May We Be Forgiven

shouldn’t be in a police station, a jar of hard candy, two metal desks that sound like a car crash if you accidentally kick them, which I do, tipping over an empty bottle of diet Dr. Pepper. “I’m the brother of the man you called his wife about,” I announce. “I’m here on behalf of George Silver.”
    “You’re the brother?”
    “Yes.”
    “We called his wife, she’s coming to get him.”
    “She called me, I’m here to pick him up.”
    “We wanted to take him to the hospital but he wouldn’t go; he kept repeating that he was a dangerous man and we should take him ‘downtown,’ lock him up, and be done with it. Personally, I think the man needs a doctor—you don’t walk away from something like that unscathed.”
    “So he got into a fight?”
    “Car accident, bad one. Doesn’t appear he was under the influence, passed a breath test and consented to urine, but really he should see a doctor.”
    “Was it his fault?”
    “He ran a red light, plowed into a minivan, husband was killed on impact, the wife was alive at the scene—in the back seat, next to the surviving boy. Rescue crew used the Jaws of Life to free the wife, upon release she expired.”
    “Her legs fell out of the car,” someone calls out from a back office. “The boy is in fair condition. He’ll survive,” the younger cop says. “Your brother’s in the rear, I’ll get him.”
    “Is my brother being charged with a crime?”
    “Not at the moment. There’ll be a full investigation. Officers noted that he appeared disoriented at the scene. Take him home, get him a doctor and a lawyer—these things can get ugly.”
    “He won’t come out,” the younger cop says.
    “Tell him we don’t have room for him,” the older one says. “Tell him the real criminals are coming soon and if he doesn’t come out now they’ll plug him up the bung hole in the night.”
    George comes out, disheveled. “Why are you here?” he asks me.
    “Jane called, and besides, you had the car.”
    “She could have taken a taxi.”
    “It’s late.”
    I lead George through the small parking lot and into the night, feeling compelled to take his arm, to guide him by his elbow—not sure if I’m preventing him from escaping or just steadying him. Either way, George doesn’t pull away, he lets himself be led.
    “Where’s Jane?”
    “At the house.”
    “Does she know?”
    I shake my head no.
    “It was awful. There was a light.”
    “Did you see the light?”
    “I think I may have seen it but it was like it didn’t make sense.”
    “Like it didn’t apply to you?”
    “Like I didn’t know.” He gets into the car. “Where’s Jane?” he asks again.
    “At the house,” I repeat. “Buckle your belt.”

    P ulling into the driveway, the headlights cut through the house and catch Jane in the kitchen, holding a pot of coffee.
    “Are you all right?” she asks when we are inside.
    “How could I be,” George says. He empties his pockets onto the kitchen counter. He takes off his shoes, socks, pants, boxers, jacket, shirt, undershirt, and stuffs all of it into the kitchen trash can.
    “Would you like some coffee?” Jane asks.
    Naked, George stands with his head tilted as if he’s hearing something.
    “Coffee?” she asks again, gesturing with the pot.
    He doesn’t answer. He walks from the kitchen through the dining room and into the living room, and sits in the dark—naked in a chair.
    “Did he get into a fight?” Jane asks.
    “Car accident. You’d better call your insurance company and your lawyer. Do you have a lawyer?”
    “George, do we have a lawyer?”
    “Do I need one?” he asks. “If I do, call Rutkowsky.”
    “Something is wrong with him,” Jane says.
    “He killed people.”
    There is a pause.
    She pours George a cup of coffee and brings it into the living room along with a dish towel that she drapes over his genitals like putting a napkin in his lap.
    The phone rings.
    “Don’t answer it,” George says.
    “Hello,” she says.
    “I’m sorry, he’s not home right now, may I take a message?” Jane listens. “Yes, I hear you, perfectly clear,” she says and then hangs up. “Do you want a drink?” she asks no one in particular, and then pours one for herself.
    “Who was it?” I ask.
    “Friend of the family,” she says, and clearly she means the family that was killed.
    For a long time he sits in the chair, the dish towel shielding his privates, the cup of coffee daintily on his lap. Beneath him a