May We Be Forgiven

forever. The fire truck comes first. The house shakes as it pulls up. I leave Jane and go to the window. They come across the grass in full fire gear, hats and coats, immune to the predawn spray of the irrigation system.
    I don’t know if he opens the door or they come in of their own accord.
    “Upstairs,” I shout.
    Quickly they are upon her. One stands apart, talking as if narrating into his radio. “We’ve got a middle-aged woman, open head injury with exposed matter; bring long board, full air, medic bag; request paramedic and police support. Who is this woman?” the narrator asks.
    “Jane. My brother’s wife.”
    “Do you have a driver’s license or other identification for her?”
    “Her purse is downstairs.”
    “Relevant medical information, allergies, underlying conditions?”
    “Does Jane have any medical problems?” I shout down.
    “A lamp hit her on the head,” my brother says.
    “Anything else?”
    “She takes a fuck 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.

    T he 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.

    G eorge 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 grass,” he says to the first police officer who arrives. “Please inform your troops.”
    “Which one of you is Mr. Silver?” the cop asks. I assume 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 nobody 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 fucking fuck are you fucking thinking, you fuck,” 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 fucking walked, in the fucking dark. Pussy Licker.”

    T he ambulance takes Jane, the cops take George, I’m left behind