Wednesday January 23, 1958
Charlie and Caril’s third day in the ramshackle house on Belmont Ave. The two eat, sleep, watch TV, play gin rummy, toss the knife into the wall, and according to Charlie, have sex. People have been coming to the back door since Tuesday morning—Caril tells them people inside have the flu and sends them on her way. She will swear for all time that she was a hostage, that she believed Charlie when he told her he had her family hidden away and will shoot them and her if she tries to run.
    Wednesday afternoon two uniforms come to the door; Caril wakes Charlie; tells the cops about the flu inside, and they leave, like everyone else. The world will never forgive her for that: See! people would insist, she’s as guilty as he is! Caril could have walked right off the porch with the cops, told them who was inside, and ten people would have lived; they forget that Charlie swore he would shoot to kill whoever came in the front door. He has enough shells for the 12 gauge he sawed off earlier that day. Caril swears she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t know her mother and little sister and stepfather lay frozen in the outhouse only a few feet away.
