It was on a dark, lonely Indiana road where the tire finally needed to be changed. One hundred miles of freeway and mechanics at every exit, and it’s not until nightfall in a broken down gas station that my step father decides to change the tire on our Class A motor home. Across a long field, about a half mile away, lays the only sign of life – a mansion-sized building enshrouded in the night’s blackness. As tensions were already strained between my mother and her husband, the desolate area only helped to fuel the fire.
Despite their constant bickering, my mother was able to pay attention to the car that pulled to the side of the road across the street. After a moment, the car pulled away and the bickering got worse. A couple of minutes of keeping myself busy past before I noticed my mother tense up. Through the window nearby I glimpsed the car again, this time the driver was by his trunk. Before I could process anything, my mother was tossing me into the bathroom (the only room without an exit) – leaving my brother to fend for himself with his Stephen King book in the back of the RV – and unsheathing a butcher knife. There she stood in plain sight of the Indiana Serial Killer, wielding a knife at the RV’s doorway and screaming obscenities at her husband. With the toss of his 5 lb Maglite, my step father stormed away from his unfinished task, anger radiating from his expression. By the time we pulled away from the gas station, the “Prowler” had run off (most definitely terrified of the crazy lady with the knife in her pajamas).
On our trip back to New York, from Indiana to the border of Pennsylvania, the RV was completely silent.