Before I continue with the Missing Brother story, I have to interject something. I don’t spend my days thinking about Cuntzilla. I was spurred to write yesterday’s story because my sister called me with Cuntzilla’s most recent irritating antics. But I couldn’t launch into THAT story without giving you some context. So, without further ado, on to the context…

The next morning arrived, and, filled with hope, I called my parents’ house hoping for good news. Instead, I found out that not only had my brother NOT been found, but also that Cuntzilla was not doing anything else about it. In fact, when my mother called her earlier that morning, she had curtly cut my mother short saying, “I’m on my way to work. I’ve got to go.” When she heard nothing but a shocked pause from my mother, she said, “You know, I’ve got responsibilities.”

When I heard this, I thought there were two possibilities for her behavior: one, my brother was with another woman, Cuntzilla knew this and therefore didn’t care; or, two, she didn’t love my brother. Oh, how I hoped for number one. (No kids were involved, so she would’ve been the only one hurt.)

Just to give you some perspective on her “I’m going to work. I’ve got responsibilities” attitude, my two brothers-in-law and my husband all volunteered to stay home from work that day, in case we received gruesome news.

Anyway, I got off the phone with my mother and got the little Ubergirls ready for a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s, where the family was meeting for a base of operations. As I was packing the diaper bag, my phone rang. It was Cuntzilla. “Can you call your family and tell them all to meet at my townhouse at 2 this afternoon? We can talk about what to do about this. Maybe we can call the police officer I talked to last night or something.

“You know, I’m getting off work early for this. I didn’t tell my boss why. I don’t want to air my dirty laundry at work.” So I hung up and did as I was told. With the “dirty laundry” comment, I went back to thinking my brother was shacked up with someone else. But, it didn’t make sense … with all the teary messages he received, would he let us all worry? That didn’t fit my brother at all. In fact, cheating didn’t fit my brother. My brother’s a bit of an oddball, as in sci-fi convention-attending oddball.

The girls and I arrived at my parents’ house; I bounded up the stairs (as quickly as one can bound while carrying a one-month-old and a diaper bag while helping a two-year-old.) I opened the door, and the long faces that greeted me told me my brother had not yet been found.

As we were going over possibilities for the hundredth time, my mother said, “Sssh.” We all listened. It was footsteps coming up the stairs. It was my brother. It was 10 a.m.

We all ran to him and smothered him with hugs and exclamations of joy and relief. We talked about his medical condition. We helped him make medical appointments. He called his wife to tell her he was okay.

She showed up at 2:30 a.m. with the Cuntzilla prototype, her mother (more interesting stories, including how she accompanied my brother and his wife on the second leg of their honeymoon, will no doubt appear some time in the future.)

They shoveled my brother quickly into the car and took him away.

But the incident loosened his tongue somewhat as to what his home life was like. It prompted memories in me of the First Husband. You remember, TEO? I’ll tell you why in the next installment.