It was a week and a half of hiding. The houses of strangers offered anonymity and
bedclothes that made me itch. I bought a mini-Slinky, watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
and tried to explain to my two year old sister why we couldn't go home yet.
"Daddy's lawyer says it's not safe yet."
My father pulled me aside then, during a commercial.
"Don't talk to Katie about lawyers. She doesn't understand. You're just going to scare her."
I'd hoped we'd get to stay at my other grandparents' house. The sane grandparents on my dad's
side of the family. But that was too obvious; we would be found there, and very nearly were. My mother's
father Bill was almost certainly furious, and would be charging up to Vermont in his big blue Lincoln as soon
as he figured it out.
We were at Grandma June's for all of 10 minutes before phone calls were made, and it was back in
the car again to one of Grandma June's friend's homes. There was a house on their land that was vacant
for the winter; another family lived there during the warmer months. This family bred horses; their
house was festooned everywhere with crisp ribbons celebrating the form and athletic achievements of
several handsome equines.
The house was big, with a skylight. It smelled funny. I wondered if the family kept the horses
indoors, perhaps?
We had a few small travel games but no real toys. Grandma June brought over new pajamas (with feet!) for us
(in his haste to leave, my father had forgotten to pack them) and some books for me to read.
My father, my sister, my brother, and I stayed in the Horse House for maybe three days. Somehow
the news got through that Bill had learned where we were; my dad and Grandma June apparently had a
network of people helping them out.
Since he hadn't succeeded in getting us 3 kids over to England (a concerned British relative had
informed my dad that his children were in danger of being taken out of the US without his consent),
Bill decided to make things difficult for us while we were on the run.
My dad discovered that his credit cards had been cancelled. Bill had called up the companies and
impersonated my father, probably claiming the cards had been stolen. He was probably permitted to ransack
the house by my mother, who at this point did little more than stare into space and cry.
My dad tried to call our house, to see if anyone was there. My mother, or Bill, or his wife Mary.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your call again.
Bill had changed OUR phone number. Probably just to fuck with my dad.
So we left the Horse House and backtracked to Connecticut, about an hour north of our home. We
stayed with another friend of the family, a lady who seemed elderly to me at the time, but who was
probably closer to middle-aged. She had a puffy ginger cat; I can't remember its name, but it slept on my bed
while I was there.
Stepping back into the split-level ranch that was our own home, I sensed dust and quiet. Papers
and receipts settled in the corners. My bed was cold and my sheets smelled of familiarity. Apparently,
it was "safe" for us to come home now; the evil kidnapping plot had been thwarted. For this, I have
always thought of my father as a sort of hero.
In the kitchen something was missing. Where the microwave had been was a suspiciously clean
rectangle on the countertop and a lonely electrical outlet.
How sick and twisted do you have to be to steal your son-in-law's kitchen appliances? My grandparents
had seized (a hostage?) the microwave, and we were going to get it back.
My dad drove by my grandparents' house, the house of strange memories, the house where things had
started to unravel. The garage was open. In it, unguarded, was our massive Kenmore microwave. My
dad lifted it up as if it were made of styrofoam, and hefted it into the trunk of the car. We drove
back home and reinstalled it in its rightful place in our kitchen.
It turned out that Bill had brought the microwave over to his house (the predator returns with his
prey) and my grandmother had thrown an absolute fit.
"Those things are dangerous, Bill dear! I won't have one in my house! All those nuclear
radiation rays, boring into our heads. I won't have it!"
My grandma met the microwave, and promptly banished it to exile in the garage.
My dad was left with the assurance that his in-laws were most definitely psychotic.
This has been a 100% True Story. The events described above happened in the winter of my ninth year.