Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

Ten-year-old Scott McKenzie put his arm around his little sister Cheryl. They were hunkered down in the closet of Scott’s room in their home in Middle Falls, Oregon. Even hidden away, the sounds of the fight in the living room still echoed loudly in their ears. His closet had been their sanctuary for the endless series of fights his parents had.

This particular set-to had started like many before it. It had begun with their father coming home late and drunk. It escalated from accusations of infidelity to the sounds of slapping, punching, and furniture being knocked over.

Scott held Cheryl’s face in his hands, willing her to meet his eyes. “What do mares eat?”

“Oats,” the little girl said, a waver in her voice.

“And what about does?”

“Oats.”

“And how about little lambs?”

“Little lambs eat ivy.”

“A kid’ll eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?”

Scott had used this game to distract Cheryl from the terrible happenings in their home on dozens of occasions, but tonight, Mairzy Doats wasn’t doing the trick. She did her best to look at Scott, but her eyes continually darted to the slats in the closet door. He felt her tremble under his protective arm.

Things went deathly quiet in the living room. Scott hoped that meant that the fight was over and the cleanup was in progress. If it’s not that, then things are about to get a lot worse. I need to go and see if Mom needs help, but I don’t want to leave Cheryl all alone in here.

He held Cheryl tightly against him. This quiet in the eye of the storm unnerved both of them. He strained his ears, but couldn’t pick up any sound.

I need to go check. He might be killing Mom.

He whispered in Cheryl’s ear. “Come on. I think it’s over.” He acted as though he had a brand new idea. “Hey, it’s still warm outside.” It wasn’t, but the cold was an easier problem to deal with than whatever was happening in the house. “Maybe we can go for a walk around the neighborhood. We’ll be safe out there.” His mind’s eye went to the playground down the street, lit by the soft glow of a streetlight. “There won’t be anyone at the park. Would you like me to push you on the swings?”

Cheryl nodded, but the look in her eyes showed she was scared to the point of not thinking.

Scott pushed the closet door open. Slowly. It made the barest of creaks and he paused, waiting. There was still no sound from the other room.

Scott grabbed Cheryl’s small hand and led her out of the closet. They were both in stocking-feet. There was no time to think about tenny runners. Scott was focused on one thing.

Distance.

Distance from the fear, the fighting, the violence that hung over the house like a dark cloud.

They crept past Scott’s bed. Past the open Curious George book turned face down on the floor. Past the Howdy Doody marionette that laid crumpled beside the toy box.

The door to his room was closed. Scott laid his hand on the knob for two beats while he labored to hear anything that might indicate whether they were walking into either safety or danger. The house was still bathed in eerie quiet.

I should be able to hear them talking by now. What are they doing?

Scott and Cheryl walked on cat’s feet, down the hall. Past the bathroom, and their parents’ bedroom. The light from the living room cut like a knife’s blade across the deep shadows of the hall. Scott put his toes as close to the light as he could and slowly leaned forward to peek around the corner.

A gunshot filled the house and echoed down the hallway. It was made all the louder, all the more terrible, by the deafening silence that had preceded it.

Scott cried out and jumped instinctively back. His cry was lost in the echoing reverberation of the shot.

He turned and looked at Cheryl. Her eyes were thrown wide, her mouth a perfect circle of fear. He reached for her, but she had lost her small reserve of courage. She turned and skittered down the hall, not caring how much noise she made.

Scott nodded. Good. I don’t want her to see whatever I am about to see.

With the echoing explosion of the gun gone, deep silence returned to the house.

His heart beat a pounding rhythm in his throat, but he forced his leaden feet to take another step toward the living room. Maybe he shot the gun to scare her. To scare us. But why can’t I hear her?

He forced himself to look around the corner.

What he saw remained in his memory for many lives.

His mother was on one end of the sofa, his father on the other. Her head was thrown back and her right arm was laid across the back of the couch. She looked as though she had braced herself for a long laugh. The blood spatter on the wall behind her told a different story.

Scott stared at his mother while the realization of what he was seeing sank into his brain.

He finally tore his eyes away from her and slowly turned his head toward his father.

Mark McKenzie sat staring directly at his son. With his violence discharged, he was calm. Dead calm. His eyes never moved from Scott.

Scott looked at his father with wide eyes. A gun sat on the sofa cushion next to him.

Mark McKenzie picked the pistol up and looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. He pointed it directly at Scott, considering. There was no shake in his hand.

Scott wanted to turn and run like Cheryl had, but he stood rooted to the spot.

With exquisite slowness, Mark McKenzie moved the gun in an arc until it was pointing directly at his own face. He continued to stare directly at Scott. He let his jaw fall open, pushed the barrel of the gun against the top of his mouth. He blinked once.

Pulled the trigger.

Twenty-year-old Scott McKenzie dried the last of the night’s dishes and put the casserole dish and plates away.

From the living room, his grandfather called, “Hurry along, Scotty, it’s almost time.”

It was December 1, 1969. Scott and Cheryl McKenzie had been living with their grandparents for ten and a half years—ever since the day their father had shot their mother and then himself. Earl and Cora—Gramps and Gram to Scott and Cheryl—had flown into Portland the next day. They drove to Middle Falls and brought the siblings home.

Scott was glad to have the opportunity to move to Indiana. In Evansville, he was only “the new guy.” Back in Middle Falls, he would have been “the kid whose dad shot his mom.”

His parents’ murder-suicide had changed his life in a thousand different ways. Where he finished school was only one. Certain images from that night would never leave his memory, no matter how much time passed, or how he tried to forget them. It was almost impossible for him to think of his mother without seeing the image of her stretched out on that sofa.