When Billy Shot Sis

I was eight years old when Sis, my 14-year-old babysittter who lived next door, was shot dead in the garage by her older brother Billy. 

Right before it happened I was sprawled out on the living room floor in my flannel PJs, reading the Sunday funnies that came with our newspaper. Lying next to me, napping, was our boxer, Caesar. My parents were a few yards away, having breakfast in the kitchen. 

A shot rang out. It was very loud, as our house was a tiny little thing and the walls were thin. Naturally the dog woke up and went crazy, running around in circles and barking.

My father ran out to investigate and returned moments later with a strange expression on his face. My mother asked what happened. "We're gonna need a new sitter," was his reply. 

Supposedly Billy had been cleaning his rifle but who knows -- the two of them fought a lot. And why did a 16-year-old own a rifle? We lived in the suburbs, 35 minutes outside of Manhattan, not exactly hunting territory.

Anyway, that's when and where I got my fear of guns and wry wit.