A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

In the morning, a van pulls up outside. A man gets out, unloads six boxes. From inside I watch him carry them one by one to the front door. At first I’m thinking it’s a box bomb delivered by the surviving relatives of the family George killed. But there’s something so methodical, so painstaking about the way this guy works that clearly he’s a professional of another sort. The last thing out of the van is the enormous plant. He’s got everything all lined up before he rings the bell.

Tessie barks.

I open the door carefully.

“Delivery,” he says. “Can you sign for these?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Your property.”

“My property?”

“Office supplies,” the guy says, turning to leave. “How the fuck would I know? I’m just the messenger. Eight o’clock in the morning and people are already asking questions. When is enough enough?” He walks back to the van, yelling the whole way.

I drag the boxes into the house. It’s the contents of George’s office.

“Did you order something?” Ashley asks.

“It’s for your dad,” I say, and the three of us drag it all into his office and close the door.

“Can I have the plant?” Nate asks.

The decision is made to take Jane off life support, to donate her organs. “I didn’t sleep all night,” her mother says. “I made up my mind and then I changed my mind and then I made up my mind and I changed my mind.”

“Who will tell the children?” someone asks.

“You should,” Jane’s father says, stabbing his finger towards me. “It’s all on you.”

Nate and Ashley are taken to a conference room; they ask me to come with them. We sit, waiting and waiting, and then, finally, the doctor comes in. He’s got scans, charts, and graphs.

“Your mom is very sick,” he says.

The children nod.

“The damage to her brain can’t be fixed. So we’re going to let her body help other people whose bodies can get better. Her heart can help someone whose heart isn’t working. Does that make sense?”

“Daddy killed Mommy,” Ashley says.

There isn’t much more to say.

“When are you going to pull the plug?” Nate asks.

The doctor braces. “We’ll take her to the operating room and remove the parts that can be transplanted.”

“When?” Nate wants to know.

“Tomorrow,” the doctor says. “Today all the people who are going to be helped by your mom will get phone calls, and they’ll go to the hospitals near where they live, and their doctors will start to get ready.”

“Can we see her?” Ashley asks.

“Yes,” the doctor says. “You can see her today, and again in the morning.”

Somehow the police are notified and a cop shows up with a photographer, and they ask us all to leave the room, and they pull the curtains around her bed and start taking pictures. The white flash explodes again and again behind the curtain, lighting up the silhouettes of the cop and the photographer. I can’t help but wonder: Are they taking close-ups, are they pulling back the blankets? Are they photographing her nude? The flashes of light attract attention; the other families look at us strangely but silently. Stroke, heart attack, burn — MURDER — we are known to each other by ailment and not by name.

When the cops finish, we go back in. I look at the blanket. If they pulled it back, what did they see? What does a brain-dead woman look like? I fear I know the answer: like a dead woman.

Rutkowsky the lawyer and I meet in the hospital parking lot and go in together to talk to George. “He’s never asked how she is,” I tell the lawyer.

“Let’s assume he’s out of his mind,” the lawyer says.

“George,” Rutkowsky and I say simultaneously, as the nurse pulls the curtain back. George is in a bed, curled into a ball.

“Your wife, Jane, has been declared brain-dead; she’ll be taken off life support, and the charges against you will be raised to murder, or manslaughter, or whatever we can get them to agree to,” the lawyer says. “The point being, once this happens, wheels will be put into motion and your options become more limited. I am negotiating to have you sent someplace, to a facility I have worked with in the past. When you arrive, there will be a period of detoxification and then, hopefully, they’ll be able to address your underlying psychosis. Do you see what I’m saying, do you hear the direction I’m going in?” The lawyer pauses.

“She was sucking my brother’s cock,” George says.

And nothing more is said for a few minutes.

“What will she look like?” George asks, and I’m not sure exactly what the question means. “Well, no matter, I’m sure they can make a nice hat for her.”

The nurse tells us she needs a moment alone with George. We take the cue and leave.

“Have you got a minute?” the lawyer asks me.

In the lobby of the hospital, the lawyer asks me to take a seat. He places his enormous bag on the small table next to me and proceeds to unpack a series of documents. “Due to the physical and mental conditions of both Jane and George, you are now the legal guardian of the two minor children, Ashley and Nathaniel. Further, you are temporary guardian and the medical proxy for George. With these roles comes a responsibility that is both fiduciary and moral. Do you feel able to accept that responsibility?” He looks at me — waiting.

“I do.”

“You are conservator of assets, real-estate holdings, and other items that transfer to the children upon their majority. You have power of attorney over all transactions, assets, and holdings.” He hands me a small skeleton key; it’s like being indoctrinated into a secret society. “It’s the key to their safe-deposit box — I have no idea what’s in the box, but I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents.” And then he hands me a new bank card. “Activate this from the home phone at George and Jane’s house. The accountant Mr. Moody also has access to the accounts and will monitor your usage. It’s a system of checks and balances: Moody checks on you, you check on Moody, and I check on the two of you. Got it?”

“I do,” I repeat.

He hands me a manila envelope. “Copies of all the related paperwork, in case anyone should ask.” And then, weirdly, the lawyer takes out a little bag of gold chocolate coins and dangles them in front of my eyes.

“Gelt?” I ask.

“You look pale,” he says. “My wife bought a hundred of these, and somehow it’s fallen to me to get rid of them.”

I take the small bag of chocolate coins. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

“It’s my job,” he says, as he’s leaving. “My occupation.”

Where is Claire?

She has been lost in transit, was heading home and then rerouted. Along the way, she started hearing from her friends. I get a hostile call from Hawaii, where the aircraft has mechanical trouble. Accusatory.

“What are your comments based on? Hearsay?” I ask.

“The New York Post ,” she says.

“And that’s the new paper of record?”

“Fuck you,” she says. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you.” And she smashes her phone into the wall. “You hear that, that’s the sound of me smashing my BlackBerry into a wall. Fucking asshole.”

“I’ve got you on speakerphone,” I say, even though I don’t. “We’re all here at the hospital, the kids, Jane’s parents, the doctor. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” I’m lying. I’m alone in what used to be a phone booth that’s now been stripped of its equipment; it’s a denuded glass booth — powerless.