Father pulled my sister's hair with his left hand. The 5-foot flat mother inserted herself between them to protect my sister, but instead caught Stray Hammer's fist. I watched from the doorway of my sister's bedroom. She was 18 years old. I was 7 years old.
A few years later, my sister said I was crying and screaming at the door. I don't remember that. I remember standing in front of the brick of our small house in North Bergen, New Jersey, thinking that if I went outside and ran away, I would forget whatever they were fighting about. They put aside their differences to come looking for me. But I was too scared to move away from there.
My sister eventually broke free from my father's grip and ran to the neighbor's house. The next thing I remember is the police in our living room, casually breaking things as if they had always been there. I am sure they interviewed my father, but I don't remember that. I remember him sitting in the living room chair, head in his hands, with a cloudy expression in his eyes.
“Why did you have to do that?” I asked.
“If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all,” he replied.