BYU Studies, robber, essay
I remember standing on the back porch of our rental in Meadow Vista, California—the steady gurgles of a running creek in the backyard, the faint smell of dry firewood in the cardboard box behind me. Dad (the con- tract killer, not the bank robber) wore a tank top and jeans with the pant legs cut into very short shorts. He was six foot two, an anomaly in our lineage of shorter men. I don’t recall him ever yelling at me, and he was naturally amicable, but he did raise his voice on occasion and could crack granite with his eyes. On cold days, the white scars on his face became noticeable, like a black light revealing pale incantations in secret ink. But today was a hot day. Today, he was handsome.
"My Stepdad Was a Bank Robber,"
BYU Studies Quarterly: Vol. 60:
1, Article 10.
Available at: https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/byusq/vol60/iss1/10