Relentless

years earlier.
    My brother, Phelim, who is twelve, sits on the floor in a corner, his back to the junction of walls. His legs are straight out in front of him, arms at his sides. Except for the hole in his throat, he looks peaceful. I cannot see anything to be done for him.
    “Good-bye.” I do not whisper the word but say it openly.
    Apparently the people on the dining-room chairs were instructed to put their arms behind them and to hook them between horizontal backrails. They are not only sitting in their chairs but also hanging from them. This prevents the limp bodies from collapsing onto the floor.
    My cousin Kipp’s wife, Nicola, has been humiliated before being murdered. Her sweater has been pulled over her head, hiding her face, and her bra has been torn off.
    I am an easily embarrassed boy. With great care not to touch her breasts, I work the sweater off her head and gingerly tug it down over what should not be exposed.
    While I struggle with the sweater, Clapper finishes searching purses and wallets. Fists full of money, he goes to the living room.
    He and the man with the cold sore are talking, but I am not interested in what they have to say to each other.
    In the last chair, I find my mother.
    I very much want to do some small thing for her.
    After a moment, I see what it must be. She is proud of her dark glossy hair, but now it is tangled and disarranged, as if someone has seized it and twisted it to force her into the chair.
    Among the purses on the table, I recognize hers. I take from it a comb, and I return to her.
    Her face is lowered, chin on chest. As I am deciding how to holdher head to raise it, the more easily to comb her hair, Tray returns to the room from his search of the second floor.
    He has his gun, which no longer seems magical, and I wait to see what he will do.
    As he crosses the room toward me, I know that I should be afraid, but I am not.
    He passes me, proceeds to Nicola, picks up her bra from the floor, and works it in his hand. Frowning, he stares down at her covered breasts.
    Shreds of skin hang from his chapped lips, and he chews on them absentmindedly.
    After a moment, he throws the bra aside and calls out “Clapper,” as he goes into the living room.
    I wait with my mother and the comb.
    All three men return to stare at Nicola, at her sweater as it should be.
    Raising his gun, warily but with some urgency, Clapper pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen.
    The man with the cold sore disappears into the hall, and Tray into the living room.
    I wait with my mother and the comb.
    From overhead comes the sound of hurried footsteps. In the cellar, a door crashes open. For a minute or so, every corner of the house produces noises.
    The three meet in the hall. I cannot hear what they are saying, or I choose not to hear, but judging by the tone of each voice, Tray is angry and the other two are alarmed.
    Their voices and footsteps recede. A door opens, slams shut, and I am pretty sure it is the door with the frosted-glass clouds and the clear-glass moon through which Tray’s eye once winked at me.
    The house is quiet.
    Outside, a car starts. I listen to the engine noise as it fades down the driveway.
    I put a hand under my mother’s chin and lift her head. I comb her beautiful hair.
    When her hair is as it should be, I kiss her cheek. Every night, she tucks me into bed and kisses my cheek. Every night until now.
    “Good-bye.”
    I ease her head down as it was. She appears to be slumped in sleep. She has gone to another place but still loves me, and though I am staying here, I still love her.
    After returning the comb to her purse, I cannot imagine what comes next. I have done what I could to spare the dead embarrassment, and I am no longer needed.
    Suddenly I am more exhausted than I have ever been. Climbing the stairs in search of a bed, I almost stop to sleep on the landing.
    I forge on, however, and choose the bed in Colleen’s room, onto which I climb without remembering to take off my shoes. Head on the pillow, I am too tired to worry about being scolded.
    I wake during the night and see a frosted moon in the window. But it is far beyond the window, and it is real.
    After using the bathroom across the hall, I return to Colleen’s room and stand staring at her telephone. I have the feeling that I should call someone, but I do not know whom.
    A few months earlier, my mother helped me to memorize our home-phone number, all ten digits, in case I am ever lost.
    I am in