A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

My mother and Bob cut the cake, and when Bob moves to feed her the first bite, his hand is shaking so badly that Mother takes his arm, guiding him towards her mouth.

I overhear two aides talking.

“Is he moving into her room?”

“Apparently,” the aide says. “They’ll put their beds side by side. Let’s hope the wheels stay locked and they don’t fall in the crack and break a hip.”

When it is over, the residents are ushered back down the hallway for an afternoon nap, and we bid the newlyweds adieu.

We’re all dressed up with nowhere to go. “Do you guys want to go out for an early dinner somewhere nice?” I ask, as we’re walking out to the car.

“We could,” Ashley says. “Or we could go home and have, like, a pajama-and-pizza TV party.”

I look at Ricardo buckling himself into the back seat.

“I would like to try someplace new,” he says.

“How about we go into the city?”

Both kids nod. “That would be inventive,” Ashley says.

I take the kids to the Oak Room at the Plaza and we have Shirley Temples and club sandwiches; it’s the most fun I’ve had in years.

“My cousin used to work in a hotel,” Ricardo says, as he’s digging into a thick slice of cheesecake. “He’d come home with his pockets full of chocolate coins that they put in the beds at night — can you imagine going to sleep in a bed filled with chocolate?”

I’m thinking all too well of myself when I tell Nate that I found some novelties to bring to South Africa — mini-solar chargers for cell phones.

“That’s nice,” he says. “But what they need is solar heat for the houses, solar hot-water heating, lights for the village at night — maybe think a little bigger.”

“Okay,” I say, “note taken. Is there someone in charge at Nateville, like a mayor or an elder?”

“Sakhile is the induna , the headman. His wife is Nobuhle. Mthobisi, Ayize, and Bhekiziziew — his top dogs.”

“How do I contact them?”

“Usually I e-mail.”

“They have e-mail?”

“They do now,” he says.

“And how do you send money?”

“Lots of ways — through PayPal, or on Dad’s credit card, or direct into a bank account. They also do a lot of banking via cell phone. And there’s also, like, a corner deli near Nateville that processes the charge and gives them the cash.”

“How much do you send?”

“A couple hundred dollars a month.”

“Where do you get it?”

He’s quiet for a minute. “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Selling stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” I say slowly, hoping that by stretching it out I won’t show that I’m panicking.

“School supplies?” Nate says like he’s not sure himself.

“Nate, right now this story has so many holes, it’s like Swiss cheese. Pony up.”

“Okay, okay, so, like, when a kid here at school needs to buy something at the school store …”

“Yes?”

“I buy it for him on my account, which is linked to Dad’s credit card, and the kids pay me in cash, and I send the cash to Nateville.”

I’m relieved.

“No one minds,” Nate says. “They think it’s a good cause. They’re very ‘keep the change.’ I did this thing last fall: whenever someone bought a school team shirt, I asked people to buy one for the school there.”

“What does the head of your school think about that?”

“It’s not exactly something he can complain about — after all, they were the ones who took us there. …”

I draft an e-mail to the village headman: “Good evening, I am the uncle of Nathaniel Silver, who has told me of his relationship to your village. This July we are celebrating Nathaniel’s 13th birthday, a special occasion in the Jewish faith, marking the transformation from boy to man, and Nathaniel would very much like to have his bar mitzvah in your village. Could you let me know if this might be possible? And also the best route to your village from the East Coast of the United States. Yours sincerely, Harold Silver.”

I hear back within minutes. “Fly to Durban and we will arrange car, 1–2 hour drive, leave time for flat tire. What day you come?”

“My thanks in advance,” I write back. “I don’t know what day yet. Meanwhile we have some supplies for the party that we’d like to send to the village. What is the best way to ship them?”

“Send to Durban and my Bro will pick them up.”

“Do you have Internet?”

“Of course, that is how we are talking. Do you Skype? We boast to be the only village to have our own satellite — it fell from the sky one night and landed in the hills nearby. We thought it was an earthquake or space aliens. It gets good reception. Our phones have four bars all the time — very good signal.” He pauses; a minute or two passes.

“How many people are in the village?” I write.

“We have a school with sixty children and we have another thirty or forty some of whom are old. Come to us. Our children love to party. Can you send money for supplies?”

Is there a polite way to ask, what will we get for the money? “I’ll need you to get receipts — my accountant is very strict about receipts.”

“What is an accountant?”

“The man who keeps track of the money,” I type. “How much money should I send?” I ask. “Five hundred dollars?” I don’t want to be cheap, but I don’t know what things cost.

“For a full village party?” he writes back. “We may be a poor little village but we are living in twenty-first-century reality.” A minute passes and then the man writes: “Can I ask a favor? Can you bring ibuprofen? We have some terrible aches.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, so let me know your ideas re: the party and how much you think it will cost and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” he types. “I will talk to my Bro and get back to you.”

I sign off, surprised that I was only a moment ago conversing with a stranger on the other side of the world — we were going back and forth like you would with someone you’ve known for years. I check to see what the time difference is: seven hours. Wow — it was two in the morning for him.

On Friday night, Ricardo’s aunt’s best friend comes to babysit, and I go out to dinner with Cheryl and her husband, Ed.

Ed is a totally affable, slap-on-the-back kind of a guy. We talk about everything except the fact that I’m sleeping with his wife.

“What line of work are you in?”

“Formerly an academic,” I say, “now doing some writing and editing.”

“Oh, yeah?” he says. “How does that work? How do you decide what to write about, or what to put in and what to take out?”

I shrug. “You have to get a feel for it. And what about you?”

“Family business — we vulcanize.”

“Remind me how that works?”

He digresses into a long speech, combined science lesson/ sales pitch.

“Fascinating,” I say.

“Don’t humor him, really …” Cheryl says.

“It’s really interesting.”

“It’s just what we do,” he says. “So are you married? Got kids?”

“Recently divorced,” I say. “No kids.”

“So how did you two meet?” Ed asks.

I signal for the waitress: “Check, please.”

I am working methodically through Sofia’s checklist for the bar mitzvah — and having a hard time locating Ryan Weissman, the young rabbi in training. The phone number on the business card he gave me when he appeared at office hours to discuss “The Jew as Outlaw” is no longer working. Ryan S. Weissman, Herschlag Fellow in Post-Judaic Studies. What are post-Judaic studies? I Google the Herschlag Fellowship. Double click.

Binnie and Stanley Herschlag celebrated their lifelong love of learning with the creation of the Herschlag Fellowship on the occasion of their 50th Wedding Anniversary. They are so proud of their sons, Arthur and Abraham, “twin boys who became rabbis,” says Binnie Herschlag. “Who could ask for more?” says Stanley Herschlag. “I could,” Binnie says. “And I did.” The text is interrupted by a photo of Binnie holding her first grandchild. “Allen Steven Koenig Herschlag. I couldn’t be more proud. Well, I could but …”