May We Be Forgiven

Later when I went downstairs George was in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee. There was blood on his hands and flecks of something on his face — pieces of the lamp, I realized later, shards.

‘May I have some clothing?’ George asked.

‘Escort him,’ one of the cops said. ‘Take the clothes he’s wearing as evidence and search what he wants to put on.’

When George comes back he’s wearing my clothes, the ones I’ve been wearing for days. The ones I washed and had folded and draped over a chair.

‘Those are my clothes,’ I say.

‘And those are my pyjamas,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Now you’ve gone and done it.’

‘I’m not going to be able to help you this time,’ I tell him.

‘Have I committed a crime?’

‘It’s hard to know, isn’t it?’ one of the cops says.

I dress. The cops take George, the ambulance takes Jane, and an extra cop waits for me. I take the house key and her purse; it has her cellphone, it has whatever information will be needed.

‘Are we going to the hospital or the police station?’

‘Station,’ he says.

Before we go I call Claire in China. ‘There’s been an accident. Jane has been injured.’

‘Should I come there?’ Claire asks.

‘No,’ I say. I am hating her for how willing she was to let me go. Why did she send me into Jane’s arms: was she testing me? Did she really trust me that much?

At the police station, I am told that I am not a suspect, that they just need to ask a couple of questions to fill in the story.

‘Did you have sex with her?’

‘I’m going to decline to answer that.’

‘Were you having sex with her when your brother came home?’

‘No.’

‘Had you been having a relationship with your brother’s wife?’

‘No. I was there because my brother has been in the hospital.’

‘And your wife?’

‘She’s in China. It was her suggestion that I stay with my brother’s wife.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with your brother?’

‘Close but competitive. I remember when they bought the house. I remember helping them to pick things out — the kitchen tiles. After the accident I comforted her.’

The cop drives me to the hospital. The doctors tell me that if Jane survives she will never be the same. ‘Even in the short time she’s been with us, there has been a decline. She is retreating as if folding into herself. We have taken her into the operating room to clean the wound; we’ll drill holes to accommodate the swelling. The prognosis is poor.’

I have to call the children and say, Your mother is in a coma and your father is in jail.

I dial the oldest one first. ‘I comforted her — after the accident. I was asleep in your parents’ bed when he came home.’

‘Did he walk in on you?’ the boy asks.

‘He came home unexpectedly. He saw us sleeping. Your father has gone insane — they’re not even going to be able to hold him responsible. Maybe you should come home or maybe you don’t want to come home. Maybe you never want to come home again. Whatever it is we all understand. I remember when your parents bought the house, I remember picking out things.’

The boy tells me that he will call his sister — I am grateful for that, for not having to go through this again.

When Jane comes out of surgery I see her. They bring her down the hall attached to a huge mechanical ventilator — her head wrapped like a mummy, her eyes black and blue, broken nose. Her face looks like a meatball. There is a hose coming out from under the blanket, urine back at the end of the bed.

I kissed her there last night — she said no one had ever done that before — and then I kissed her again, deeply. I made out with her down there. I used my tongue — no one will ever know that.

I am telling myself that I did what I was told. Claire told me to stay. Jane wanted me —she pulled me towards her. Why am I being so weak? Why am I blaming the victim? I ask myself, did you ever think you should stop yourself or someone else but in the moment you couldn’t or didn’t? Now I understand the meaning of — it just happened. Or — it was an accident.

A police officer comes to find me in the waiting room. ‘Does your brother have a history of violence?’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Why?’

‘We found these in his pocket.’ He hands me a wad of newspaper clippings: LOVE TRIANGLE GONE WRONG. TRYST AWRY. CUCKOLDED HUSBAND PLUNGES 20 FLOORS. THE BEST DUMPLINGS IN HONK KONG. WESTCHESTER LOVE NEST RANSACKED. Scribbled on the clips are little notations: ‘I would have done it differently,’ ‘Good job,’ ‘Next time don’t forget Grandma.’ The handwriting looks familiar.

‘Someone has been in a library looking things up. Someone has been doing a lot of thinking.’

‘Where did you find these?’ I ask.

‘In the pocket of the pants he wore to the station. What were you thinking?’

I shrug. ‘I suppose we all try to make sense of things.’

I visit George on Tuesdays. They bring him to the visiting area in shackles; we speak through holes drilled in thick Plexiglas, holes filled with the spittle of every criminal’s family that has come before us.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

‘How could I be?’

‘It was an accident,’ I say.

‘I am not asking for your opinion,’ George says.

‘How are my roses?’ he asks.

‘They have black spot. I’ll spray again tonight if it doesn’t rain.’