Often, at family gatherings, the brother-in-law’s breath smells of whiskey. Warm, gaseous. And his heavy hand falling on her arm as if accidentally.
She has never told her husband. She would have been embarrassed and ashamed to tell her husband. Rather she would keep a disagreeable secret to herself than share it and disturb others.
Her love for her husband had been a protective love, which she did not want to jeopardize. She did not want to be the bearer of upsetting news to her kindly, sweet-natured and trusting husband and had kept many things from him in the long years of their marriage.
She would keep from him now, if she could, the rawness of her grief. She would not want the (deceased) husband to know how she misses him.
She would not want the (deceased) husband to know how she distrusts, dislikes, fears his brother.
In any case (she has told herself) nothing is likely to happen between her and the brother-in-law because she would not allow it to happen.
“You’re looking very pale, Claudia. We all hope you’re getting enough sleep.”
At this she smiles ironically. Enough sleep! There could be only enough sleep if she shut her eyes forever.
“Sure I can’t fix you a drink? I think I’ll have another—just a little . . .”
The brother-in-law is in his mid-fifties, several years younger than the (deceased) husband and of the widow’s approximate age. He has made a show of being a devoted family man but his life has been carefully arranged so that he spends as little time with his family as possible. Solid-bodied, big-armed, despite his slightly hunched shoulders he has a ruddy golfer’s face and the manner of one eager to take charge with his very hands if necessary.
The widow can see the hands getting a grip—on her.
As if she were a golf club. An instrument to be deftly deployed by one who will take charge.
“The real estate market isn’t great at the present time—I acknowledge that. Mortgage rates are high. But with careful marketing, and sound investments after the sale of the property . . .”
The brother-in-law’s eyes are damp, inquisitive. Moving over the widow’s body like swarming ants as he pours himself another drink, and drinks.
“. . . of course, it has been a terrible shock. You have had a trauma. Which is why . . .”
The brother-in-law is confident that he will win over the widow. Her silence is a goad to his ingenuity. Her politeness, her courtesy, her habit of deference are a goad to his loquacity. It isn’t clear to him—it isn’t clear that it much matters—whether the widow is near-catatonic with grief or is simply stiff-backed with female stubbornness in opposition to him precisely because he has the very best advice to give to her.
That is how women are—perverse!
In his professional life the brother-in-law has been an investment banker. He is not an investment banker now—(the widow isn’t sure if he “has his own business” or is “between jobs”)—but he retains the skills, the information, the experience of investment banking or at least the insider vocabulary, and he is after all the widow’s brother-in-law, to whom the widow might naturally turn in this time of distress.
(Indeed the widow has been behaving strangely since the husband’s death: keeping to herself, avoiding even her family, her closest relatives and friends. Avoiding him.)
“You know, Jim would want you to confide in me. He’d want you to bring me any questions you have about the estate, finances, death taxes, IRS taxes, putting the house on the market . . .”
But I do not want to put the house on the market.
He will be happy to take on the responsibility of acting as the executor of her husband’s estate, the brother-in-law says. If she wishes. Naming him executor in her place would require just a consultation with her lawyer. Such an arrangement is “very commonly done”—“a very good idea”—when a widow is inexperienced in “money-matters” and has had a bad shock.
“Shall we make a date? An appointment? I can call your lawyer, we can set up a meeting early next week . . .”
The widow scarcely seems to hear. It is true that she is very pale, waxy-pale, her skin exudes a kind of luminescence that makes her appear younger than her age, as her loose, somewhat disheveled hair, streaked with gray, silver, white hairs and falling to her shoulders, gives her a look somewhere between despair and wild elation.
“I said, I’ll call your lawyer and set up a meeting for us . . .”
The widow is staring out a window, at the rear of the house; a short distance away, down a slight incline, the wind-rippled lake reflects the light of late afternoon.
“Claudia? Are you all right? You’ve been listening, I hope . . .”
The brother-in-law’s voice is edged with annoyance. The brother-in-law is not a man to be slighted. He is wearing an open-necked shirt of some fine, expensive material—Egyptian cotton perhaps. The shirt is a pale lavender as his cord trousers are a dark lavender. His shoes are canvas deck shoes. He makes it a point to be well-dressed though his clothes are usually tight and he looks crammed inside them, like an ill-shaped sausage.
The widow recalls how, only a few days before her husband was stricken and hospitalized, the brother-in-law, at a family gathering, had approached her when she was alone and stood uncomfortably close to her, as if daring her to acknowledge his sexual interest and push past him.
Been missin you, Claudie. You’re looking terrific.
Always, insultingly, the brother-in-law has felt obliged to comment on his brother’s wife’s appearance. As if there were some competition between the brothers’ wives, of which the wives themselves were not aware.
Since the brother-in-law has gained access to the house, and has been sitting in the living room, repeating his rehearsed words to the widow, the widow has been observing the movement of waterfowl on the lake—ducks, geese. Predators have not gobbled down all of this season’s ducklings and goslings. There are even several cygnets, for there is a pair of resident swans on the lake. Dazzling-white swans of surpassing beauty and calm.
When she is feeling very sad, very lonely and distraught, the widow escapes the house in which the telephone is likely to ring, and walks along the lake shore counting ducklings, goslings. Cygnets.
She has sometimes seen the great blue heron, a solitary hunter. By day, the heron does not seem quite so terrifying as it has seemed by night.
“Oh, there!”—the widow speaks excitedly seeing a large rail-thin bird lift its wings suddenly and rise into the air, with initial awkwardness, alone over the lake.
“What are you looking at, Claudia? What’s out there that is so damned interesting?”—the brother-in-law turns to look over his shoulder, his chin creasing fatly.
The great blue heron is a prehistoric creature, of a strange and unsettling beauty. The widow stares entranced as slowly and with dignity the heron flies out of sight. But the brother-in-law doesn’t seem to have seen.
“Well, that’s quite a view. You’re lucky, to have such a lakefront property. Jim had the right idea, this property is quite an investment . . .”
The widow objects, more sharply than she’d intended: “James didn’t think of it as an ‘investment.’ It was—it is—our home.”
“Well, sure! I didn’t mean . . .”
“We chose the house together. James and me. I think you know that. It wasn’t the decision of just one of us.”
“Right! No need to get upset, Claudia.”
“I think—I think now that you should leave. I have many things to do . . .”
It is maddening, the widow hears her apologetic voice. Though trembling with dislike of the intruder yet she feels she must speak to him in a tone of apology.
The brother-in-law smiles, half-jeering. “’Many things to do!’ Exactly, Claudia. Things you should certainly be doing, that I could help you with.”
“No. I don’t think so . . .”
“What d’you mean, ‘I don’t think so.’ Jim would be concerned about you, Claudia.”
The widow is stung by the casual way in which the brother-in-law has been uttering her husband’s name as if it were an ordinary name to be batted about as in a Ping-pong game.
“No. I said—no.”
The brother-in-law blinks at her, and raises his eyebrows, in a pretense of mild surprise. She is in danger of speaking shrilly. She is in danger of betraying emotion. She knows how closely the brother-in-law is observing her, how he will report to others. Claudia is looking awful. Obviously she hasn’t been sleeping. Hope she isn’t drinking—secretly. Can’t imagine what Jim was thinking of, naming that poor woman executrix of his estate!
The visit is over. But the brother-in-law is slow to leave.
He has set down his whiskey glass, which he seems to have drained. His face is flushed and ruddy, the little ant-eyes gleam with a malicious sort of satisfaction, yet aggression. For the brother-in-law is one to want more, more.
On their way to the door the brother-in-law continues to speak. The widow is aware of his hands gesturing—always, the man’s gestures are florid, exaggerated. He is a TV sort of person—he could be a TV salesman, or a politician. The widow takes care not to be too close to him. For (she knows) the brother-in-law is considering whether he should lay his hand on her arm, or slide his arm across her shoulder. He is considering whether he should grip her hard, in an unmistakable embrace, or simply squeeze her hand, brush his lips against her cheek . . . The widow is distracted by how, though her backbone seems to have been broken and splintered, she is managing to walk upright, and to disguise the discomfort she feels.
The widow sees with a little thrill of horror that the front door has been left ajar . . .
The beginning. Just the beginning. Out of my control.
She will make sure that the door is closed securely behind the brother-in-law. She will lock it.
In a jovial voice the brother-in-law says: “Well, Claudia! I’ll call you later tonight. Maybe drop by tomorrow. Will you be home around four P.M.?”
Quickly she tells him no. She will not be home.
“What about later? Early evening?”
How aggressive the brother-in-law is! How uncomfortably close to her he is standing, breathing his warm whiskey-breath into her face as if daring her to push him away.
“Goodbye! I’m sorry, I can’t talk any longer right now . . .”
The widow would close the door after her unwanted visitor but with a malicious little grin the brother-in-law turns to grip her shoulders and pull her to him and press his fleshy lips against her tight-pursed lips—so quickly she can’t push him away.
“No! Stop.”
“For Christ’s sake, Claudia! Get hold of yourself. You aren’t the first person ever to have lost a ‘loved one.’”
The brother-in-law speaks sneeringly. The damp close-set eyes flash with rage.
The brother-in-law shuts the front door behind him, hard. He is very angry, the widow knows. She can’t resist the impulse to wipe at her mouth with the edge of her hand, in loathing.
From a window the widow watches the brother-in-law drive away from the house, erratically it seems. As if he would like to press his foot down hard on the gas pedal of his vehicle but is retraining himself. She thinks—But he will return. How can I keep him away!
She is feeling shaky, nauseated. She has neglected to eat since early morning. The remainder of the day—late afternoon, early evening, night—stretches before her like a devastated landscape.
When she returns to the living room she discovers the empty whiskey glass set carelessly on a mahogany coffee table. The rim is smudged from the brother-in-law’s mouth. Somehow, the amber liquid must have splashed over the side of the glass for there is a faint ring on the beautiful wood table-top, an irremediable stain.
She is living alone since James’s death.
It is maddening to be asked, as the brother-in-law has asked, Will you sell the house?
With subtle insinuation, Will you sell this large house?
Yet worse, have you considered getting a dog?