Brothers and Sisters

"Okay, Bunky," she said, giggling, "time to get up."

I reached for her but she danced away showing an odd grace.

"Nuh-uh," she said, giggling and waving her forefinger back and forth, in the process making those tiny boobs and that soft belly jiggle in interesting ways, "We have things to do."

I stretched, my back arching, hoping she would notice my erection.

"Nuh-uh," she said again, giggling. She jerked the sheet away and ran out of the room before I could react. She was giggling as she went.

I stretched, this time for real, rolled out of bed, and went into the bathroom to pee. When I went to wash my hands I had a bad moment when I saw Mom and Dad's toothbrushes, side by side on the central holder. Then I thought, "fuck it," and picked up Mom's toothbrush, loaded it with their

Crest

, and brushed my teeth.

I was kind of reveling in my new-found freedom and, well, authority, as I walked, naked through my house, following the scent of coffee.

I was surprised not at all when I walked into the kitchen and found Aunt Rita, dressed in nothing but Mom's apron, one of those old-fashioned things that loops over the neck and ties in the back, moving around, obviously preparing breakfast. She looked comfortable in her role as a breakfast chef. I chuckled at the way she was humming softly as she worked.

I enjoyed watching her and she, manifestly, enjoyed being watched. She took quick peeks, and smiled, as she worked.

"Here you are, Man of the House," she said, putting a cup of coffee in front of me, "Breakfast in about five minutes."

As much as anything, that drove home what had happened and my new status.

"So," I said, meeting Aunt Rita's eyes across the table, "will you be staying to be the Lady of the Manor?"

Her eyes got big at that.

"Are you proposing to me, Davey?" she asked, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on them, elbows on the table, leaning forward, the very image of someone paying complete attention.

"I think, 'suggesting,' rather than 'proposing,'" I said, proud of that riposte.

She held my eyes for a long ten count.

"Be very careful what you wish for, Nephew-o-Mine," she said, holding her pose and holding my eyes, "You just might get it. And my tastes can be, well, let's say 'exotic.'"

"Rita," I said, deliberately dropping the "Aunt" honorific, "I know."

"Oh?" she said, giving me that oh-so-innocent look only a woman can EVER pull off.

I took a few seconds, lacing my fingers together, putting my elbows on the table, laying my chin on my fingers, and leaning forward a bit, mirroring her position.

"I've seen the video," I said.

Her eyes got big and for the first time since she showed up at

my

door (my ownership still hard to internalize) she looked, and here's one of those words you see written down but never expect to use, nonplussed.

She hesitated.

"Ummmmm," she started, obviously playing for time, "which one?"

"WHICH ONE?!?!" I thought. "Jesus, how many are there?"

I was the one hesitating now, thinking.

And I watched her face as she regained her composure and her control.

She waited me out.

"You and Mom and a plastic sheet on the floor and, well," I hesitated, looking for an appropriate word but feeling foolish, settled for, "barfing."

She giggled.

"Oh, yes," she said, fully back in charge now, "pukefest."

She held my eyes.

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked.

I blushed.

"I didn't watch all of it," I said, "I was kind of, you know," and I hated that I had fallen into almost high school speaking patterns. I drove the dreaded "you know" from my lexicon when I entered college.

"Kind of sampling," I finished.

"Then you know that your mother and father had some, well, let's say 'extreme' interests," she said.

"Yes," was all I could muster.

She was back in charge then as she stood.

"We have things to do, Honey," she said, starting to gather up the dishes. "Let's do them and we'll talk about the future later."

So we did the dishes, me washing and her drying and putting things away. It was obvious that she knew her way around Mom's, NO,

my

kitchen well. I was just finishing up, running the garbage disposal when she snapped me with her wet towel, making me jump, yell, and turn to face whatever had attacked me, assuming a fighting stance.

She giggled, squealed, and ran away, heading toward the bedroom.

I followed her, walking slowly, kind of movie-stalking. By the time I got to the bedroom, she had her panties and jeans on and was doing that weird double-jointed thing all women seem to learn to do with their first training bra, hooking her bra.

"Nuh-uh," she said, giggling. "First we take care of business."

I reached for her but she danced away. So, I gave up and went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth again, washed my face, and ran a comb through my hair. Then I pulled on a pair of jeans and an Oxford-cloth, button-down shirt, my recognition that this was serious business, and found her in the front room, sipping coffee, watching some talking heads on the television, looking perfectly at home.

"Okay," I said, "let's get our business taken care of so I can retaliate," I rubbed my ass where she had snapped me with the towel.

She giggled and said, "Okay. I figure, funeral parlor, lawyer, and then the hospital to check in."

"Done," I said and offered her my hand.

In the car, I keyed "Ripley, Rogers, and Bolger lawyers" into the Google Maps app and started following the blue line.

"Are you doing okay?" she asked.

"I don't know, if I'm being honest," I said, "but I'll get by."

She smiled and patted my leg.

At the lawyer's office, I stopped at the door, looking at the names, and saw that I would be talking to William Joseph.

I giggled.

"What?" Rita asked.

"Oh, Jesus," I said, trying to get myself under control, "I'm going in to talk to Billy Joe."

Her eyes got big and she giggled. "Well, at least he didn't jump off of the Tallahatchie bridge."

We both got under control, slowly. Looking back, I'm sure our burst of inappropriate hilarity was a reaction to the situation.

"David Morgan for Mr. Joseph," I said to the desk lady, much younger than in my mental picture but still sounding very professional as she worked the phone and announced us.

Another woman, this one with grey hair in a severe bun, and a wrinkled face but still attractive, came tapping down the corridor, her high heels making that distinct sound.

"Mr. Morgan?" she asked, extending a hand.

"Yes," I said, shaking and then turning, "and Rita Rogers, my aunt and advisor," I added, bestowing her a title that seemed appropriate.

She shook hands with Aunt Rita and then said, "This way, please."

The man was something straight out of central casting. He was tall, athletic, and ridiculously handsome. His grey hair was perfectly combed. His goatee was trimmed to ruler-straight edges. His suit probably cost more than my old car. And his voice would persuade a jury or talk an 18-year-old virgin right out of her panties. I smiled as I watched Aunt Rita out of the corner of my eye, wondering if she was actually going to grab him right there.

After we sat he said, "Well, here's the good news. Your father was a big believer in insurance. He had five million dollar life insurance policies in place on him and your mother and both had a double indemnity clause in case of accidental death."

He paused, I suppose, to let that sink in.

"Plus, he had long-term disability in place and you'll get a refund on those policies," she said and paused again.

"The car insurance has a death rider for another million dollars," he said.

The room was silent for a long count.

"Ummmmmm," was all I could manage.

"Right now, Mr. Morgan," he said, "you stand to have a little over twenty-seven million dollars available."

"What..." I started but really couldn't formulate a question.

"Taxes?" Aunt Rita asked.

"Nope," Joseph said, "Insurance payouts don't count as income for tax purposes."

I said nothing.

Aunt Rita said nothing.

Joseph smiled, well, Joseph grinned, a predatory sort of grin, the grin you might expect from a lawyer who smells a big case coming.

"There's more," he said, "if you want to pursue it."

"What?" I asked, kind of in a daze.

"The police report suggested that the airbag on your mother's side failed to deploy and there's some question about the difficulty the guy that found the car had when he tried to get your sister out," he said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

Now his grin was more like what the swimmer sees in the instant before the shark takes off his leg.

"That means," he said and the way he said it you expected him to start rubbing his hands together in anticipation, "there may be a case against the manufacturer."

I guess I looked blank.

"All you need to do, Mr. Morgan," and, of all of the things said so far, it was his use of the honorific "mister" that struck me hardest, "is to let us go after them. No charge to you unless we win and then we get one-third."

"Ummmm, sure," I said, still processing all of this.

"Good," he said and held out his hand. The woman handed him a paper.

"I just need a signature and I'll get started," he said.

Aunt Rita reached over and pulled the paper to her.

She didn't look at it, but she reached into the little bag she carried, I suppose it's still called a purse even though it was soft and brightly patterned and had

Vera Bradley

stitched prominently on the side, and pulled out her cell phone. She touched and scrolled and touched and then laid the phone on the table.

"Rita Rogers," she started, her voice professional and commanding, "recording this for the record. I am present with David Morgan, William Joseph, and," she paused and looked up at the woman, standing quietly, "what is your name, Dear?"

She looked a little surprised at that and looked at Joseph. He nodded.

"Rachel Williams," she said.

"And Rachel Williams. I am recording this to affirm, for the record, the discussion regarding a potential lawsuit against," and she paused again, "What is the manufacturer, Mr. Joseph?"

"Porsche," he said, "the vehicle was a Porsche Cayenne."

"Against the Porsche car company regarding the failure of a seat restraint system. Mr. Joseph told Mr. Morgan that there would be no charge for preparing the suit and that upon successful resolution of the suit, Mr. Joseph's firm will receive one-third of the payment as their fee, paid in full."

She paused, frowning, the very image of thinking.

"Is this correct as I have stated it, Mr. Joseph? Answer 'yes or no' for the record please," she said.

He smiled and said, "Yes."

"Do you affirm this, Ms. Williams?" she asked.

"Yes," the lovely Rachel said.

"Do you affirm this, Mr. Morgan?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, still a bit dazed.

"Go ahead and sign, David," she said, reaching for her phone, touching something, and dropping it back into the bag.

Joseph stood, grinning, and offered his hand.

"You have a good advisor," he said.

"Do you have a checkbook with you by chance?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Okay," he said, "when you get home give Rachel a call and give her your bank information. We'll transfer, oh, say, a hundred thousand dollars into your account so you won't have to worry about money while you, well, to be perfectly cold about it, 'make arrangements.'"

We said our thank yous, shook hands all around and headed back for the car.

"God, that was FUN!" she said, her tone breathless.

"You were terrific," I said.

At Broadwell and Sons, the transaction could not have been more straightforward. Trey Broadwell, I presumed one of the "sons," had a simple two-page contract ready. For a flat fee of $5,000 each they would pick up the bodies, handle the cremation, and give me the ashes, the "cremains," he said, that odd portmanteau giving me a bit of a shiver. I signed and said I would get him a check tomorrow.

And then it was to the hospital.

No, Lindsey wasn't awake.

Yes, we could go up and see her.

"Your sister," the doctor told us, a nameless resident, "is a bit of a weird case. She's breathing on her own, she moves around, apparently, she dreams, but she doesn't wake up. It's not quite a coma. We'd like to keep her for a few days to see how her case develops."

"Okay," I said.

Aunt Rita and I went up and found Room 617.

"Jesus," I said.

"What?" Rita asked.

"It just hit me," I said, "Lindsey is the absolute spitting image of Mom."

She giggled. "You hadn't noticed that?" she asked.

I smiled.

"Rita, I was five when she went to college," I said, "We see each other maybe four times a year. So, no, I hadn't noticed."

She moved to the side of the bed and brushed a few stray hairs from Lindsey's face. Lindsey's hair was dark, almost black, and already salted with grey. Mom told me once she had started going grey at 30, and the voice in my head telling me this caught when I finished the thought, at the time of her death she had been almost completely grey but that good silvery-grey color that can make a mature man or woman look damn good.

"Okay, rich guy," Rita said, taking my arm, "she's here and there's nothing for us to do but wait. So take your old aunt somewhere, feed her, and let's talk."

We didn't do anything fancy, just

Denny's

. I had the

Grand Slam

breakfast, glad they did breakfast all day, Aunt Rita had the meatloaf. We ate in companionable silence.

She took a final drink of her iced tea, put the glass down with a thunk, met my eyes, and said, "We should get married."

I like to think I'm pretty quick-witted. I have a repertoire of a hundred quick comeback lines and think I'm pretty adaptable in conversation. But this one stopped me.

I just stared at her.

She giggled.

"Now THAT hurts," she said through her giggles, "And here I thought our love was perfect."

I stared.

She giggled and finally stopped.

It wasn't that I "waited her out." I just could not, for the life of me, think of how to respond.

"Okay," she said, "I suppose explanations are in order."

"Ya think?!" I managed.

She was suddenly giggling again.

"Okay," she said, holding up her hand in the universal signal for "give me a second," and waving at the waitress and ordering a glass of iced tea.

She took a drink, had another fit of giggles, sprayed tea all over her front and the table, and held her hand up again.

"Okay," she said, under control now, "I'm serious, David. Right now, at this instant, if you were to die, if a meteor came through the roof and killed you, you would die what the lawyers call 'intestate,' and with your sister like she is, the lawyers would feed on your money until whoever ultimately got it would get, like, eighty-seven dollars."

She stopped to take another drink.

"Soooo," she said, smiling, "we get married and that meteor makes me a rich woman but leaves the lawyers sucking wind."

I said nothing.

"Besides," she said, giving me a coquettish smile that took at least 20 years off of her face, "you did ask if I wanted to stay and be the Lady of the Manor. I'm saying yes."

"You're serious," I said.

"Do you have a fiance you were cheating on with me?" she asked.

"Well, no," I said, starting to wrap my head around what she was saying.

She reached across the table and said, "We're good in bed."

I laughed.

"We ARE that," I said.

She slid off of the booth, took a step to me, and held out her hand.

I took it, expecting to stand with her.

Instead, she dropped to one knee, assuming that pose you've seen in a dozen silly romantic comedy movies.

"David Morgan," she said, loud enough that people in the adjoining tables turned to look, "you have captured my heart. You have captured my soul. You have captured my mind. I love you. Will you marry me?"

In a movie the rest of the set would have darkened subtly, a barely perceptible light would have highlighted us, and the music would have gone silent as would the general hubbub of conversation around us.

Time, to give the cliche, stood still.

Adrenaline was running through my system.

I took a deep breath.

"Yes," I said.

And just like in the movies, people at a half dozen tables applauded suddenly.

She stood and I stood and we embraced and I kissed her to more applause.

I laughed, took a quick bow, and said, "We'll be here every Thursday."

Rita wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me down.

"Take me home and get me into bed before I explode," she whispered.

I laughed, took another quick bow, and led her to the counter.

I paid and we headed home.

We had barely cleared the front door before she was at me.

"Come to bed," she breathed, well, she sort of panted, her breathing ragged, "husband-to-be."

This was so different I wasn't sure how to handle it. This wasn't making love. It wasn't even foreplay.

Christ, this was practically rape.

Her kisses were hard, almost brutal. When she bit my lip it was hard enough I cried out and touched it and looked at my finger, wondering if she had drawn blood.

"Rita? What?" I started but she cut me off with another of those hard, almost savage kisses.

"Fuck me, Baby," she said, nipping again, this time making me grab my earlobe and check for blood, "yesterday was nice but right now, mama needs a good fuckin'."

I laughed.

"Well, all righty then," I said, making her laugh back. This was a phrase she used from time to time, something from an old TV show she watched.

I took her hand and led her toward the bedroom.

She spun with a quickness that made me think she had put in some time in a karate dojo, grabbed the front of my shirt, and yanked it open sending four buttons flying.

She stepped closer, hooked her fingers, and raked her nails down my chest, crossing both nipples, and making me look down to see if she had drawn blood. I watched eight parallel lines turn from white to pink.

"Jesus," I said, grabbing her wrists when she reached for me again, "I get it. Now quit trying to tear me apart you damn cannibal."

She giggled, did a quick twist escape making me more certain of the time studying martial arts, and held her arms straight up.

It was obvious what she wanted so I peeled the T-shirt up and left it at her elbows, kind of binding her into that position while I reached around her to unhook her bra. Then I finished peeling the T-shirt off and pulled the bra free when she lowered her arms.

"Why do you wear it?" I asked, holding up the bra, "It's not like you need it."

She giggled and said, "Did you just call me flat-chested."

"Welllllll," I said, looking at those tiny breasts.

She grinned, that predatory grin of hers, and said, "Okay, I am. Now get busy. I'm about to explode."

I dropped to one knee and took her hand.

"Rita Rogers," I said, and as I started her eyes got big, "You have captured my heart. You are unlike any woman I've ever known. I am smitten. I am yours. Will you marry me?"

She surprised me by breaking down into tears. She wasn't weeping, this was full-out bawling. Her eyes were red. Her nose was red and swollen. And running. When she opened her mouth a sheet of thick saliva connected her upper and lower lips.

"Yes," she said, "Yes, yes, yes."

I stood and kissed her, a slick, snotty kiss. A very good kiss with my hands running up and down her back while hers mirrored that on mine.

I broke the kiss and got back to my knees, starting on her belt and the button of her jeans.

In this position that sweet perfume of an aroused woman was thick, a heady brew. She squirmed a little, impatient now, as I took her feet, in turn, first right then left, and removed her shoes. I deliberately took my time, undoing the button and then unzipping her jeans before working them past her ass and kissing that thick muff of soft, curly, bright orange hair.