward partner. Surely there has to be a better strategy for those in need.

*From “No Medal,” pages 63-65, Nudge Me Gently, 2015