Sample Pages: Vogel Flies South (page 2 of 3)
Before he strapped on his gun, he walked to the window. We lived in a garage apartment near downtown. The daughters of the owner of the garage apartment were sunbathing. They were teenagers, students at Tyler High, and they knew that my father worked the afternoon shift. I think that the older one had a crush on him, maybe they both did; nevertheless, they were always there, lying in the sun, rosy and moist.
My father sat on the bed and stared out the window. It was quiet and I could hear his breathing; I felt the coolness of the wood floor and I smelled the faint aroma of his aftershave. I walked to the window. I wore only a pair of shorts. I peered over the window ledge and I saw the girls and I looked at my father.
He asked, "What do you think?" I didn't think anything. I was only four and all I saw were the trees. Then, in some transformation, I saw the girls and the trees, and I heard the buzz of insects and the murmur of the wind, and I smelled the grass and my father's aftershave. I shivered and that moment has remained in my memory, whereas other moments, perhaps as poignant, have died.
"Where is your mother?" Another question that I couldn't answer. But I knew that she would appear soon. She always did. She would appear and my father would climb aboard his motorcycle and disappear. Then it would be night and my mother and I would begin our vigil, and we would arm oursleves with popcorn and chocolate and sit in front of the television and warm oursleves in its light. It was our nightly ritual. I think it was those nights that turned my from the sun to the night. Even now, I would rather work late in the evening until early morning and then sleep into the afternoon. Both my father and mother were creatures of the night.
My father worked the 4:00 to midnight shift. he glided through our little town on a black and white Harley-Davidson. There were only two motorcycle policemen on the force, my father and my uncle, Robert O'Roy. They were funny, riding together most of the time, both tall and slim, dressed in their black uniforms. Later, when I studied history, I became fascinated with the German army because one of the first pictures I was of the Wehrmacht, the German army, tearing through Lieges in an attempt to tap the Britush and French armies. At the head of the column were the German motorcyclists. All the while, I saw my father and uncle riding their