Bless me Father for I have sinned. Sixteen years ago this night, I committed murder.

God I wish I was Catholic. I wish I could unburden myself that easily, wipe it away, move on. Southern Baptists don’t have that luxury. We have to relive it, every year, every day, every hour, every minute.

Nine p.m. May 11, 1988. I am sitting home at the kitchen table. Frankie is asleep. Rock is gone, moved out day before yesterday. But I know he’ll be back, he always is. And I know where he is: sleeping on the couch at the onshore offices in Houma because the chopper is due to take off for the rig at 4 a.m.

I am exhausted, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I smell like smoke but I don’t have the energy to take a bath. Most of all, I am so, so, angry. Upset with myself for screwing up at work. Pissed off at Peggy for her condescending attitude while she allowed me to screw up. But most of all, I am infuriated, incensed, enraged at Rock.

I could see disaster as soon as the word came in. Termite Theriot jumped out of his lair of Continue reading →