A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Come on, Tessie,” I say. “I know you like your house, but dogs need to go for walks. I need to go for a walk; once around the block and we can call it a night?” The dog sits down at the edge of the grass and won’t budge. “Well, I can’t very well go without you,” I say. “A man walking on his own is suspicious. A man walking with a dog is someone doing his duty.” I give the leash a strong yank, and Tessie yelps as she comes across the sidewalk.

“Are you okay? Did I pull too hard?”

I’ve never walked these streets at night. It’s kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying. There’s a sense of false calm, long driveways, houses at the end — lights on, emanating a pleasant kind of melancholy — the distant sounds of children playing, dogs barking.

Along the way, Tessie stops to eat strange things, dark lumps. I use my cell phone to get a better look. I’m thinking horseshit, but it seems odd, you don’t see many horses around here.

The next morning, George’s lawyer’s secretary calls. “Do you have a pen?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I have information for you. Your brother has been moved to The Lodge, Mohonk Pavilion, Room B. They want a list of medications in the home medicine cabinet: date, dose, pharmacy, doctor. And any info regarding personal physician and psychiatrist would be helpful. Go through his credit-card receipts; anything unusual in the last six months, we want to hear about it. Meanwhile, charges have been filed.” At first I’m thinking she’s saying that George’s credit card has been used to charge something, like when they suddenly cancel you because someone tries to buy a tractor online with your card number. But she goes on: “The district attorney is saying he left the hospital with the intent to do harm.”

“Oh, I really don’t think so,” I say, surprised.

Something out the window catches my attention: a woman in full riding gear, crop in hand, strolls by atop a gigantic and very expensive-looking horse. It’s cold out, and as the horse goes by I see steamy breath billowing out of its enormous nostrils.

“They’re looking at murder or voluntary manslaughter, the bottom line being that, in their view, it wasn’t an accident.”

“Maybe he came home because he missed the dog. He’s very close to the dog.”

“Like he just needed to leave the hospital in the middle of the night and give her a cookie?” the secretary says.

“Yes, like that,” I say.

“Lots of luck, mister,” she says. “I’ll fax you directions to The Lodge.”

While waiting for the fax, I find a duffel in the closet and fill it with polo shirts, sweatpants, khakis. I grab socks, underwear, his toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit, sneakers, and bathing trunks — you never know. The dog barks — the mail slot clinks — a handwritten note slides across the floor. “We have something for you.” I open the door—

The street is empty.

It’s a beautiful day for a car ride. That said, I’m still surprised at how far The Lodge is upstate, deep in the hills, a rustic Adirondack mansion with a gatehouse.

A man comes out and asks me to pop the trunk. He uses a mirror to look under the car, waves a metal detector over me and the bag. “Mind if I hold this?” He’s got the tire jack in his hand. “We won’t let you leave without it. We’re very careful,” he says.

At the top of the hill a valet takes the car, and I walk in holding the duffel for George.

There’s a large reception desk — more like a hotel than a mental hospital.

“I’m here to see my brother?”

“What’s his name?”

“George Silver.”

“No visitors.”

I hold up the duffel bag. “I was told to bring his things.”

She takes the duffel and unpacks it, sloppily piling clothing and underwear on the reception counter.

“Hey, I folded all that.”

“We’re a mental hospital, not a fashion show,” she says, handing me his electric toothbrush, his deodorant, his toothpaste. “Unopened products only, and no electronics.”

“When can I see him?”

“New admissions, five days no visitors.”

She puts the rejected products back into the bag. “Do you want to take them, or shall I throw them away?”

“I’ll take them. So — what happens next? Is there a Coke machine, or a place I could get a cup of coffee?”

“In town you’ll find a full selection of places to eat.”

“Look,” I say. “His wife died, and we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.” The woman nods. “I’m finding this foray into mental health is anything but. I drive for three hours to — what — drop off clean underwear?”

“Enough,” the woman barks. And then she settles down again. “I can give you a copy of our promotional film.” She reaches under the counter and slips me a flat package. “It has all our information, a description of the program. We can’t take you on an actual tour: we’re very protective of our clients’ privacy. I’ll make a note that you’d like the doctor to call you. Family visits are scheduled in advance. We don’t do drop-ins — too disruptive.”

“I drove a very long way.”

“Yes, you did,” the woman says. “Would you like to write the note yourself?”

“Fuck the note,” I mutter, turning to leave.

From a pay phone at Burger King, I call the lawyer; the cell is useless up here — no signal. I pour coins into the pay phone. “You’re getting me out of court to complain that they didn’t accept your toothpaste and that your feelings are hurt?”

“That’s correct. I drove all the way the hell up here to see him. I could have FedExed his clothing. They didn’t even accept his toothbrush, which he’s not going to be happy about.”

“I’m sure they’ll tell him that you were there. Showing up counts for something,” the lawyer says. “I gotta go.” He hangs up without further explanation.

At the thruway gas station, the cell phone once again has a signal, but my bank card stops working.

“Yes,” the bank representative says, talking to me from India and not Paterson, New Jersey. “It’s been cut off.”

“By who?”

“Fraud Protection. Do you know your password?”

“Jesus is coming,” I shout. Everyone in the gas station stares at me.

“No abusive language,” the man on the phone says.

“I’m not swearing, that’s the password.”

There is silence except for the clack of computer keys. “Fifteen dollars in a hospital cafeteria; a purchase from a garden store?”

“I made those charges. Who canceled the card?”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you that, but new cards are being mailed out; you should have them in seven to ten days.”

“Can you send the card to where I’m staying, since I’m not in the city?”

“Unfortunately, we can only send them to the address on file.”

“No cell phones,” someone is yelling at me.

“Are you trying to kill us all?” another guy says.

“Step away from your car, fuckwad.”

One hand on the gas nozzle, the other on the phone, I look at them all indignantly.

“Can’t you fucking read, moron?” one of the guys yells, and points to a sign on the pumps—“Sparks from cell phones and other handheld electronics can ignite gas fumes. Do not pump and text or talk.”

I take my hand off the pump; the nozzle slips out of the tank, and gas splashes on my shoes. I step away from the car and scream louder. “I’m at a gas station hundreds of miles from my branch,” I say, shouting into the phone. “And I’d ask you your name, but you’ll tell me it’s John or Tom or some made-up name that ‘sounds’ American but really it’s something like Abimanyu.”

“Would you like to speak to a supervisor?”