“Brotherly Love” A Short Story, Part II

When the news came, her mother-in-law was the one to answer. She was the one to realize first, to fall into hysterics first, to leave everyone else guessing, hoping, and yet knowing at the same time. Nora pulled her hands to her shoulders and comforted herself silently. She turned away with little more than a sigh from Sylvia’s screeching. She felt so light after emptying her lungs of air that she thought she might just walk through the wall like a ghost and never come back. Nora stopped at the window and stared momentarily out into the wet and the bleak. She didn’t faint because of the emotional distress. The woman had been holding her breath, throwing a silent tantrum in the face of death. She lay crumpled on the floor in the most ungraceful position.

Sylvia’s screams came to a stop. The old gal knew when she had been upstaged. “Oh,” she whimpered pityingly in Nora’s direction. “The poor girl’s just overwhelmed. Charles help her. Help her!” Charles left the side of his mother with a start. He gave the fallen Nora a strong tug. Her mouth hung open and her cardigan slipped to reveal the slices of skin not covered by her tank top. Charles held her with one arm and steadied himself with the other. They way Nora’s head tilted back at the full length of her neck and the way her arm hung lifeless nearly grazing the floor made it seem as though she and Charles were concluding a dance. The gray, overcast rays that backlit them added to the sense of drama. Charles stared blankly into Nora’s still face. “Charles, you dope!” Sylvia interrupted. “Move her to a chair, for the love of God.” Charles was a dope, and he knew it. He half drug, half carried the rag doll Nora to the nearest couch.

—

“Jake was not a very good husband.” Nora adjusted herself in her seat, crossed her legs, and pulled the hem of her skirt to her knees. “I imagine that a lot of widows sit in here and bemoan how excellent their deceased spouse was, but you’re not going to hear that from me, and I don’t want any of that at the funeral. I just want a respectful and brief ceremony.”

“Well, perhaps you would consider consulting with Syl—“

“I don’t want music. I will allow for Charles to speak, albeit briefly, should he feel so inclined.”

“Would you care to have a program?” The funeral director flipped gently through some papers. “We have a printer whose work is—“

“No.”

The director offered a surprised nod. “And flower arrangements?”

“None. No.” Nora said quickly. “No, thank you,” she added and then averted her glance. “I don’t mean to be terse. This is highly unusual for me, you understand. I’m usually the one behind the big desk with the files and the figures.”

“There’s no need to apologize Mrs. Kraig. I understand that you must be under a tremendous amount of stress.” Nora showed no acknowledgement.

“Are we done here? Do you have what you need? You’ll excuse me, but I’d rather not speak to you again…in this place until—“ And with that her voice broke off sharply. Nora made no attempt to pick up where she left off, but rather stood abruptly, startling Charles to his feet as well. Charles buttoned his suit jacket. He was embarrassed as he shook the funeral director’s hand as Nora had clearly failed to do. He mumbled something conciliatory and insincere—pleasure to meet you or thanks for your time—and followed Nora out of the door.

The cold air was a shock to Nora as she exited the building. The gust of icy wind stopped her in her tracks. She collected herself, folded her arms against the current, and proceeded furiously across the freshly fallen snow to the car.

“Nora, it’s going to be alright.”

“Take me home, Charles,” she demanded.

“I’m not your driver, Nora,” Charles muttered angrily, his breath breaking against the cold in fumy streaks.

“What?”

“I said I’m n-n-n-n-not your driver. So don’t t-t-t-talk to me like I’m your dr-dr-dr-driver because I’m n-n-n-n-not.”

“Charles, let’s not—“

“Let’s not what? Mess up your neat, compartmentalized life?” He spoke slowly and intentionally but approached her briskly. She reached for the handle of the car door. He blocked her. “Dr-Dr-Drop the heartbroken widow act, Nora. There’s no-no-no crime in not loving your husband.” Charles winced at himself.

“The crime would be in not loving you instead, right?”

“Aha! I n-n-n-n-knew the real Nora was in there!”

“Don’t mock me, Charles. You’re not particularly good at it.”

“They’re going to find out!” Charles shrieked.

“I don’t think anyone will find me romantic. I’m a traitor. And Jake knew that when he died.”

“That doesn’t mean he-he-he-he deserved you.”

“He was your brother! Your brother! How can you say that?” Her sudden display of emotion and the pointed accusation caused Charles to retreat and return to his usual self.

“You-you-you-you’re right. Now isn’t a good time to—not a good time to deal with this.”

“I don’t want to deal with this,” Nora snapped. Charles turned and opened the car door for her and headed toward the driver’s side. “I said I don’t want to deal with this,” Nora repeated angrily, almost pleading. He opened his own door and stared across the top of the car at her. The wind blew again.

“Get in the car, Nora,” Charles ordered flatly before getting in himself. She heard the engine start, but refused to move. Charles looked at her through the foggy glass of the side window. The cold seemed not to deter either of them. Finally, she got in the car.

—-