I knew that either Clendon would become so pissed that he would leave that nasty-ass bitch or he would weasel under and suffer worse than that alienated hero in the Russian novel Crime and Punishment, Clendon’s favorite character of all time. I believe the dude’s name is Raskolnikov.

How Clendon ever married that pit viper is a mystery to me. In that summer of the mosquitoes, I saw that he had capitulated completely…for a Volvo, two overweight kids with “blah” for personalities, and a neurotic wife who took separate vacations to Florence, Italy, to look at artwork. Victoria was a good fuck but I kept thinking of those awful paintings she signed with her maiden name and how she made Clendon use his influence with the art department so she could have that pathetic show over there at Middlebury College.

Beyond that, I knew she’d make him think it was his fault that she screwed the young guy at the tennis club, among others, me included.

Well, Clendon is not the world’s first cuckold, and he won’t be the last. When I saw her turn around from the sink in that sheer nightie with those breasts made in Heaven, those long slim legs, etc., I can understand what must have happened to my big brother and can see how he got suckered in. Romantic love. Romeo and Juliet. No-fucking-body can look six months down the road. It just doesn’t last. How come they can’t see it? Why can’t they anticipate?

Thus the two fat kids, both null and void. It was plain to see they aren’t Clendon’s. But he can’t leave now (“the kids, the psychic scar of divorce proceedings, plastic curtains in the trailer court”). Hey! I tried to do him a favor.

I remember once when we were in high school and I went into a clothing store with him to buy a new suit and fell under the salesman’s spell and in no time I had six hundred dollars’ worth of garish clothes piled on the sales counter—clothes that were the antithesis of me, horrible clothes. Clendon dragged me outside into the sunlight. “Have you lost your mind?” he said. “You’re going to look like a pimp in all of that shit!” Laughing, we ran down the street out of that salesman’s life for all time.

I hope by screwing Victoria I snapped him out of his trance. If not, then I’ve only made things worse.

I had to do something. I had to try.

According to Darwin the species wants to go on and on, forever and forever, but we are diluting and degrading the species by letting the weaklings live. I am guilty of this more than anyone. I took the Hippocratic oath and vowed to patch up junkies, prostitutes, and violent criminals and send them back out on the streets to wreak more havoc and mayhem on themselves and on others. I try not to think of that. I like to hope for the best.