A False Dawn

SEVENTY-SIX

Richard Brennen wasn’t sure what to think. The old bastard rarely called him to the house this late, and for no apparent reason. He sounded drunk, but then he always sounded drunk after 10:00 P.M. He entered through the side door that led through the kitchen. He picked a banana out of a fruit bowl.

As he rounded the end of the hall and stepped into the great room, he stopped. “Mother?” he said, dropping the banana at his feet. “Daddy, what happened? Did you fall?” Brennen approached his father just as Santana stepped out from behind an alcove.

“Greetings, my brother.”

Richard Brennen turned around to stare at a strange man with a pistol pointing at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m your brother.”

“Like hell you are!”

“I am. Our father is in denial, but he knows it’s true. True as the color of my eyes.”

Richard looked at the man’s eyes and then he looked at his father’s eyes. “Who is this? What’s this about? Some kind of half-ass blackmail? My opponent, Charlie Matthison, behind this?”

Santana laughed. “Half-assed blackmail? Come on little brother. I think larger than that. If I’d wanted to blackmail you, I could have sent these to your opponent.”

Santana ripped open the packet he was carrying, leafed out the eight-by-ten photographs, and tossed them in Josh Brennen’s lap. The old man lifted one of the photos. It showed his youngest son having sex with a man. He looked at another, the disgust building on his face after each picture. He threw the photos at Richard.

“You’re a damn queer!” he said, standing to face Richard. “My son, the man who came out of my loins, is a faggot.”

Richard started for Santana but stopped. “I was set up! The condo!”

Santana said, “Usually it’s reserved for heterosexual encounters, but I made an exception in your case, my brother. Cain and Abel. Guess who’s Abel?”

Richard turned to face his father. “I tried to tell you! You didn’t want to listen.”

“Listen! How can you justify this? Damn you to hell and back, Richard!”

Grace Brennen sat in her wheelchair, stoic, her mouth downturned, sad. She pressed the small control with a finger on her right hand and the wheelchair began going backwards. It crashed into a large porcelain vase, smashing it, and knocking over a houseplant. Josh Brennen got up, his heavy cocktail glass breaking on the marble floor. He hobbled over to his wife.

“It’s okay, Gracie. It’s gonna be all right.” Her breathing came in gasps, her head twisting with pain, lips mouthing monosyllabic words. “Your mama might be havin’ another stroke!”

Santana was amused. It was better than he imagined. He put the small pistol in his pocket and said, “The wealthy American family at its very dysfunctional best, but then again, father knows best. I was going to kill you, Papa, but that would be too quick, too easy and too final. This way you’ll be in pain a long time. Just like my mother from the first time you made her body bleed to the last time you bled her spirit.” Santana smiled, turned and left.