The Ex-Con, My Newborn Sister, and Me

This is how my story ends. I was sure of it.

A two-door car sped down a winding road in Lexington, Kentucky. A cooler in the back seat knocked around. It’s owner, Mark, tanner than Brazilian cowhide, with sunglasses precariously resting on the back of his head, yelled to me, his eyes off the curved asphalt.

“Hand me a beer,” he commanded.

*****

You’re probably wondering what the fuck I was doing there.

Just six hours prior, Dad woke me up. “Krista, my 'better-half's' in labor. Aunt Mary Anne will be here soon.”

I was 17 years old, visiting my dad and "his better-half" ten hours away on their farm in Kentucky for a short three days, weeks before "his better-half's" due date with my first sibling. Out of desperation, Dad called his little sister, my Aunt Mary Anne, who lived an hour away. I loved Aunt Mary Anne.

She had a great astroturf front stoop, she'd convinced me at five years old to hurl cupcakes we’d just baked at her then-husband during a wicked fight, and she’d often give me the last ten dollars she had to her name. She was a raging alcoholic, a chain smoker, and she loved me with equal fervor.

As I left Dad’s unrenovated farmhouse and opened the car door, a man with big features, not unlike a character from “Grumpy Old Men,” was in her passenger seat. Who was this?

“Krista, this is Stanley, I’m taking care of him for a while. You know, I tell you what, Kristahhh...I bought you your first pair o’ blue jeans.”

Right on brand.

We pulled up to a house. Not hers. I got a craving for the familiar astroturf. A man opened the door.

Mark.

“Krista, you hang out with Mark while I give Stanley here a bath.”

Mark and I sat at a table in a dark dining room. The silence lasted forever.

“I just got out of jail,” he proclaimed.

Does he do improv on the side? What an icebreaker!

“Ummm…what did you do?” I sheepishly asked.

“I killed a man,” he answered confidently.

There’s really no good follow-up question a 17-year-old girl could ask at that point, at least not out loud.

He had six children from six different women and considered this fact a "flex." I find it interesting, for sure, but not in the way he thought. Firstly, who would ever sleep with him? He had nothing to offer but sperm with defective DNA. Why was my Aunt Mary Anne friends with him again? And where was she? How long does it take to bathe a seventy-some obese man who can’t walk? Couldn’t she rescue me from this conversation? I couldn’t wait to tell my boyfriend, Mike, about this. I wondered if he’d believe me.

“Krista???”

Mary Anne to the rescue. Thank you, Jesus. I see you, Boo!

“Let’s go to Walmart.”

Fuck me. Can’t I just stay here and watch reruns of “Saved by the Bell?” Ugh.

I was obedient, so I trudged to the two-door car with Mark and Aunt Mary Anne. Mark slipped into the driver's seat. Wait one hot second here...Mark literally pounded six beers in front of me while I was wondering what kind of ass-play he must've gotten in prison.

Driving whilst drunk is wrong. But driving whilst drinking? That’s definitely worse...right?

“Hand me a beer!”

I was silent. Finally I squeaked out a defiant “no,” and he immediately pulled over onto the grass, the tires still in the road over the yellow line. Maybe this is how my story ends? He put it in park and opened the door, opened the cooler, grabbed a cold one, slammed the cooler and slammed the door. How is Donna doing? Is my sister here yet? Will she be hilarious? Creative? Will we write stories together? Or, is my story ending the moment hers begins?

My story (life) continued into the Walmart parking lot.

“Krista, why don’t you go into the store with Mark.”

No. Why? Well because I don’t want anyone to think I’m WITH HIM — with him. Oh, why specifically? Because HE IS GARBAGE; look at him. He’s murdered someone! Now look at me; I’m wearing an outfit from Abercrombie!!! One that my mom bought me out of pity after a lacrosse player named Kyle dumped my ass.

But that’s not what I said. Dejected, I got out of the car and we walked into the store...together. Inside I tried to keep a healthy ten foot distance between us. It took tremendous effort. Insurmountable, even, for he wanted to be seen with me (re: Abercrombie, 17 years old). God, I hadn’t even felt such intense embarrassment from my own parents. Not even when my Dad blasted Alan Jackson from his truck when picking me up from Planet Play right after I had dodged a boy’s kiss. Being seen in public with this man in a place where I knew no one was much, much worse.

What on earth did he risk my life and 17-year-old dignity for? Well, it's complicated, yet simple. He took advantage of my naïveté and simplness, in order to elevate himself in the eyes of rual, opioid-addicted Kentucky.

Sunglasses. Maybe someone would assume I might have been kidnapped by this man and they would rescue me. Turns out, not a soul cared. And just shy of 3.5 hours later, we emerged with his new sunglasses. Knock-off Pit Vipers. He tried to pull me into his decision.

“Which of these three would make me look like the sharpest, coolest son of an ex-con gun?”

When we got back into the car, I felt so relieved. But that was fleeting. We still had the drunk ride back. This time, it was Mary Anne who asked for a beer.

"No," I told her. "Not on my watch."

The rest of the day was a blank until I walked into that hospital room to see the tiny baby with a head full of dark, gorgeous hair. I held her and thought, I can’t wait to tell you this story one day.