Brothers and Sisters

"If you'll wait just a minute," the lady at the sign-in desk, "the doctor will talk to you."

Dr. Phillips, anyway that's what the name on his white coat said, found me, introduced himself, and led me to a small office.

"Sit down, David," he said, and I sat.

He took a deep breath and said, "Okay, Son, the news is not good. There's no gentle way to say it, so I'll just spell it out. It appears that your father had a heart attack. We won't know until we do the postmortem, but based on a gross examination, he had a widowmaker and was probably dead, certainly dying, as the car went off the road."

I sat, listening, probably in shock or at least the mental equivalent. I didn't feel anything.

He was silent for a few seconds, watching me, waiting for a reaction I suppose.

When I said nothing, he went on.

"When the car went off the road, your mother, who apparently was

not

belted in hit her head on the windshield and broke her neck. There is no doubt that she was dead before the car went into the water."

"Into the water?" I asked, my mind finding something concrete to grab onto.

"Yes," he said, "it went off the road, rolled over, and wound up in a little stream."

I said nothing and he went on.

"Your sister, anyway we assume it was your sister based on last names found on identification,

was

belted in and survived the crash okay. She got incredibly lucky and a passerby got her out of the car. She had, technically, drowned, but the Good Samaritan got her out and did CPR. She's unconscious right now."

He wound down then so I asked the obvious question, "She's all right, then?"

The look on his face said more than the words that followed.

"David," he said, leaning forward a little and touching my arm. "your sister drowned. She wasn't breathing when he got her out of the car and we don't know how long she was without oxygen. She's breathing on her own, and that's all I know right now."

"Is she a," and I paused, looking for the right word and there was no gentle way to ask what I had to ask, "Is she a vegetable?"

"We can't know that until she wakes up," he said.

We passed a few seconds in an awkward silence.

"David," he said, "this is a lot, I know. Let me give you a bit of advice. Go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow look around and see if your parents left a will and other papers. Call your lawyer to check on that stuff. And get ahold of a funeral home to get that procedure started."

He paused, gave my shoulder kind of a friendly shake, and asked, "How old are you, David?"

"19," I said.

"Well," he said, "at least you're legal and we don't have to worry about Child Protective Services or anything."

"Oh, shit," I said.

"Yeah," he said and gave my shoulder another of those little shakes, "Go home now, try to get some sleep. Have a beer. You're the man of the house now so start getting your head ready for that role."

So I did.

I went home, got a beer, and sat with the television on. I can't say I watched it. It was just background noise.

I wondered why I wasn't crying.

I've known, well, pretty much all of my life that I'm cold-blooded about many things. In my philosophy class, for example, when those questions came up about "Could you kill this many people to accomplish that goal?" it was always simple to me. You did the arithmetic and if the benefit/cost worked out in favor of killing them, you dropped the damn bomb. One of my favorite fictional characters is Matt Helm, a character from the 1960s (the book series ran through the 1990s) that one blurb described as the "American agent who makes Jimmy Bond look like the English fop he is." Eric (the character's "code name") had no qualms at all about just shooting someone dead because he didn't want to leave a live enemy behind. I applauded him. Later, when I watched the series "24," I would regularly criticize Jack Bauer or Tony Almeda for taking a chance because a wife or daughter was being held hostage. My attitude was always, "Sorry, Kim" or "Sorry, Michelle, but with one life measured against hundreds of thousands, you're going to have to die."

But I still wondered.

Then I woke up.

I was on the couch so I guess I just dropped off.

And my first thought was that I had absolutely no fucking idea what to do.

So I threw a couple of

Eggos

into the toaster and made a cup of coffee.

"Jesus," I said aloud, and finally the tears came.

I sat and cried as I made coffee and ate my

Eggos

.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do," I said, over and over.

After a while, I drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

"Gather thine shit about thee," I said aloud, my version of "get your shit together."

I took another deep breath, sat, and thought for a few minutes.

I looked up the hospital number, using my favorite shortcut. I looked up St. Joseph's Hospital on Google Maps and hit the little "call" icon.

"St. Joseph's, hold please," a woman's voice said. Before I could reply I was forced to listen to some atrocious on-hold music, a vaguely recognizable version of

Ain't Misbehavin'

.

I waited.

"St. Joseph's, this is Ann, how can I direct your call?" a new voice said.

"This is David Morgan, you have my sister, Lindsey there. She was in a car wreck last night. Who can I talk to for an update?" I asked.

"Hold please," she said, and that fucking music started again.

"Mister Morgan?" a man's voice this time.

"Yes, David Morgan, how's my sister?" I replied.

"She's stable," he said and then he rattled off a bunch of stuff that sounded like I was listening to the dialogue from one of those medical shows.

"In English, please," I interrupted him.

He chuckled. "Sorry, Mr. Morgan, just a nurse's defense mechanism. We tend to talk in jargon sometimes. Your sister is doing well. Her blood work is fine. There are no signs of any physical problems and we scanned her pretty thoroughly. She does have one hell of a bruise on the side of her head and that worries us a bit, but just a bit. The only problem is that she hasn't awakened yet but we don't want to force her."

"Would it do any good to come over there?" I asked.

"Honestly, no," he said, "We have your number and we'll call you as soon as she wakes up."

"Okay, thanks," I said, and hung up.

The living taken care of, or at least checked up on, I set about taking care of the dead.

In Dad's home office, I turned his computer on and then found his password, cleverly disguised as a password written on a sticky note and stuck to the bottom of the screen labeled "Password." I couldn't help but chuckle and say aloud, "Nice security, Dad."

I opened the

File Explorer

folder and started running down the various folders.

"Jesus, Dad, you have OCD or something?" I muttered. There were dozens of them.

"Ahh," I said, chuckling, "of course."

There was a folder labeled "If I Die."

And there it was. There were a dozen sub-folders with labels like "Will," "Insurance," and "Lawyer Stuff." Dad always labeled miscellaneous things with "stuff."

As I was sitting there I felt that cold-blooded core started to take over and I welcomed it.

I opened the folder labeled "Lawyer Stuff." There was the name I needed. I keyed in another number.

"Ripley, Rogers, and Bolger, how can I help you," a very professional female voice answered. I could picture a very pretty brunette, about 40, in a nicely tailored business suit and very high heels. Okay, it was probably some dumpy granny but it's MY imagination.

I glanced at the document on the screen and said, "Mr. Joseph please," in my best polite voice, overcoming my aversion to men with two first names.

"May I tell him what this is regarding?" she asked.

"Tell him it's David Morgan, that my father, Charles Morgan, and my mother, Chelsea Morgan were killed in a car wreck last night, and that I need advice."

"Oh dear," she said, "I'm so sorry. Hold just a moment please."

The on-hold music didn't even have time to kick in before a male voice came on the line.

"Mr. Morgan?" he asked.

"Mr. Joseph," I said, "my Mom and Dad were killed in a car wreck last night. I'm sitting at Dad's desk right now and your name was in his folder marked "Lawyer Stuff." I don't have any idea what I need to do so, well, what do I need to do?"

"Mr. Morgan, all you need to do is get the funeral arranged and if you'd like our help, we'll help," he said, "I'll start on the rest."

"Okay," I said, "One more thing," that cold-blooded part of me was talking now, "Are you guys a personal injury firm?"

"We do that sort of thing, yes," he said.

"Okay," I said, "I don't know how your fees or contingencies or whatever work, but what I want is the house paid for, my sister's medical care paid for and I'm not sure there won't be some long term problems, and I want to clear ten thousand dollars a month with an escalator tied to the CPI for life."

"I see," he said.

"Okay," I said, "I'm going to find a funeral home and get that started now."

"Mr. Morgan," he said, "I'll be in touch, and let me add that you seem to be handling a terrible situation pretty well."

"Thanks," I said, "I'll be in touch."

That done, I opened Dad's "If I Die" folder again and found "Funeral."

For the first time all day, I laughed.

Funeral

None

Chelsea and I agree, funerals suck. Have me cremated, have a party, and scatter my ashes on a Colorado ski slope.

But do NOT skimp on the party.

//signed//Charles Morgan

I did the Google Maps thing again, this time searching for "funeral homes near me."

"Broadwell and Sons," another very professional voice greeted me.

I ran through the whole thing with somebody named Rodney. He told me he would have everything ready if I could stop by later in the afternoon. There were some papers to sign and then they could claim the body and start the process.

As we talked I was scrolling through Dad's "If I Die" folder.

I told Rodney I'd be by later and hung up.

"Okay, Dad," I said, "What the hell is this?"

The "this" in question was a folder labeled "Delete Unread."

Now come on. I ask you. What 19-year-old reasonably competent computer user could resist that label?

So I opened the folder and found a whole long list of sub-folders with cryptic labels.

There was "Jan and Ted - June 24," and "Dave and Laura - April 18." They all had those two name and one date labels. I clicked on "Jan and Ted - June 24" because I figured that would be our two-doors-down neighbors of that same name. The filename was one of those long series of numbers that started with "06242014" and then had a dozen more numbers followed by.mp4.

"Videos," I thought, and double-clicked.

"Charlie," Mom said on the video, "can't I at least wear a mask or something?"

"Oh, no," Jan said, "you lost the bet so it's my rules." Jan was one of those blonde women whose skin had probably started wrinkling when she was about 20 and now her face was a mass of deep wrinkles although, in the video, I guessed she was in her 40s, certainly not into her 50s.

"What the fuck?" I asked myself aloud as the scene moved ahead.

The camera work was kind of that

cinéma vérité

with the slightly bouncing scene and the too-fast panning that I always found annoying.

The camera followed a door opening into what was obviously a bedroom. You could tell it was a bedroom because of the big bed.

And standing beside the bed, naked, was Ted. He's a big bear of a man, think a professional wrestler. Not fat but thick and even across the room in that quick glimpse as the camera swung past I could see two things. First, Jesus, he was hairy. Second, he had the biggest balls I ever saw. They hung in his loose scrotum, looking like two lemons in a bag made of skin.

Continuity broke as the camera pointed at random places, jiggling, impossible to follow.

"Hold on," my Dad's voice was clear, "while I get the tripod set up and figure out the angles."

The scene stabilized. The camera was obviously on a tripod now. There was some more movement as he found the best angle.

Now Ted was center-right in the screen, those ridiculous balls hanging and his erection, oddly small compared to those balls, pointing straight ahead.

"This will teach you guys to play

Mexican Train

with us," Jan said as she started unbuttoning mom's blouse. She was referring to a silly dominoes-based game we played from time to time.

"We should have known better," Dad said, helping Jan to undress mom.

"Please," Mom said, "Please promise that this video won't go anywhere else."

"Of course not," Dad said, "it's private. Now wave at the camera."

Mom turned and faced the camera and no embarrassment or shame was showing on her face. She waved, showed a very toothy grin, and then did a shimmy that had her big boobs flapping back and forth.

Jan unhooked Mom's bra, pulled it off, and said, "Do that again."

Now that she was naked from the waist up it hit me just how big Mom was. At the time I hadn't yet explored

my

new bedroom so I didn't realize she wore a 48GG bra.

She shimmied and those big, hell, those huge boobs swung and flopped side to side.

She squeezed her arms against her sides and cried a loud, "OWWWWW" while laughing.

They weren't those big soft pillow boobs that some fat women have, you know, the ones that start at the shoulders and look like, well, pillows. They were, you know, "normal" boobs. Big mammary glands set fairly low on her chest, with big nipples, each pierced by a single silver bar. They were big and soft and laid on the first big roll of fat.

I couldn't look away.

Jan kissed Dad, a serious kiss, lingering, her fingers entwining in his hair, her body arching into his, and he kissed her back. Mom watched, smiling.

"Now," Jan said, breaking the kiss, "Chelsea, help me get Chuck ready." It took a minute to realize she was talking about Dad. His name is Charles and I'd often heard him called Charlie but "Chuck" was new to me.

Mom and Jan undressed Dad, an oddly, well, mechanical act. Those times when I had the chance to undress a girl I always made it part of foreplay, you know? But this was simply a matter of unbuttoning his shirt and then Jan dropping to her knees to get shoes and socks off, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks and peeling them down, leaning forward to give his cock, an absolutely average cock I thought, like mine, a quick kiss before standing.

"Help Teddy get ready," Jan said to Dad, and in one of those weird

non sequitur

thoughts my mind hits me with from time to time I thought,

"Wow. That's a good microphone. She's speaking in a low voice but it's perfectly clear

," "while I finish getting Chelsea ready."

"Oh, shit," I said aloud as I watched Dad get to his knees and begin kissing and licking Ted's oversized scrotum.

Jan kissed Mom, unbuttoned, unzipped, and worked Mom's crazy tight jeans down, her panties going with them.

Like every kid, well, every kid with a Y chromosome anyway, I can't speak for those of you who are Y chromosome deprived, I was aware of my mother as a female human being. During puberty, especially I was aware of those boobs and more than one evening with my right hand busy had involved them in my mind's eye.

But I hadn't realized just HOW big she was.

Her belly had two very distinct rolls and both of them were deeply dimpled with cellulite. The first roll was, amazingly, even bigger than her breasts which laid on it. The second, smaller roll, hung almost to the top of her thighs giving her what I have since come to think of as a truly fat girl's natural modesty.

"On your knees now," Jan said, slapping Mom's big ass hard enough to draw a sharp yelp.

Mom got to her knees, oddly graceful I thought for all of her size, her face inches from Ted's cock and, incidentally, inches from Dad's face.

"Hold my husband, Cuckboy," Jan said, "and offer his gift to your Slutwife."

Dad held Ted's cock, actually stroking it a little I thought, while Mom slowly leaned forward. As her lips almost touched the tip of Ted's cock, Dad's hand tugging on it now, pulling it toward her lips, Jan jerked Mom back by the hair.

"You didn't ask, Bitch," she said and it hit me that if this was acting it was goddam good acting.

I couldn't look away and my own cock was so hard by then it ached and throbbed.

"So," Jan went on, Mom's hair firmly gripped in her fist now, "you don't get the joy of my Husband's (and the way she pronounced the word made the capitalization seem natural) beautiful cock in your slutmouth."

She slapped Dad on the back of the head and said, "Take care of my Husband (again, the capitalization seemed right), Cuckboy, and put his gift right between her eyes."

There was more of that. Jan slapped Dad again when she deemed that he was jacking her "Husband" off too quickly.

In the end, Dad finished Ted and when Ted came he did hit Mom right between the eyes. It turns out he's one of those men who cums a lot, those oversized balls making his semen very thick and very white. A second pump, as his body thrust, made a sticky white line from her forehead right at the hairline, across her right eye, and the last bit of it hitting her right breast. A third pump left a small white puddle on that top belly roll between Mom's big boobs.

A final thick drop hung from Ted's cock and Dad didn't hesitate to take it into his mouth, his lips pursed, just holding Ted's glans, the head of his cock, in his lips and obviously sucking.

"My turn," Jan said with a giggle and Dad buried his face between her legs while Mom kept telling him that all he had for a woman was his mouth so at least get THAT right.

When Jan came it was almost as spectacular as Ted's ejaculation. Mom had Dad's hair in her fingers, twisting, forcing him to look straight up as Jan didn't just "squirt," she "sprayed."

"Drink it," Mom demanded, and I could see the way her fingers twisted in Dad's hair.

When Jan and Ted were both satisfied, including Dad jacking Ted off a second time so Mom got another load in her face, they stood and dressed. There were smiles all around as if this was the end of a casual night of pinochle or something. I did notice, as good nights were said and Mom and Dad were ushered to the door, that neither had washed their face.

When the video ended the little bar at the bottom of the screen read "32:24."

I opened a few more although I didn't watch them all the way through.

There was Mom and Dad alone in their bedroom, making love. It was tender and sweet.

There was Mom and Dad and another couple, I didn't recognize them, but this time it was Mom and Dad on their feet while the other man and woman were on their knees, giving Mom and Dad oral sex.

There was Mom, her wrists in heavy leather cuffs that were hung over a hook on a wall, I didn't recognize the place but it looked like a basement, with her arms pulled straight up, her tiptoes barely touching the floor, as a man I thought I recognized from a party at the house once, kept flicking her with what looked like a buggy whip. Each loud POP of the whip would make her twist and scream and raise another little pink welt on some part of her body.

HOLY SHIT!

There was Mom and Aunt Rita, both naked, engaged in some sort of a pukefest. I don't know what else to call it. They were on a big plastic sheet in what I recognized as Aunt Rita's living room, naked and laughing as they took turns sticking their fingers down each other's throats and making each other vomit. Both of them had vomit covering their thighs and legs from the waist down.

There was Mom and Dad in their bedroom again. She was giggling and saying, "It's okay, Honey, it happens to everyone sometimes." She was playing with Dad's obviously soft dick. "But I think this will help," she said and reached over, out of the camera's angle, and came back into the frame with a weird purple thing. It looked, based on her hand size, like it was about eight or ten inches long, shaped like a long tear drop, a bulb on one end and a circle on the other. I watched, fascinated, as she pushed one of Dad's balls through the circular end, drawing a little grunt from him, and then the other ball, drawing loud groans and making him writhe. Then she pushed his cock, still soft through the circle pushing his sex forward, away from his body.