May We Be Forgiven

It’s funny how quickly something becomes a routine, a way of doing business. I stay with Jane and it is as though we are playing house. At night I take out the trash, lock the door, she makes a snack, we watch a little television and read. I read whatever it was that George had been reading; his newspapers and magazines and a big history of Thomas Jefferson that sits beside the bed.

The accident happened and then it happened. It didn’t happen the night of the accident or the night we all visited. It happened the night after that, the night after Claire told me not to leave Jane alone, the night after Claire left for China. Claire went on her trip, George went downhill and then it happened. It was the thing that was never meant to happen.

The evening visit to the hospital went badly. For reasons that were not clear, George was locked in a padded room, his arms bound to his body. We took turns peering through the small window. He looked horrible. Jane asked to go in and see him. The nurse cautioned her against it, but she insisted. Jane went to him, called his name. He looked at her; she swept his hair out of his face, wiped his furrowed brow, and he turned on her, he pinned her with his body and bit her again and again, breaking the skin in several places. The aides rushed in and pulled him off of her. She was taken downstairs and treated in the emergency room, the wounds cleaned and dressed. She was given some kind of a shot, like a rabies vaccination.

We came back to the house, had our tea and went about our business. I changed out of my clothes, the same clothes I’d been wearing for days and washing every night. I put on a pair of his pyjamas and went upstairs.

I hugged her. I wanted to be comforting. I was in his pyjamas, she was still dressed and I didn’t think anything would happen. ‘I apologize,’ I said, without knowing what I was saying. And she was against me; she put her hands on the sides of her skirt and slid it down. Jane pulled me towards her.

There was one time that I almost told Claire about Thanksgiving — in fact I tried to tell her. It was one night just after sex when I was feeling particularly close to her. As I started to tell the story, Claire sat up straight; she pulled the sheet tight against her body and I backed away from what I was about to say. I changed it. I left out the kiss. And I just mentioned something about Jane brushing against me.

‘You were in her way and she was trying to get past you and not get to you,’ Claire said.

I didn’t mention that I felt the head of my cock pressing against my sister-in-law’s tight skirt, her hips, her thighs pressed together.

‘Only you would think she was making a pass,’ Claire said, disgusted.

‘Only me,’ I repeated.

She pulled me to her; her hips were narrow. My hand slid down into her panties. It was a new jungle, new wildlife. She sighed. The feel of her, this private softness, was incredible. I remember thinking, This is not really going to happen — is it?

Her mouth was on me. She reached for something, some kind of cream; it started cold and then went warm. She stroked me, looking me straight in the eye. And then again her mouth was on me and there was no way of saying no. She pulled my trousers out from under, quickly had me down and was upon me, riding me. It was like nervous heaven. I exploded.

Drenched in her scent, but too shaken to shower or to fall asleep in their bed, I waited until she was asleep and then went downstairs into the kitchen and washed myself with dish soap. I was in my brother’s kitchen at three in the morning, soaping my cock at his sink, drying myself with a dish towel that said ‘Home Sweet Home’.

It happened again in the morning when she found me on the sofa, and then again in the afternoon after we visited him.

‘What happened to your hand?’ George asked her. He was back in his room with no memory of the night before.

Jane began to cry.

‘You look like hell,’ he said. ‘Get some rest.’

‘It’s been a difficult time,’ I said. That evening we opened a bottle of wine and did it again, more slowly, deliberately, intentionally.

Somehow the hospital let him out, or perhaps he just decided to leave. Inexplicably, he was able to walk out unnoticed in the middle of the night. He comes home in a taxi, using money that he’s found wrinkled at the bottom of his pocket. He can’t find his keys so he rings the bell and the dog barks.

I think I remember that part — the dog barking.

Or maybe he didn’t ring the bell and the dog didn’t bark. Maybe he took the spare key from under the mat, or from inside the fake rock in the garden by the door, and like an intruder he came silently into his own house.

He comes upstairs thinking he’ll crawl into his bed, but his spot is taken. I don’t know how long he stood there. I don’t know how long he waited before he lifted the lamp from her side of the bed and smashed it on to her head.

That’s when I woke up.

She was screaming. The one blow wasn’t enough. She tried to get up; the lamp wasn’t even broken. George looked at me and then picked the lamp up again and swung it at her, a big blow like a baseball bat. The porcelain vase that was the base, exploded against her head. By then I was out of bed. He dropped what remained of the lamp — blood streaming down his fingers — picked up the telephone and tossed it to me.

‘Call it in,’ he said.

I stood facing him. We were the same. We have the same gestures, the same faces, the family chin, my father’s brow, the same mismatched selves. I was staring at him, not knowing how this was going to work out. An awful gurgling sound prompted me to dial the phone.

Accidentally, I drop the phone. I bend to pick it up and my brother’s foot catches me under the chin, kicking me hard. My head snaps back. I am down as he leaves the room. I see his hospital gown under his clothes, hanging out like some kind of tail. She is making a horrible noise. I can’t get up. I dial 0. I dial 0 like it is a hotel, like I expect someone to answer. There is a long recording, a kind of spoken-word essay about what the 0 button can do for you, and I realize it will be forever before a real person comes on. I hang up and after several shaky starts am able to call the police.

‘A woman has been beaten. Hurry,’ I say, and give them the address.

I go into the bathroom and get a washcloth as though that will help, as though I can just wipe the blood away. I couldn’t even find the spot, her head was a mash, blood and hair and bone and lamp, and I just held the washcloth there and waited.

And it took forever.

Next page: Later when I went downstairs George was in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee.