Brother and Sister

by Edwin West

  He had pulled her down on top of him. He had necked with her. He had kissed her and fondled her and done his absolute damnedest to make love to her. And if he hadn’t been drunk, he probably would have made love to her.

  What in the name of God was the matter with him?

  How rotten could a guy get? How filthy and rotten could he be, to want to make his own sister?

  But she had wanted him to.

  He remembered that now, too--remembered it as dimly as everything else, but remembered it surely. She had wanted him to. From the night he had kissed her in the car he had known it was the truth. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

  And he did want her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman in his life. Of all the women alive, or all the women who had ever lived, or all the women who might ever live in the future, of them all he wanted the most to go to bed with the only one who was by every law and every rule and every code forbidden to him--his own sister.

  And he wanted her now, just as much as he had wanted her last night. More, because now he was fully conscious of himself, and of her near him, and of the excitement of her nearness and the warmth and softness of her body close against him.

  He moved, trying to adjust himself, his back aching from being too long in one position. His movement disturbed her sleep, so that she murmured and snuggled closer to him, nuzzling him, her arms tightening around him.

  No matter what he thought, no matter how much he reviled himself for it, he was helpless. Once she had moved, so lithe and sensuous and erotic, against him like that, he was lost. There was nothing else he could have done but what he did.

  He rolled over, rolling her with him, so that their positions were reversed, and he kissed her, fiercely, hungrily, while his one hand roughly traveled the front of her body, feeling the lush warm curves of her against his hand.

  She awoke slowly, twining her arms around him, sighing and murmuring to his touch and his kiss. Then, all at once, she was fully awake, her eyes wide. He stared into them, feeling a moment of blind terror, knowing for sure that now she would push him away, that her revulsion would stop them. Otherwise, she would never again be able to look at him, never again speak to him--they would never again even be able to be brother and sister.

  But all she did was whisper his name: “Paul.” And the sound of the word, the expression on her face, were so strange, so unearthly, so unlike anything he had ever experienced, that he didn’t know whether it was acceptance or rejection.

  Her arms tightened around him and she pulled his head down to her, kissing him as savagely and hungrily as he had kissed her. Now he knew she was his.

  This was the extent of their admission of love and need for each other. But once even that vague confession was made, the mutual knowledge admitted, they hurried, both acting as though they had practically no time at all. They had to hurry and come together now, without a second’s delay.

  He sat up, pulling off his shirt, attacking his belt buckle with hasty, trembling fingers, and she sat up beside him, undressing as hurriedly and frantically as he. Then they got into bed and pulled the sheet up over themselves. Once again, Paul took her in his arms and kissed her.

  But now they were nude, the feel of her flesh against him, warm and firm and demanding, the breasts hard-tipped against him, her legs rubbing against his. It was too much for him. He groaned, pushed her onto her back and rolled upon her. When he penetrated her she cried out, squeezing her eyes shut, her arms and legs entwining him.

  She was a virgin, inexperienced and unsure, but instinct took over with them both. They pulsed together on the bed, clutching each other, his face buried in her hair, his voice intoning her name, over and over. And after that first cry she was silent, only the ragged rustle of her breathing loud in his ears.

  Until it was over and they lay side by side, their bodies moist and hot with perspiration, their breathing labored, their hands reaching out gently to touch one another in the wonder of discovery.

  She smiled at him, a languorous sleepy smile and whispered, “Husband.”

  “Wife,” he whispered.

  “Beloved,” she answered breathlessly.

  NINE

  Once again the balance of the house had changed, though this time it hadn’t changed because a different number of people were living there. The number of people had remained the same. But the people themselves had changed, as their relationship had changed.

  One week ago, exactly, it had been. Wednesday morning, at ten o’clock. He had come to her. He had loved her and he had made her his for always. One week ago, exactly.

  Angie stood in the back yard, and it was once again ten o’clock of a Wednesday morning, and now she was hanging wash on the line, and she was thinking back seven days.

  A lot had happened since then. In the first place, Paul had insisted that she call the clothing store in town right away, that afternoon, to tell them she wouldn’t be working any more. In the second place, Paul had gone out that afternoon and found himself a job. Now he was working in an insurance company office in Thornbridge, in the same building where Mr. McDougall had his suite of offices.

  And she had moved into his room. Her bed was a single and his was a three-quarter, so there was more room for the two of them in his bed.

  It would have been more sensible, of course, for them to have switched to their parents’ double bed, but neither one of them brought the suggestion up, nor had either of them thought seriously about doing any such thing.

  For, in truth, the knowledge of guilt was never very far from them. Angie felt it pressing down on her in unguarded moments, and her happiness with Paul was only barely strong enough to quell this guilt.

  What they were doing was wrong. It was evil, no matter how good it seemed, no matter how relieved she was that it had come out into the open.

  She doggedly tried to shove her feelings of guilt and shame into the back of her mind. The joy and pleasure she found with Paul were so exciting, so real and vivid, that she didn’t want to consider the possible consequences of their actions. It was easier to forget everything in the burning heat of their love-making. It was easier to regard herself as Paul’s bride, to forget the damnation of her own warning conscience.

  Her body now was a new and strange and wonderful thing. She had never suspected before the glories of which it was capable. But now she knew, and with every movement she was aware of her body, its completion beneath her brother, and she thrilled at that completion.

  When she walked, her thighs brushing together, she remembered that Paul had touched her thighs, that he had lain between them. When she raised her arms, she felt her breasts raise also, grow more taut, and she remembered again that his hands had caressed them, his lips had kissed them, his head had rested between them. In every motion of her body, she remembered and felt again the touch of Paul--his touch and his love-making.

  There was a light breeze today, and as she raised her arms to hang the wash on the line, the breeze ruffled her skirt, brushing it against her legs. She felt newly passionate, and she could hardly wait for Paul to come home, because she knew that when he did she would lead him upstairs at once and they would make love again.

  She was a bride. It was still her honeymoon. The wonders of her body, the wonders of sex, filled her thoughts and her emotions.

  A woman’s voice behind her said, “Well, hello there, Angela! My, you look fine today!”

  She had been thinking of Paul just then, visualizing the way he looked in bed, visualizing the way it was when they came together, and she was startled, blushing suddenly, as though the woman who had interrupted her thoughts could read them somehow, could see and understand what she was thinking.

  She turned. It was Mrs. Fielding from next door, beaming and maternal, dressed as always in a faded house dress and an even more faded apron. Mrs. Fielding was about fifty, a short, chubby, cheerful woman with iron-gray hair and flabby upper arms and a husband who drove a seven-year-old Dodge to his
job with the Merchants & Manufacturers Trust Company. Since Paul worked in the same building, he’d been riding down to work with Mr. Fielding every morning. Because the bank closed earlier than the insurance office, Paul had to take a bus coming back.

  “You look just like a bride,” gushed Mrs. Fielding, beaming at Angela. Mrs. Fielding had a basketful of wash which she had just brought out to hang, and she set this down on the lawn, grunting from the effort, and straightening again to say, “Yes, just like a bride. So young and cheerful and bright-looking. Did you know that you were actually singing out here?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Angie. “I didn’t even realize it.”

  “It takes a bride to be able to sing while hanging laundry,” said Mrs. Fielding, laughing. “But, of course, you’re too young to be a bride. You take your time, child. Have fun. Don’t rush into marriage. Not that I have anything against marriage. Dear me, no! Mr. Fielding and I do get along very well, I must say. But once you’re married, it changes your whole life.”

  Yes, thought Angie, it does, doesn’t it?

  “Why, you take that young Mrs. Potter down the block,” said Mrs. Fielding. “All she can talk about, all day long, is her Herbert. It’s Herbert this and Herbert that, all day long, till I’m just about ready to scream. Of course, I suppose I was the same way when I’d just married Mr. Fielding, talking about him all the time. I suppose, really, I’m still the same way.”

  “I guess that’s the way it is,” said Angie.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Fielding. “Why, I do remember the time…”

  The conversation seemed to go on and on. Mrs. Fielding talked at great length about Mr. Fielding, about his taste in food and his lack of taste in clothing, about his little thoughtfnlnesses and his little thoughtlessnesses, and pretty soon Beth Mae Potter came walking across the back yards and joined the conversation. Then it turned into a contest between them, Mrs. Potter talking about her husband, and Mrs. Fielding talking about hers.

  Ten years ago, Mrs. Fielding wouldn’t have back-fenced about her husband. Her topic of conversation at that time would have been her children. But their son and daughter had grown up and moved out of town. That had happened so long ago that Mrs. Fielding, somewhat estranged from them, no longer thought it important to report what her children had written to her. She had by now changed topics and was talking exclusively about her Mr. Fielding.

  In a year or two, Beth Mae Potter would also stop talking about her husband. Her conversation would shift to diaper services, toilet training, formulas, and the clever remarks of her darlings. This would change, gradually, through the years, to how the children were doing in school, how they were doing in their summer jobs and, finally, how they were doing away at college. Then, the birds flown from the nest, she would come full circle and start talking about Herbert again.

  At the moment, both were concentrating on their husbands--both of them talking and neither of them listening.

  Angie didn’t really listen, either, though she smiled and nodded as though she were being very attentive. Actually, she was thinking of her own husband, though he was husband in fact only, and not in name. Whenever Mrs. Fielding mentioned an idiosyncrasy of Mr. Fielding’s, and Mrs. Potter retaliated with a similar oddity of Herbert’s, Angie was reminded of something comparable in Paul’s behavior.

  Except that she couldn’t speak of it.

  They don’t know, she thought. It was a secret--only she and Paul could ever know. It was a delicious secret, a wonderful secret to hug to one’s self.

  Eventually, the wash was hung and the three women split up, each returning to her own home. Angie sat down at the kitchen table for a minute, allowing herself a smile--the smile of secret knowledge. For she knew and they didn’t. They never would.

  As she sat there her mood changed and she was no longer sure it was more fun to have the secret. Mrs. Fielding and Mrs. Potter could talk about their husbands, could be openly proud of them, could show them off like prized possessions. But she couldn’t. She burned with a desire to relate anecdotes and discoveries about her man, but she had to keep them bottled up inside her.

  Maybe having the secret wasn’t such a good thing after all.

  But there was nothing she could do about it. No one must ever suspect the true relationship between herself and Paul. They wouldn’t understand.

  And did she understand? Yes. She loved Paul and he loved her. They found strength, compassion and understanding in one another. They shared tastes and interests and backgrounds. The accident of birth had made them brother and sister, but their conscious will had made them lovers. Yes, she understood what they were to each other, and why. And there was no shame, no guilt. As far as she was concerned, there was no crime. To be this happy was no crime, was it?

  She made herself a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table thinking of Paul, of the wives up and down the street, until the doorbell sounded half an hour later. She finished her coffee at a gulp and went to the front door.

  It was Bob.

  No shame? No guilt? No crime?

  No, she was only fooling herself, and the appearance of Bob proved it, brought it out into the open where she could see it.

  There was shame. Could she ever allow Bob to know the truth? Could she tell him, “That which I didn’t share with you, I now share with my brother, Paul. That which should only be shared by husband and wife is now being shared, in this house, by brother and sister.”

  Could she ever explain to him that she no longer needed him because she had found her real husband, and that her husband was her brother?

  She could imagine the expression on Bob’s face should he learn the truth. The loathing and disgust. And she knew that she would shrink from him in shame if he ever knew.

  There was shame, no matter how much she tried to hide the knowledge from herself.

  And there was guilt. Didn’t she dread the idea that someone might come to the house when she and Paul were in bed together? Didn’t they stay away from one another in public, not touching, barely looking at one another? Didn’t they flinch away from one another if they were in the same room and the doorbell or even the telephone rang?

  What was that but guilt? Yes, there was guilt, no matter how much she tried to hide that knowledge from herself.

  And there was crime. A crime against nature, a crime against law, and a sin against God. Every possible kind and degree of crime and sin all combined in one. For how could their union ever dare produce children? Beyond the fact that such a child would reveal the truth about them, what would the child be? Feeble-minded, perhaps, or Mongoloid, or a helpless monster of some other kind. Incestuous children, the abominations of nature.

  And so she was saddled with a deep-down sense of immersion in sin that flared up inside her at unguarded moments.

  But there was an oddly contradictory sense of rightness in her, too, that couldn’t be taken away. No matter all the rest of it, there was a feeling of peace and of inevitability when she was with Paul that she had never known before and that she was convinced she would never be able to know with anyone else.

  If there were any doubts as to the rightness of what she and Paul were doing, they were dispelled now, by Bob’s arrival. Not by Bob’s arrival itself so much, as by her own reaction to his appearance.

  Gone was the indecisive fear, the stumbling and the stammering, the guilty hesitation. She looked at him, and she knew that she could make, finally, her decision now. She knew what it was going to be, and she smiled with assurance as she held the door open for him and said, “Come on in, Bob. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  “You said to give you time,” he reminded her, crossing the threshold.

  “Yes, I know. And you did. Thank you. Come on into the living room.”

  They sat together on the sofa and he said, “You’re different, Angie. You’re acting different.”