A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“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.

It takes 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.

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 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.”

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 grass. “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.”