May We Be Forgiven Part 2

"She takes a f.u.c.k of a lot of vitamins," George says.

"Is she pregnant?" the narrator asks.

Just the question makes me weak.

"She shouldn't be," George says, and I can't help but think that's got an edge to it.

"Stabilize the neck," one of the firemen says.

"It's not her neck, it's her head," I say.

"Stand back," the narrator says.

The paramedics arrive, slip an orange board under Jane, tape her to it with what looks like duct tape, and wrap her head in gauze-she looks like a mummy, a battle casualty, or maybe a Shriner en route to a convention.

Jane makes a noise, a low guttural growl, as five of them lift her and carry her out, leaving a trail of sterile debris and heavy footprints. Turning the corner, they knock into the banister, and with a crack it snaps. "Sorry." They are out the kitchen door and into the back of the ambulance faster than you might think.

George is in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee. There's blood on his hands and flecks of something on his face, pieces of the lamp-shards. "No parking on the gra.s.s," he says to the first police officer who arrives. "Please inform your troops."

"Which one of you is Mr. Silver?" the cop asks. I a.s.sume he must be a detective because he is not wearing a uniform.

We both raise our hands, simultaneously: "I am."

"Let's see some identification."

George fumbles as if looking for his, flapping the hospital gown.

"We're brothers," I say. "I'm the elder."

"So-who did what to whom?" He's got his notebook out.

George sips his coffee.

I say nothing.

"It's not a complicated question; either way we'll dust the lamp for prints. Dust," the detective calls out. "Get a full evidence team." He coughs. "So-is there anyone else home, anyone else we should be looking for? If it wasn't one of you that clocked her with the lamp, maybe the person who did it is still in the house, maybe there's another victim to be found." He pauses, waiting for someone to say something.

The only sound is the tick-tock of the kitchen clock. I almost lose it when the cuckoo pops out-cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, six times. "Rake the house," the detective shouts to his men. "Make sure there's n.o.body else. Any evidence-bag it. That includes the lamp."

He turns his attention back to us. "It's Monday morning, I got out of bed to come here. My wife gives it to me every Monday morning, no questions asked, she likes me to start the week happy, so I'm not exactly feeling fondly towards you."

"What the f.u.c.king f.u.c.k are you f.u.c.king thinking, you f.u.c.k," George blurts.

Two large cops move to block the kitchen door. Suddenly there is no exit.

"Cuff him," the detective says.

"I wasn't talking to you," George says, "I was talking to my brother." George looks at me. "And those are my pajamas," he says. "Now you've gone and done it."

"I'm not going to be able to help you this time," I say.

"Have I committed a crime?" George asks.

"Hard to know, isn't it," one of the cops says, cuffing him.

"Where are you taking him?" I ask.

"Is there a particular place you'd like him to go?"

"He was in the hospital. He must have walked out last night-notice the gown under his clothes?"

"So he eloped?"

I nod.

"And how did he get home?"

"I don't know."

"I f.u.c.king walked, in the f.u.c.king dark. p.u.s.s.y Licker."

The ambulance takes Jane, the cops take George, I'm left behind with an officer waiting for the evidence team. I start to go upstairs, the cop stops me: "Crime scene," he says.

"Clothing," I say, flapping my pajama legs-actually George's pajama legs.

He escorts me up to the bedroom, which looks like a tornado hit, the lamp in pieces on the floor, blood, the bed undone. I change out of my brother's pajamas, and without a word to the wise, I borrow George's clean clothes, still in the dry cleaner's plastic bag hanging off the closet door.

"Leave the dirties in the room," the cop says. "You never know what'll come into play."

"You're right," I say, and we go back downstairs.

As the cop follows me down, I feel strangely like a suspect. It occurs to me that it would be smart to call George's lawyer and update him on the turn of events, but I can't remember his name. I'm also wondering if the cop is somehow watching me, if I should be worried about making fast moves, reaching for anything and so on. Also, how do I get away from him in order to make a private phone call?

"I think I'll go put some laundry in the dryer."

"Wait," the cop says. "That you can do later. Wet clothes stay wet."

"Okey-dokey." I sit at the kitchen table and casually pick up the phone and go through the caller ID, thinking the lawyer's name is there and will ring a bell. Bingo-Rutkowsky.

"Okay if I use the phone?"

"It's your nickel."

"Okay if I step outside?"

He nods.

"Did I get you at a bad time?" I ask when Rutkowsky, the lawyer, answers.

"Who is this?"

"Silver, Harry Silver, George Silver's brother."

"I'm on my way into court," the lawyer says.

I'm standing in the front yard, barefoot in the wet gra.s.s. "There have been developments." I pause. "George walked out of the hospital last night, and Jane has been injured, a lamp got her on the head. The police are here, waiting for an evidence team, and..."

"How come you're there?"

"I was asked to keep Jane company while my brother was in the hospital."

"Where is Jane?"

"She's off to the hospital."

"And George?"

"They've taken him as well."

"Is there the sense that the crime is serious?"

"Yes."

"When the police come, follow them even if they ask you to leave, you go wherever they go. Don't allow them to move anything, and if they ask you to touch or move anything, keep your hands in your pockets. They can take photos, they can pick up things with tweezers and put them in baggies."

"The neighbors are watching out their windows."

"I'll meet you at the house at four-thirty; until then, don't disturb the scene."

"I'll leave a key under the fake rock by the front door, in case I'm not back."

"Where are you going?"

"The hospital."

"Let me have your cell in case I need you."

I give him the number and he hangs up. In my head I hear Jane's voice: "Condoms?"

Yes. And where are they now? Gone, used, finished, dropped in the kitchen trash, loaded with j.i.s.m.

I go back into the house. "Mind if I make a fresh pot of joe?"

"I won't stop you," the cop says. "Was that dog always here?" The cop points to Tessie, who is licking the water from my feet. Her bowl is dry. "That's Tessie."

I give the dog fresh water and kibble.

The evidence team suits up on the front lawn, laying out white Tyvek onesies and then climbing into them as if mounting a hazmat operation, complete with booties and latex gloves. "No, really, it's okay," I say. "We're not contagious and the carpet's already wrecked." They don't respond. "Coffee anyone?" I ask, holding up my mug. Usually I don't drink coffee, but this morning I'm already on my fourth cup; I've got my reasons. As directed, I follow them from room to room. "So you use film and digital?"

"Yep," the photographer says, snapping away.

"That's really interesting. And how do you know what to photograph?"

"Sir, if you could please stand back."

Before they leave, the cop takes out his notebook. "A couple of queries before I go. There are some blank spots, holes in the story."

"Like what?"

"Were you having s.e.x with her when your brother came home?"

"I was sleeping."

"Have you been having a relations.h.i.+p with your brother's wife?"

"I am here because my brother has been in the hospital."

"And your wife?"

"She's in China. It was my wife's suggestion that I stay with my brother's wife."

"How would you describe your relations.h.i.+p with your brother?"

"Close. I remember when they bought the house. I remember helping them pick things out-the kitchen tiles. After the accident, I comforted Jane."

The cop slaps his notebook closed. "All right, then, we know where to find you."

When the cop leaves, I discover Jane's purse on the front hall table and go through it, pocketing her cell phone, house keys, and, inexplicably-lipstick. Before I put her lipstick in my pocket, I open it, sweeping "Sweet Fuchsia" across my lips.

From the car, I call Claire in China. "There's been an accident; Jane has been injured."

"Should I come home tomorrow?"

In China tomorrow is today, and where we are today is tomorrow there. "Stay where you are," I say. "It's too complicated."

Why was Claire so willing to let me go? Why did she send me into Jane's arms? Was she testing me? Did she really trust me that much?

"I'm going to the hospital now and will call again when I know more." A pause. "How's work?"

"Fine. I've been feeling punk, I ate something strange."

"Maybe a worm?"

"Call me later."

When I get to the hospital, they tell me Jane is in surgery and George is still in the Emergency Room, shackled to a gurney in the rear.

"You stupid f.u.c.k," he says when I part the curtain.