What happened was nothing like that. Well, not nothing. My husband and brother drove off in a car. They were going to buy something to grill. Their car hit a tree, and they were both killed instantly. That was what happened, but not how it happened.
They didn't just dislike each other. They hated each other. They had always hated each other.
They couldn't have been more different. Chris was down to earth, and Davis was up in the clouds. They had such different senses of humor that sometimes Chris would say something that he meant as a joke and Davis took it as an insult—or vice versa. If they hadn't been related—through me—they would never have spent five minutes in the same room. They had only one thing in common: me. And Miles, I guess. Devoted father. Doting uncle.
There were always fights that got nasty and mean, arguments that blew up. I don't recall what started it that day. They often argued about the make and year and model of some vintage auto they saw. It could have been that. It hardly mattered. The two guys went from zero to sixty in ten seconds. Faster than a Maserati.
It got loud and ugly. Fast. The same old things got said. One of them accused the other of thinking he knew everything, and the other one called him a fraud. One said he was sick to death of the other's shit, and the other said . . . I don't know. They fought like brothers, except that they were brothers-in-law. If Cain and Abel had been related by marriage, instead of blood, things might have turned out even worse, though it's hard to imagine what worse could have happened.
It had been like that for so long, I knew exactly how it would go. One of them would stalk out of the room, and there would be a few moments of peace. Then the other would follow him, as if something was finally going to be settled. And they'd start shouting again. Or else it was so quiet I could feel the tension all through the house. It made me want to scream.
Miles heard every word. I don't think he understood much. But he heard the tone of it. His dad and his uncle were mad. Miles began to cry.
I blogged about how the two guys decided to get some meat to grill. But again, that's not quite true. I was the one who suggested that they take a ride to the butcher's. I will never forgive myself, not for the rest of my life.
I said, "Why don't you go for a ride? Cool off. Go to the Smokehouse and get something delicious for dinner."
The Smokehouse! That got their attention.
The Smokehouse was one of the things we loved most about living here. It's an old-fashioned German butcher. They make their own sausage and cold cuts and have the best cuts of meat. Cheerful blond German girls wait on you and, regardless of what you order, say, "You got it!" Davis and I adored it. Even when I was trying to cut back on eating meat, I'd break down and go there and get a warm homemade-liverwurst sandwich on a kaiser roll.
Brokering an accord between my husband and my brother was like breaking up a dog fight. There was a lot of cursing and snarling, but finally both Davis and Chris were relieved (as they always were) that things hadn't gotten physical. They'd never come to blows. But the two men I loved most in the world despised each other and didn't care who knew. They wanted me to know it. They didn't want me to forget.
They were glad for a chance to get out of the house, even with each other. It was a safe, easy way to end the fight, a way for them both to save face.
Davis grabbed his keys and kissed me a quick goodbye.
"Drive safely," I said. "I love you."
"See you," my brother said.
They didn't come home. They didn't come home. They didn't come home. Where were they? They didn't answer my texts or calls. Had they gone out for a drink? Miles took a nap and woke up grumpy. Hungry. Where were his dad and his uncle? When was dinner?
When the police came to the door, my first thought was that my husband and brother had gone into town and started fighting again and been arrested. How would Miles and I get them out of jail?
It took forever to understand what the cop was saying.
The officer must have been used to dealing with people in shock, but still he looked at me oddly when I said, "Was there meat in the car? Did they even get to the Smokehouse?"
"Meat?"
It was at that moment that I became a vegetarian.
The cop asked if there was someone—a family member, a close friend—I could call. Officer Something-or-Other (I didn't catch the name) could stay with me until someone arrived. He motioned toward the police car in the driveway, at a woman in a police hat in the passenger seat.
I was holding Miles, who started to cry. The officer gave him a pitying look. Poor little fella just lost his dad.
I said, "No, thanks, you can go. It's fine. I'll call my mother."
Nothing was fine, and my mother had been dead for five years. I just wanted them out of there.
That it was my idea for the guys to get meat to grill would be tough for anyone to live with—and stay sane.
After the police left, I spent a long time trying to calm Miles, who was crying his head off, even though he couldn't understand what had happened. I was so busy with him I didn't have time to go to the bathroom. Mothers of small children learn to postpone or ignore their most basic needs.
Miles and I lay down on my bed. Miles drifted off to sleep, and I slipped off into the bathroom, keeping the door open so I could hear if he woke up.
I saw a piece of white printer paper taped with Band-Aids to the bathroom mirror. The Band-Aids were at odd angles and the whole thing looked psycho, like the way serial killers decorate their lairs on TV crime shows.
It was Davis's handwriting, except that Davis's handwriting was normally, like everything about him, orderly and neat. This was the way Davis might have written if he'd taken bad drugs. Hasty. Careless. Angry. Scrawled. I had to read it several times, not only because it was hard to decipher but also because I was still in shock.
The note said: I'm sick of all the lying.
On the sink was a photograph of me and Chris standing and talking in our backyard. Laughing. Davis had torn the photo down the middle, and a jagged rip separated me and my half brother.
I knew that it was a suicide note or that someone might see it that way. I burned it in the bathroom sink. I didn't want anyone thinking that Davis had killed himself. On a practical level, we had insurance to consider. It would affect how Miles and I lived from then on. Miles didn't need to know. Davis's mom didn't need to know. I didn't want or need anyone to know.
I must have blacked out for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the bathroom floor. I must have hit my head on the edge of the sink.
As I pressed a washcloth against my forehead to stop the bleeding, I heard Miles crying in the bedroom. When he saw me, with blood trickling down my face, he began to scream.
I thought: You're right to cry, my darling boy. You're right to be afraid.
Your mother is a monster.
