A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“It was a gift from my mother — why?”

Why do I have to be the one?

“He died,” I say.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Can you tell me about him?” she says. “We never actually met.”

“There was something your father wanted me to tell you.” I take out the sheets of paper and attempt to decode my marks, filling in blank spots with fragments I remember but couldn’t write down fast enough.

“My mother died two years ago. In her papers were letters from him. I wrote and he never answered, until very recently.”

“He was lovely,” I say. “One hell of an interesting guy. Complex and very human, with all that entails. I’m sure he felt bad about whatever happened, and no doubt it was more complex than we’ll ever know.”

A priest comes into the room. “I got a call that someone had a confession to make.”

“He died,” I say. “Do you have a rabbi?”

He pulls a yarmulke out of his pocket and puts it on his head.

I find it confusing, the yarmulke and the collar.

In the midst of all this, the doctor comes in. “How are we doing, Mr. …” He pauses to check the name on my chart. “… Silver.”

“Have we met before?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

The young woman stands, excusing herself. “It’ll be a few minutes,” I explain, “the doctors never stay long.”

“I’ll get a coffee and come back,” she says, leaving.

“There’s just one of us now,” I tell the doctor, “the other guy died.”

“Sometimes it can’t be helped,” the doctor says. “But you’re okay. You’ll be going home soon. Are there any questions?”

“Can I fuck?”

There’s a loud pause.

“I worry that taking my brother’s Viagra is what caused this ‘incident.’”

“How so?”

“I was taking a good amount of the stuff and, well, I worry I blew a fuse, so to speak.”

“I don’t think so, but it’s an interesting idea. I’ll make a note of it.”

“And so can I fuck? Can I take Viagra? Or Levitra, or whatever the hell comes next?”

“I’d give it a rest,” the doctor says.

“How long of a rest?”

“Let’s say, if you are able to get an erection on your own, with no assistance, fine, but if you get a headache or feel ill, stop. If you can’t get an erection, which you may not be able to after an event such as this — not permanently, but for the short term — I’d lay off the hard stuff — no pun intended. It’s about how much risk you’re willing to tolerate. I’ve known men who after an event like this were terrified, they couldn’t even think of trying to have sex. Others try again right here in the hospital — they say it’s a ‘safe’ environment, but you didn’t hear that from me. That’s off the record, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. “And of course the question is hypothetical. The truth is, I’m terrified, I’m suddenly terrified of everything. I can’t imagine taking the pills again, I can’t imagine ever wanting to have sex.”

“That’s more like it,” the doctor says. “Men need to stop feeling pressure to perform. Let yourself off the hook.”

“What I really want to know,” I say, trying again, “is was this it or was this just a warning? Is there more to come? Should I prepare myself for the worst?”

“We make no promises,” the doctor says, shaking his head. “Your arteries look good, there’s no hidden clot waiting to break off and play marble run through your veins. You’re in good shape for the shape you’re in. I expect you’ll make a full recovery, you’ll be back to work next week. Gotta go,” he says, checking his watch.

The girl comes back, coffee in hand.

“You’re tired,” she says, looking at me kindly.

“Yes.”

“It’s been a difficult time,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“Yes,” I say. How is it that she found her father on the day after he died — where was she yesterday?

I think of Nathaniel and Ashley, wondering where I left off, if they’re curious why they haven’t heard from me, if they’re all right. I’d call them right now, before I forget, but can’t remember exactly where they are: what are the names of their schools?

I’m guessing I should feel fortunate I haven’t forgotten them entirely.

In the middle of the afternoon, with no warning, I am released.

“Okay, Mr. Silver, you are free to go,” the nurse says. I feel less like I’m being released than kicked out. “I had a stroke and you’re already sending me home?”

“You lived, you get to go home, be happy. We have people sicker than you stacked up in the Emergency Room, waiting for a place to go. There’s a taxi waiting downstairs.”

I don’t know how or why, but my pockets are loaded with cash — my roommate’s cash. I didn’t do this, but someone did — quite intentionally. I only discover it when I reach for my wallet and find wads of twenties. “It’s your lucky day, pal,” I tell the taxi driver, giving him two twenties for a twelve-dollar job.

“I’m not going to ask,” he says.

The dog minder is gone, but has left a note: “Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll come by around 5 to walk Tessie. P. S. I’m also happy to keep working as needed — the card with my fees is below.” I glance at the card, which is decorated with paw prints. Fifteen dollars a walk, fifty dollars a night for sleepover — seems reasonable.

I fall asleep on the sofa. The dog and cat curl around me. No one is paged overhead, no code red or blue, there’s no antiseptic smell, no hint of steamed broccoli, simply the silence of the house, the clink of the mail dropping through the slot, the comfort that Tessie is on duty. I am still sleeping when the pet friend comes at 5 p.m. He covers me with a blanket, walks the dog, and then tells me he’ll be back in the morning.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

“You don’t have to.”

I nod; my eyelids feel heavy.

“Until tomorrow,” he says.

As it gets dark, a kind of cold fear sweeps through me. I turn on every light and the television and find myself wondering, how do I figure out what’s for dinner? I go into the kitchen, I open and close the refrigerator and then I go back to the sofa.

Among my discharge papers is a sheet about Meals On Wheels. I call the number; they’re closed for the day, so I leave a message.

Recalling a commercial for Domino’s Pizza thirty-minute delivery guarantee, I call, order pizza and a couple of Cokes.

While I’m waiting for the pizza to arrive, someone calls back from Meals On Wheels.

“Look,” she says, “your message sounded pathetic: you just got home from the hospital; you’re living at your brother’s house while he’s ‘away,’ whatever that means. But we’re not a turn-on/turn-off service like cable television, there’s a process, one must qualify for the program.”

As she’s talking, something about the tone of her voice has me regretting the call. I tear the Meals On Wheels flyer into a thousand pieces. She goes on: “My point is,” she pauses, “the reason I called you back is that if you’ve got no food in the house I can drop a little something by.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, wanting to end our conversation.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“You know, there are other options for people with resources. A lot of the new diet plans offer home delivery: The Zone, Home Bistro, Smart Food, Carb Conscious. If you’re all right for tonight, how about I have someone call you tomorrow and they can talk you through an application?” The doorbell rings — the pizza!

I hang up on the woman as she’s still talking and use my walker to go to the door. Tessie and I do a strange dance, related to the tennis balls on the bottom and our mutual insistence to be first to the door.