A week went by, and then another, and then a month with no word from Kathleen, and that made me very, very nervous.
It was completely unlike my sister to keep what we had done a secret. It was too dark, too rampant with repercussions to keep it to herself. Sooner or later, she'd have to talk about it to somebody, but to whom?
I dared not call; having no idea how she really felt about that passionate evening, I didn't want to take the chance that she'd blow up at me, or, worse, rewrite it in her mind to make me look like a rapist. All through our childhood, Kathy managed to find a way to blame me whenever she got in trouble -- why should it be different now? Wondering if and when the affair would explode in my face drove me nearly to distraction, but I kept my promise to her; except for this journal, I haven't told a soul.
The memory of our fiery lovemaking kept playing over and over in my mind, fierce and white-hot as metal pounded relentlessly on the blacksmith's anvil. I found myself in a constant state of erection, and I took my wife, Catherine, to bed as often as she would let me. However, something had changed between us. Though I only pestered her a couple of times a week, which is normal for a couple in their mid-thirties, Catherine seemed reluctant and angry about something, and only agreed to my demands with reluctance. She didn't want to talk about it, and I dared not press.
But what if Catherine knew somehow about me and my sister? What if Kathleen had told her? What if my mother somehow put two and two together and ratted us out? But if any of this were the case, surely Catherine would say something -- we'd be headed for divorce court for sure. The "What if? What if? What if?" refrain bounced endlessly around in my mind.
To compensate for the growing distance between Catherine and myself, I did try to be a more responsive husband, prompted by a measure of guilt and shame at having betrayed her. Before that night with Kathleen, I had never cheated on Catherine, but the circumstances were, after all, extraordinary; how often does an opportunity like that come up? For all my endless fantasies, in my core I was certain it was a one-time event.
The suspense ended abruptly yesterday with an angry phone call from Kathleen, who caught me at the office just before I was to go out on my morning rounds (I'm a salesman).
"Al, how could you?!" she screamed, tears evident in her voice.
"What? How could I what?"
"You know goddamn well what!"
"No, I don't know what. Kathy, what are you talking about?"
Silence on the line; I could hear my sister trying to catch her breath. The cold hand of fear gripped my heart; we must have been found out.
"You-- you really don't know?"
"Kathy, this is completely out of the blue. What happened?"
"You'd better come over," she said. "This affects you, too."
I swallowed, though my throat suddenly went dry. Visions of prison filled my head. Whatever had happened, it was serious. I rescheduled my appointments and churned a couple of existing accounts so I could have something to show for the day, and left the office, fully erect despite my fear and panic, knowing deep in my heart that Kathleen and I would probably never make love again, that I would never again feel my sweet sister's hot and soft lips peppering my face with little kisses, hear those moans and sighs echoing in my ears as she squirmed with ardor underneath my pile-driving prick. Unable to take it, I went home to masturbate so I wouldn't embarrass Kathy by showing up with a hardon.
Kathy and her husband Mark's apartment is in a renovated Victorian rooming house across town. They have a spacious two-bedroom decorated with considerable taste, with modern art prints and large natural landscape photos on the pastel blue walls, a thick, white shag rug covering the living room floor, and a minibar tucked away in the corner. The second bedroom serves as an office and a den, but there is a fold-down couch for overnight guests.
When the door opened, I felt a complete shock. Kathy's housekeeper apparently hadn't come that week; the place needed a thorough vacuuming, the coffee table was covered with unopened mail and magazines, and Kathy herself hadn't dressed that day; she greeted me barefoot in a baggy white T-shirt and grey sweatpants. At least her crying jag had ended, and she had taken the time to brush her hair, which was bound up in a fetching ponytail. Though her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks red and puffy from crying, Kathy was still the prettiest woman I knew.
She didn't hug me, just stood back from the door and waved me inside. I followed her to the kitchen, where hot coffee awaited us. I poured two cups and took a seat at the kitchen table.
"Well?" I asked. "Don't keep me hanging. I'm dying to know. What happened?"
In reply, Kathy went into the office and came out with a manila envelope, which was addressed to her in clumsy block lettering. I undid the clasp and a thick pile of glossy photographs spilled onto the kitchen table. They showed Kathy's husband Mark and my wife Catherine at an outdoor café in the next town over, holding hands, laughing and kissing. Other photos showed their cars at a motel, and the two of them coming out of one of the rooms, kissing before parting. The photos made it clear that they had done this on several occasions over a period of weeks, always picking different motels, taking care not to be noticed. But who was taking these photos?
Cold shock gripped my stomach as my mind buzzed with possibilities. How could I have missed this? From the look of the photos, the affair between my wife and brother-in-law had been going on for months; some of the motel pictures displayed dirty little piles of snow and bare trees that indicated they were taken in March, more than four months ago.
"It's God's punishment for what we did," she said.
"Maybe we're God's punishment for what they did," I replied. "They started first."
"You and I have broken every law I can think of," said Kathy. "Al, I'm so ashamed. What were we thinking? What we did ... it was so wrong, so wrong. Don't you feel at all bad about it?"
I didn't reply; I felt pretty good about it, actually. Silence hung heavy in the air between us.
"So you really didn't know," Kathleen said, taking my hand in her long, slender fingers; the first sign of affection she'd shown for me since that night. Our hands kneaded themselves together as we both silently examined the evidence on the table.
"We owe them," Kathleen said at last, her dark eyes beginning to flare. "We owe them big."
I rose and gathered my sister in my arms. She let her arms dangle at her sides, refusing to embrace me. I said nothing and gently stroked her temples and her back. I could almost hear her thinking, coolly calculating the costs of adultery -- and revenge. Though Kathy still kept her gaze from me, her arms snaked around my body at last and we swayed together,, her plentiful breasts crushed against me, dancing silently in the kitchen. I caressed her forehead with a light kiss; she hugged me tighter. Despite having gotten my rocks off once so this wouldn't happen, my prick began to stiffen. When she noticed, Kathleen laughed and looked up at me.
"It's so funny," she said. "The reason I took my problem to you was because every other guy I know would have tried to exploit it fuck me. But you're my brother. You weren't supposed to fuck me."
"I did suggest a therapist," I reminded her. "You could have said no."
