A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

As we get closer to departure, my conversations with the village become more frequent, the list of things I need to bring grows longer. I take sweaters and shirts out of my bag to make room for instant Jell-O pudding, a twelve-inch wok, rechargeable batteries, acetaminophen, surgical cement, chocolate chips, Fleischmann’s yeast, and effervescent vitamin C.

The expediter I hired to get Ricardo’s passport asks for an extra two hundred and fifty dollars, because it too has required more explaining than usual.

Sofia has sent Sakhile, the South African village leader, a moment-by-moment breakdown of what should be happening while we’re there. “I like to be organized,” she says defensively, when I suggest we leave space for things to unfold naturally. “I realize that it can be difficult for others to see the value of this level of detail, but,” she says, “I want it to go well, and I am aware that there may be cultural differences related not just to the bar-mitzvah event but to a sense of time and occasion, and so I wanted to make my expectations clear.” Sakhile’s face appears on the computer screen. “Do you have everything you need?” she asks Sakhile. “Any last-minute items you need me to slip into a suitcase?”

“We are good to go,” Sakhile says. “I have your instructions in hand.” Sakhile holds up a clipboard with many pages attached.

“We are very excited,” Sofia tells Sakhile. “Harold will bring you a copy of the printed invitation.”

“You have a very powerful wife,” Sakhile says later, when Sofia is not there.

“Not my wife,” I say, “a party planner.”

“Like Colin Cowie?” he says. “He made a big event for Oprah.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Sakhile, I’m curious — how did Nate come to your village?”

“We built the school to save our village, and from that good things come,” he says. “My generation had to leave to find work — most didn’t return. We were shrinking smaller and smaller, and then I had an idea. With democracy comes money — we can apply and get money for a school which can support our village. So first I build a small school, and then I say we need money to build a bigger school where the children from villages nearby can come. Most of the children who come have only grandparents who cannot take care of them, and all the more important is that they have an education.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I went only to a missionary school for two years, but there are things I know. My family has been here for a very long time. I am all that remains.”

“Noble,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I am not so noble, I am practical. I don’t want my village to die. There was nothing left, no more reason for anyone to be here except that we have always been here. That is how Nate came to us. ‘If you build it they will come,’” he says, and laughs. “I am quoting from Close Encounters of the Third Kind , when Richard Dreyfuss builds a mountain of mashed potatoes. …” The way Sakhile says “potatoes,” pronouncing each syllable like it was a word itself, makes potatoes sound delicious.

“I think that’s from Field of Dreams , the baseball movie with Kevin Costner. In Close Encounters , Dreyfuss says, ‘I guess you’ve noticed something a little strange with Dad. …’” I say the line without knowing how I even know it and make a mental note to watch the film again — clearly it had a big impact on me.

“Safe journey,” Sakhile says. “ Ulale kahle. ”

The night before we leave, everyone is outside playing Wiffle ball. Nate and Cy are coaching Ricardo. Madeline is cheerleading. It is twilight — the lightning bugs are blinking, and except for the mosquitoes, it is sublime. Ashley and Nate’s embrace of Ricardo is unqualified — one never has a sense of the two of them apart from him or competing with him. He is their brother; he has been left to us and we to him.

I stand on the front steps, slightly apart, observing, as though I now hold knowledge that separates me from them — but I don’t. They are simply engaged in what is before them, and I am thinking about what time we have to leave, about passports, currency, and suitcases, while they are thinking it is summer and the day is perfect and I’m making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

“Play with us,” Ricardo calls to me. At first I don’t respond. “Play,” he demands.

“Where are the bases?” I ask.

“The azalea is first, rhododendron second, and the lilac by the driveway is third,” Nate says.

I go up to bat. Ashley pounds her fist into her glove. “Sock it to me,” she says.

I am 0 for 2 trying to read Cy’s wobbly pitch when I connect — the hollow thwack of plastic on plastic sends the ball careening to the right, bouncing off the lamppost by the front door, skittering under the boxwood, and rolling down the hill inches ahead of Ashley, who pounces after it. I make it safely to third base. Madeline is up next; she bunts, and I slide into home (and gracefully excuse myself to ice what’s left of my knees).

The next afternoon, the car for the airport comes early. Ricardo has never flown before and is baffled by the security process — taking off his shoes (and socks), his belt, emptying his pockets, which contain an inordinate amount of junk. On the other side the kids go to buy some gum; Ricardo’s hunger for all things is immense — he wants comic books, soda, chocolate, pistachio nuts. His enthusiasm is so genuine that it’s hard to say no. “Pick one,” I say. “One of each?” he asks. “Just one,” I say.

On board, he sits between Nate and me, with Ashley on my right — we are four in a row across the middle, holding hands for what Ricardo calls “blastoff.” Whatever has been forgotten will remain forgotten until we are long gone. During the night, I wake up with his head resting on my chest like a bowling ball.

In Johannesburg, Cecily has arranged for a people minder, like an airport babysitter. She shuttles us around in a golf cart, letting the kids take turns beeping the horn, and off we go on a smaller plane to Durban.

The plane empties, we get off, we claim our bags, watch people come and go. Various people approach, asking if we need transportation.

“No,” I say. “Someone is coming.”

After twenty minutes, I call Sakhile.

“No one is there?” he asks. “You are kidding me? I’ll call you back,” he says. Minutes later, my phone rings. “Car trouble. We are making another plan. I will call you back with details.”

We sit on our suitcases — conspicuously white in a sea that is everything but. I don’t think I’ve been in a place that is so entirely other.

Thirty minutes later, a man arrives. “I am Manelisi, the cousin of Nobuhle. Please come.” Manelisi leads us to his bakkie, a small pickup truck with an extra seating area. The children sit behind me; I share the front with Manelisi. “I am a gardener,” he says. “That is why the truck smells like dung — I did a big job today.”

The truck doesn’t smell like dung so much as earth. We ride with the windows open; I ask the children if it is too much air.

“No,” they say, glad to be out of the plane and out of the airport, “it’s good.”

“Right now,” Manelisi says, “we are going to pick up some packages.” He looks at a map, and in about ten minutes we pull up in front of a place called Esther’s Kitchen. Manelisi runs in, then returns with two helpers and numerous boxes, which they load into the back of the truck. Only later do I realize this is food for tomorrow’s lunch, packed in dry ice. The helpers speak a language that is unfamiliar but sounds rhythmic and joyous.