There are those that say one need be wary of Friday the thirteen, however, for us it is Thursday the twelve that was the real problem. Though, those two days were only a capstone to a bizarre and unsettling week.

On Thursday, we were rear-ended attempting to pull into our driveway. I sat, like I do every weekday, with my left turn signal on waiting for the brief string of cars to pass us by on the west-bound lane when I looked up at the rear view mirror to see a gold Pathfinder, that seemingly forgot it had brakes, was headed straight for us. Hollering, “We are going to get hit!”, I took my foot off the brake and tried to steer onto my neighbor’s lawn opposite our house. There was a short squeal of brakes followed by a crunch and groan of steel as Management screamed and threw herself over Gabi (one of us always rides in the back with her).

Once the car came to rest on our yard, tearing up what little remains of what might be generously called a lawn, the two of us launched out of the car and at the driver of the truck. Now you might be thinking, “Um, Gabi?”, and I’ll admit this was not our finest hour. Gabi was screaming and all I could think of was to keep the other person from driving off, something she was franticly trying to do but was being frustrated by oncoming traffic that decided an accident and two swearing lunatics were just something to be driven around like a stray box or dead squirrel.

Now our method of deterrence centered on strings of profanity built around variants of fuck, though, Management used twat in some unique and spicy ways. Like I said, not our finest hour but after those furious opening seconds had passed we both returned to the car and got Gabi out. Which was the smart thing to do as a cop had sauntered up onto the scene.

“A cop?,” you ask.

Yes. A cop was sitting two houses down and watched the entire accident.

“Why was a cop sitting two houses down?”

I’ll get to that in a minute.

The cop kept us separated, Management went inside to change the baby and call her parents, while I milled about the front yard with Peri talking with one of our fleet footed neighbors who was sent over by his wife to check on Gabi.

Crumpled.

That night both Management and Gabi went to the hospital to be looked over. Management suffered minor whiplash, a strained back, and a sprained wrist. Gabi received a clean bill of health but the next morning we discovered her poor little hand was swollen up like a tin of Vienna sausages that had gone bad. We made a quick trip to the pediatrician and they sent us over to the Connecticut Children’s Medical Center–which by the way has the coolest architecture and some of the friendliest staff–for x-rays. Nothing is broken so they are guessing that her hand must have struck the side of her carrier during the accident and that the ER doctors didn’t notice it because it took several hours for discoloration to appear. However, sprained fingers or not, she is still chewing on them and grabbing for her toys so it would seem that we are more affected by it than she.

Now, back to the cop who fortuitously watched the entire accident.

The state’s mobile crime lab.

Our neighbor, someone we have talked to on a regular enough basis to become acquainted and even mingled with at several neighborhood parties, is implicated in the murder of his stepson. My recollection of Calvert Wray, who goes by Shaun, was a mild manner unassuming sort of fellow from Jamaica that was excited for his first New England Christmas–he went all out this past season decorating the yard and house with lights–and even eager to shovel his drive after the first snows of the season.

Over the past couple of weeks we watched cops come and go, usually talking with Shaun in the driveway, and we figured that either his new marriage was rocky or that the two boys had gotten into some trouble. Easter weekend, though, saw a cop posted outside the house day and night and on Tuesday we came home to see crime scene tape strung up and since then have watched a parade of town and state police combing the house and property as well as canvassing the neighborhood.

Oddly, I’m sort of detached about the murder. Maybe it is the accident and the flurry of hospital visits but I feel sort of empty about it. Be certain that I have compassion for the family but I am not awash with a sort of selfish fear that people are sometimes gripped by, fear for themselves and their family that they might be tainted by the tragedy. Modern life or sociopathic tendencies? I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that I need a vacation as this week has been one long string of bizarre.