A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Trouble runs in the family,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your father’s temper. Are you such a goody-goody? You thought your mother had a nose job; your father punched her.”

I know exactly what she’s talking about, and she’s entirely right — my mother broke her nose, but I thought she’d been in some kind of accident.

“Why?”

“Who knows,” Lillian says. “Sometimes he just exploded.”

“This is not what I expected.”

“Your parents protected you and your brother. Your uncle Louie was another one, a nogoodnik always trying to make a deal. And his wife, what did she know, carrying on with the accountant from the temple.”

“The guy with the bumps — like blisters or warts?” I say, again dimly recalling.

“They were fatty tumors, and he was a very nice man, nicer than your Louie, but that doesn’t make it right. He was married. His wife was a clubfoot mute; he won her in a poker game.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“I fail to see the humor. He loved her, took very good care of her, and they had four children.”

“Do you remember that we used to celebrate the High Holy Days together, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and then, suddenly, we didn’t?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “Of course. It’s all about matzoh balls.” Lillian pauses and then looks at me, filled with pity, frustration, contempt. “Why can’t you take responsibility for what your family did? I was hoping you were coming to apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For whatever it was that you felt happened that wronged you — I am sorry. Very sorry.”

“I’m not sure you mean it.”

“Well, I’m not sure I understand exactly what happened, but the fact that you’re hurt — I’m very sorry for. I came with an open heart. I can’t exactly apologize for something I didn’t do.”

“You came because you had nowhere else to go. If things were going great, we never would have heard from you.”

I am not feeling very well. Her accusations, the tension, the whole damn day with the trip into the city to get the soup, the drive out here, the fatigue, the finding out, all of it has been a lot — too much. “Aunt Lillian, I should go now, but if you’d like, I’ll come again.”

“It’s not necessary,” Lillian says. “Give your mother my best. Where is she?” she asks as though it’s slipped her mind.

“She’s in a home.”

“And what condition is she in?”

“She seems to be improving.”

“Tell her I’m sorry about the soup; cooking the balls in water first or in the soup is fine — in the end, what the hell does it matter?”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll tell her. By the way, she wanted me to ask you about a pair of earrings. …”

Lillian throws up her arms. “Not that crap again. Is that what this was all about? You came all the way out here to make nice, you bring me some soup, and then, just as we’re about to say goodbye, you come in for the kill? I should have known. …”

She storms out of the room. “Aunt Lillian,” I call after her. “I wasn’t trying to give you a hard time, I just asked because my mother wanted me to.”

She comes back carrying her ancient jewelry box. “And you do everything your mother asks.”

She puts the box down on the table, opens it, and extracts the pearl earrings, the bracelet, and the necklace with the ruby.

“She wondered if that one was lost.”

“Your father sold it to me,” she says. “Can you imagine, he sold me his wife’s jewelry. He wanted to keep it in the family.”

Lillian gives me what my mother was looking for and more. “Some of it your mother gave me, some she wanted me to hold for safekeeping, but I don’t want it, I don’t want it on my conscience, I want nothing to do with any of it, I never did.”

She grabs my head with both hands, pulls me down to her level, and gives me a wet kiss. “You’re still a little retard,” she says, pushing me towards the door.

When I speak to Nate a few days later he asks, “Are you coming for our Winter Field Day?”

“Am I?” I’m just beginning to feel back to normal, or not really normal, but whatever it is that’s filled in for normal for the last month or so. I can’t say I feel like myself at all; in fact, I can’t actually remember what I ever felt like, and what “myself” might mean.

“My parents always came for Field Day,” Nate says.

“When is it?”

“This weekend. It starts Saturday morning and ends after church on Sunday.”

“Do Jews go to church?”

“It’s nondenominational,” he says.

“Church means that it’s Christian.”

“I like it,” he says.

“Do I bring the dog?” I ask.

“No, someone stays with the dog.”

“Does Ashley come?”

“Didn’t they leave you a manual or any kind of instructions?”

“None,” I say. “I’m flying blind. I’ll figure it out — just need to know the parameters. Anything you need me to bring you — something you want from home?”

“Like what?”

“A favorite sweater, your copy of Catcher in the Rye ?”

“No,” he says, as though the question is stressful. “I’ve got what I need.”

A weekend in the country sounds good — permission to get the hell out of here. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m totally trapped in George’s world, worried that if I leave for a moment, whatever is left will all fall down.

While Nate and I are talking, I’m Googling the school; it’s far more prestigious than I was imagining. Among the alumni are several of Nixon’s former Cabinet and staff members.

“Do you know anyone at the school named Shultz?”

“As in Peanuts Schulz?”

“No,” I say. “What about Blount? Or Dent?”

“Who are they?”

“Historical footnotes.”

“Not ringing any bells,” Nate says.

“No worries. I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say, signing off.

The school’s Web site has a list of local accommodations; I start calling, but all the hotels and B& Bs are booked. By the time I speak to the woman at the Wind Song, I’m imagining sleeping in the car. It’s fine, I’ll bring some pillows, the arctic sleeping bag, extra blankets, some Ambien, and find a safe place right on campus.

“Is there anything you can do to help me?” I beg. “I can’t let this kid down, I’m all he’s got, his mother died, his father is under lock and key — do you have any ideas?”

“My daughter’s room,” the woman says. “We don’t usually rent it, but there’s a twin bed, I can let you have it — a hundred and fifty a night, breakfast included, shared bathroom.”

“Perfect,” I say.

“Actually,” she says, pausing — and in the background I hear voices—“I was wrong, it’s a hundred and eighty a night. Like I said, we don’t usually rent it, but my husband is reminding me that last time we did, it was one eighty. There’s a new mattress.”

“Can I give you my credit card?” I say, fearing another uptick in the price if I don’t act fast.

Determined to do a good job playing the parental substitute, I borrow a tie, shoes, and a sport coat from George’s closet and depart promptly at 6 a.m. on Saturday. It takes two hours and twenty minutes to crawl to the edge of Massachusetts. At the gates of the academy, parents in their Mercedes wagons and weekend toy sports cars are directed to the main building, where coffee and Danish are being served. Young men with names like Scooter and Biff greet their parents, gruffly hugging their corduroy fathers and politely pecking the boiled-wool mothers. They all have the same heart-shaped faces, deeply American, impenetrable. There are four Asians, three blacks, and that’s it for diversity.