An excerpt from part two: One of those old tools caught him. Just before the ground, an old rusty lump of metal jagged and angry caught my father just above and behind his right eye. There he hung bleeding from his mouth and nose and the new orifice that lump of metal had made... I had come for redemption but would have to settle for revenge.
So I ran. Fled back home. I was terrified. Of what I'd done, of the consequences.
About halfway through my train ride home my mind eased and changed. If time heals all wounds, than distance covered all crimes. I wasn't running as a fugitive. I was returning, the conquering hero. Mom saw it differently. I had puffed my chest and proudly declared how I had solved this problem. Mother was devastated. Grief stricken she told me more about my father... more about the man I had killed. She told me he was a deeply troubled man, spending his life running from one thing or another. Trying to stay a step ahead of his problems. That's what this was, his way of running. She told me she wanted him to come home because she was sure that she could show him that there was nothing left to run from. She was sure he would settle down and be the man she could see was in there.
"And now you'll be just like him, always on the run." She was so disappointed, so sad.
The news was out within a couple days. Turns out that despite his shortcomings and wrongdoings, the man was well like. I guess mom was right all along. Apparently my father was a cheerful drunk who somehow managed to keep his debts paid. No suspects, investigation ongoing. A mysterious visitor wanted for questioning. Mom was right, I'd have to stay on the run. Her words stuck in my head. Ringing out with pain. I set my jaw and I made up my mind; I wouldn't walk that path. A couple weeks after my return I grabbed a bag and headed out to the train station.
"Where will you go?" I heard my mother's voice behind me as I stood with one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train.
"I'm goin' back to New Orleans. To wear that ball and chain."
Well, there is a house in New Orleans they call the rising sun. And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. And God, I know I'm one.