Father and Uncle Curio

Whenever Uncle Curio visited us, Father and he would sit for hours in the small room at the end of the house. I and mom were never allowed there.

That day was no different. Father and Curio were in the last room, mom was doing the dishes. Curiosity taking over, I tiptoed down the corridor that led to that room. Nearing the door, I heard crashing noises. I pressed my hand against the door knob, and opened the door.

I saw Father stand against a wall, his eyes red. I had never seen Father so angry. Curio lay motionless on the floor, propped against the opposite wall, eyes fixed on Father. I could see blood streaming down the side of Curio’s head. Bank notes were strewn over the floor like confetti. The only piece of furniture, a small low table lying betwen the two men, had a black gun kept on it.

Both men turned to look at me. Father thunders, “You aren’t supposed to be here”. His voice reverberates in the room, down the corridor and I heard Mother’s hastening footsteps approaching.

Mom sits me at the dining table with a bowl of icecream. Later, both men joined us for a quiet lunch. They conversed in silent stares.

In the evening just before Curio got into his car to leave, he hugged me and gave a box of chocolates. The bloody mark was still visible on the side of his face. I watched as his car disappeared into the distance.