A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

He looks surprised. “I call her every day.”

“Did you always?”

“No,” he says, and then pauses again. “You grow up thinking your family is normal enough, and then, all of a sudden, something happens and it’s so not normal, and you have no idea how it got that way, and there’s really nowhere to go from here — it will never be anywhere near normal again. It’s not even like an accident when someone is killed because a tree falls on their head, it’s not like you can be mad at someone else, some stranger …” He trails off. “What ever happened to the boy?”

“What boy?”

“The boy who survived the car accident?”

“He’s living with his family — an aunt, I think.”

“We should do something for him,” Nate says.

“Maybe we could set up a fund to make sure he has what he needs,” I suggest.

“We could take him with us on vacation,” Nate says. “I really love amusement parks; I bet he does too.”

“I can certainly look into it. Is that what you’d like to do, take the boy somewhere on a vacation?”

“It’s the least we can do,” he says, and he’s right.

We eat. There is truly nothing better than an iceberg-lettuce wedge with blue-cheese dressing, steak, and a baked potato. I heap cold sour cream into the steaming potato jacket, reminding myself that sour cream is not on my doctor’s list of recommended foods. Fuck it. I grind salt and pepper across the top — it’s sublime.

After dinner I take Nate back to school, slowly snaking up the driveway as part of a long line of parental vehicles returning the boys for safekeeping.

One can imagine how and why humans, young men in particular, form special clubs, develop rituals, habits that are repeated and passed on. There is great comfort in these things, refuge in being one of many, part of a group, a pack — apart from the family.

“Do adults ever sneak in and stay over?” I ask, longing for an intimate view of dormitory life.

“No,” he says.

I take my foot off the brake, and the car gently coasts up the hill. One by one, in front of the main building, the boys are welcomed back, checked in for the night. “Church begins promptly at nine a.m., coffee and continental breakfast at eight a.m.,” the Headmaster says, and I’m sent on my way.

“Thanks for climbing the wall,” Nate says. “It was awesome.”

As he’s closing the car door I blurt, “I love you.” The slamming door crunches my words. Nate opens the door again.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“See you in the morning.”

“Will do,” he says, slamming the door a second time.

I head over to the bed and breakfast. It is as though I am the child and I left the grown-up — Nate — in the big house on the hill. My room at the B& B is tiny — it’s what would commonly be known as a maid’s room — and has a pleasant cedar smell. When I arrive, the lady of the house asks if I mind the resident child’s hamster remaining in my room overnight. She explains that they can relocate him if need be, but if at all possible it’s better he stay put. “He gets confused if we move the cage. I think he has Alzheimer’s, although I’m not sure what the symptoms are in a hamster.”

I look at the hamster, the hamster looks at me. I don’t think he has Alzheimer’s — he seems far too “conscious.” I turn away and undress, an alien among the white faux — Queen Anne furniture decorated with Hello Kitty stickers. Who is this Hello Kitty? From what I gather, she’s no Janis Joplin or Grace Slick. I pick up the small pile of rough towels off the bed, throw one over my shoulder, and go down the hall to the bathroom.

I ablute (my word for it), and finish with the filling of a plastic water glass, which I spill half of on the carpet en route back to my room. I close the door, put the chair in front of it — there’s no lock — and lay out my nighttime pills. I never thought I’d be using a day-of-the-week pill minder with compartments for morning, afternoon, and evening. It’s like a big book of pills that I carry with me with rubber bands wrapped around it to keep it from an impromptu opening.

I take my pills, sit on the bed. It’s ten-thirty.

I decide to call Jason, Aunt Lillian’s son. He’s been on my mind since the visit. I dig out my cell phone, flip it open — good signal here in the bedroom — and find the scrap of paper with Jason’s number. I dial.

“Hello,” a man answers.

“Jason, this is your cousin Harry calling.”

A silence.

“I visited your mom.”

Still silence.

“We had a good talk.”

Through the wall, I hear the wife, the co-owner of the B& B, say, “What?”

“Nothing,” the husband says.

“You called my name.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “The guy in Laurie’s room is talking to someone.”

“Someone in the room?” the wife asks.

“On the phone,” the husband says.

“Does he seem weird to you?” she asks.

“No,” the husband says, “he doesn’t seem weird. You’re the one who’s weird — every day you ask me, does someone seem weird. You’re so suspicious, I can’t imagine why you ever wanted to open a B& B.”

“Jason?” I say. “I’m calling from my cell phone, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Jason says. And again there is silence.

What does Jason think the call is about? Did his mother tell him I came to visit? Does he think I’m calling to tell him his mom has too many outdated jars in the fridge, that the famous cookie tin is near empty and there’s great concern about its ever being refilled?

“Jason, I’m calling to apologize on behalf of my family. Whatever happened to you in the basement, I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t remember it,” he says.

“How could you not remember it? Your mother says it made you gay.”

“She needs to think something ‘happened’ to make me gay, that life with her wasn’t enough. The family is filled with gays.”

“Who’s gay?”

“Aunt Florence,” he says.

“No!”

“Yes. And Great-Uncle Henry and his friend Thomas. And, in our generation, Warren and Christian, who wants to become Christina.”

“Who names a Jew Christian?” I ask, and then pause. I’m getting swept up in the revelations. “Jason, did he harm you?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Would you be willing to tell someone?” I ask, putting the phone on speaker, sparing myself the burned-ear effect.

“Like who?” Jason asks.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if you heard. …”

“Of course I heard. The whole world heard; it was the front page of the New York Post . What’s the point of this?” he demands, now fully annoyed.

“Who’s yelling?” the wife and co-owner of the B& B asks her husband. “Is he sitting in Laurie’s room yelling at someone?”

“He’s being yelled at,” the husband says.

“Why did you call?” Jason says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “George’s doctor asked me to gather information about the family. I went to visit your mother, to understand what the falling out was about. …”

“Matzoh balls,” Jason says, as though it was a well-known fact.

“Yes, I know that now. And while I was visiting, your mother told me about what happened in the basement.”

“You were there when it happened,” he says. “Were you totally oblivious?”

“Apparently,” I say. “Anyway, I want to apologize for my family.” I take a deep breath and start again, speaking more softly. “Can I ask you a question?”

There’s a long pause. “You may,” Jason finally says.

“Is your father dead? Your mother mentioned your father being ‘gone’?”

“My father left.”