May We Be Forgiven

story, Claire sat up straight and 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 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 hips, her thighs pressed together.
    “Only you would think she was making a pass,” Claire said, disgusted.
    “Only me,” I repeated. “Only me.”
    Jane pulls me to her; her hips are narrow. My hand slides down into her panties. It is a new jungle. She sighs. The feel of her, this private softness, is incredible. And I’m thinking, this is not really happening—is it?
    Her mouth is on me; she reaches for something, some kind of cream, it starts cold and then goes warm. She strokes me, looking me in the eye. And then again her mouth is on me and there is no way to say no. She pulls my pajamas out from under, is quickly upon me, riding me. I explode.
    Drenched in her scent, but too shaken to shower or to fall asleep in their bed, I wait until she is asleep and then go downstairs, to the kitchen, and wash myself with dish soap. I am in my brother’s kitchen at three in the morning, soaping my cock at his sink, drying myself with a towel that says “Home Sweet Home.” It happens again in the morning, when she finds me on the sofa, and then again in the afternoon, after we visit George. “What’s the story with your hand?” George asks Jane the next day, noticing her bandages. He’s back in his room, with no memory of the night before.
    Jane starts to cry.
    “You look like hell,” he says. “Get some rest.”
    “It’s been a difficult time,” I say.
    That evening we open a bottle of wine and do it again, more slowly, deliberately, intentionally.

    T he hospital lets him out, or more likely he simply decides to leave. Inexplicably , he is able to walk out unnoticed in the middle of the night. He comes home in a taxi, using money that he’s found at the bottom of his pocket. He can’t find his keys so he rings the bell and the dog barks.
    Maybe I heard that part—the dog barking.
    Or maybe he didn’t ring the bell and maybe the dog didn’t bark. Maybe George took the spare key from inside the fake rock in the garden by the door, and, like an intruder, he came silently into his own house.
    Maybe he came upstairs thinking he’d crawl into his bed, but his spot was 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 onto her head.
    That’s when I woke up.

    S he is screaming. The one blow isn’t enough. She tries to get up; the lamp isn’t even broken. George looks at me and then picks the lamp up again and swings it at her. The porcelain vase that is the base explodes against her head. By then I am out of bed. He tosses aside what remained of the lamp—blood streaming down his fingers—picks up the telephone, and throws it to me.
    “Call it in,” he says.
    I stand facing him, wearing his pajamas. We are the same, like mimes, we have the same gestures, the same faces, the family chin, my father’s brow, the same mismatched selves. I am staring at him, not knowing how this is going to work out. A disturbing gurgling sound prompts 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. I hear George’s heavy footfall as he goes down the stairs. Jane is making an alarming noise. I reach across the floor, pull the phone towards me, and 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 attempts am able to dial “911.”
    “A woman has been beaten. Hurry,” I say, and give them the address.
    I pull myself to standing, go into the bathroom, and get a washcloth, as though that will help, as though I can wipe the blood away. I can’t even find the spot; her head is a mash, blood and hair and bone and lamp, and I just hold the washcloth and wait.

    I t takes