“You never asked,” I said, feeling strangely defensive about the whole thing.
“You should have said,” Astor said, and Cody looked at me with an equal, unspoken accusation, as if I had violated some basic trust.
But Brian was already standing at the front door, so I turned away and followed. They came along behind, clearly fuming, and it occurred to me that this would not be the last time I heard similar words. What would I say to Rita when she asked the same thing, as she certainly would? I mean, of course I had never told them I had a brother. Considering that Brian was just like me but without any of Harry’s restraints on him, a kind of Dexter Unbound, what could I possibly say? The only really appropriate introduction would be, “This is my brother—run for your life!”
And in any case, I had not anticipated ever seeing him again after that one brief and dizzying encounter. I had not even known if he would survive. He clearly had—but why had he come back? I would have thought it made more sense to stay far away; Deborah would certainly remember him. Theirs had not been the sort of encounter one forgets, and she was, after all, exactly the kind of person who took great professional satisfaction from arresting people like him.
I knew very well, too, that he had not come back because of any kind of sentimental feelings for me, either. He did not have sentimental feelings. So why was he here, and what did I do about it?
Brian reached the front door and turned to look at me, raising one eyebrow. Apparently, the first thing I had to do about it was to open the door and let him in. I did; he gave me a small bow and entered, and Cody and Astor trooped in after him.
“What a lovely home,” Brian said, looking around the living room. “So very homey.”
There were heaps of DVDs lying across the tattered couch, and a pile of socks on the floor, and two empty pizza boxes on the coffee table. Rita had been in the hospital for nearly three days, and naturally enough she had not had the energy to clean up since she returned this morning. And although I do prefer a neat environment, I had been far too distracted myself to do anything about it, and the place really was not at its best. In fact, it was a frightful mess.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Brian. “We’ve been, um—”
“Yes, I know, the blessed event,” he said. “Into each life some domesticity must fall.”
“What does that mean?” Astor demanded.
“Dexter?” Rita called from the bedroom. “Is that—Is somebody with you?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“His brother is here,” Astor said belligerently.
There was a pause, replaced by the sound of panicked rustling of some kind, and then Rita came out, still brushing at her hair with one hand. “Brother?” she said. “But that’s—Oh.” And she stumbled to a halt, staring at Brian.
“Dear lady,” Brian said with knife-edged mocking joy, “how lovely you are. Dexter always did have an eye for beauty.”
Rita fluttered her hands at her head. “Oh, my God, I’m such a mess,” she said. “And the house is—But, Dexter, you never even said you had a brother, and this is—”
“It certainly is,” Brian said. “And I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“But your brother,” Rita repeated. “And you never said.”
I felt my jaw muscles moving, but no matter how carefully I listened, I did not hear myself saying anything. Brian watched me with real enjoyment for a moment before he finally spoke up.
“I’m afraid it’s all my fault,” he said at last. “Dexter thought I was long dead.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling like one of the Three Stooges picking up a bobbled line cue.
“Still,” Rita said, still fussing absently with her hair. “I mean, you never—You said you were—I mean, how could you not …?”
“It’s very painful,” I said tentatively. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Still,” Rita repeated, and even though there was no guidebook for the territory we had entered, I knew I had not heard the last of this. So, hoping to maneuver us back onto firmer terrain, I blurted out the only words I could find.
“Could we have a cup of coffee?” I said.
“Oh,” Rita said, her peevishness changing at once to a look of startled guilt. “I’m sorry—would you like—I mean, yes, here, sit down.” And she moved to the couch and removed the assorted litter that blocked it with a rapid series of precision moves that did us all proud, domestically speaking. “There,” she said, piling the armful of clutter beside the couch and waving at Brian. “Please—sit down, and—Oh! I’m Rita.”
Brian stepped forward with brittle gallantry and took her hand. “My name is Brian,” he said. “But please sit down, dear lady; you should not be on your feet so soon.”
“Oh,” Rita said, and she was actually blushing. “But the coffee, I ought to—”
“Surely Dexter is not so hopeless that he can’t make coffee?” Brian said, arching one eyebrow at her, and she giggled.