A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“What do you mean, ‘left’?”

“He left for a business trip and never came back, never called, never wrote.”

“Did she report it to the police?”

“No, she just let it go.”

“Did you search for him?”

“Many years later.”

“And?”

“He was hiding. He said he needed to get away. He said Mother wanted more from him than he had to give. He didn’t seem to notice that it affected me as well.”

“Jason,” I say, repeating myself, “I’m really sorry. If you ever want to get together, for a drink, for the holidays, for some lousy Chinese food on a Friday night, give me a call — do you have my number?”

“Yes, it came up on my caller ID,” he says.

“I’ll hope to hear from you,” I say. “Good night, Jason.”

“I don’t hear anything,” the wife says after a minute.

“Maybe he’s sleeping,” the husband says.

“You don’t just suddenly talk and then sleep,” she says.

“Okay, so maybe he’s reading.”

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“What does it matter, can’t there be a moment’s peace? Maybe he’s thinking.”

In this tiny bed, this tiny room, I have a moment of clarity. I am a grown man who has hardly grown. I am like Oskar in The Tin Drum , refusing to grow.

I am up in the night. There are light scratching sounds, and then it begins, an e-awh, e-awh, like a loose bedspring, like people having sex. At first I think that’s what it is — motel springs! The rhythmic squeaking of cheap, well-worn bedsprings. I listen at the wall — nothing. The other wall — the husband and wife talking. I listen to the floor — a television.

I glance at the hamster. He crouches, frozen, caught in the act, his beady black eyes meeting mine. The round chrome wheel is no longer spinning, but still gently rocking back and forth, its motion slowing.

“You?” I ask.

The hamster wiggles his nose. “Me?” he seems to ask, equally surprised.

In the morning, I wake feeling like I’ve been on a long journey and still tasting the steak from last night — not an unpleasant flavor, just not breakfasty.

My headache is gone.

I go to church with Nate. The academy chapel, built from enormous old stones — hauled all the way from England — is perfect. The Tiffany-glass windows illustrate various Biblical narratives. The school chaplain introduces a woman rabbi, who speaks as though she has been elected to remind us of what we already know: that we are human, flawed, and that with our humanity, our consciousness, come expectations of compassion, of kindness and acceptance. Something about her seems to be questioning rather than lecturing — she is asking us to ask ourselves what we think, as though she wants our opinion. “What does it mean to be of service?” she asks. “Is it something you undertake to put on your résumé, to get into college? What do you actually care about? Are you someone working within your culture or tradition, or are you someone who feels outside of it, left behind? The important part is to be part of the questions, to be engaged,” she continues. By the time church ends, we all feel lifted up, spiritually motivated, prepared to start the week anew. I understand what Nate likes about it: the quality of talk, the parental good counsel he’s not otherwise getting. On the way out, the young rabbi, the school’s chaplain, and the Headmaster, now in pants, form an ersatz reception line. It’s hard to get by without shaking hands. I don’t know why, but I’m tempted to say something stupid, like “Good Shabbos” or “May the Force Be with You,” but manage to keep silent.

We exit onto the lawn. Everyone in their Sunday best, bundled in winter coats, looks up at the blue sky, the high white clouds. In the center of the lawn, an enormous box is being opened, a thick old rope is being extracted, laid out. I see people digging into their pockets for gloves, others passing rolls of duct tape, people horridly taping their hands, tearing at the tape with bared teeth and passing it along. One woman wraps Ace bandages around both hands — like wounded paws. Everyone seems to have something on their hands: driving gloves, oven mitts, golf gloves, a piece of felt in each palm, a ski glove on one hand only.

“What’s going on?” I ask Nate.

The rope is now fully extended. It is heavy, old, the kind of rope you see when visiting ancient shipyards — not anything made today, not anything you could buy.

“It’s the tradition,” Nate says. “The weekend concludes with a tug-of-war, parents versus students. The rope dates back to the ship our Founding Fathers came to America on. It’s wildly old, and no one knows why it’s never broken. In theory it should just snap.”

“What’s the deal with the hands?”

“The rope hurts the hell out of your hands — it burns.”

And they’ve got cleats, golf shoes, soccer shoes, high heels that can dig in the dirt, snow chains — clearly this is serious business and they’ve planned ahead. Many of them take off their coats. “Better range of motion,” one fellow says. The men and women take positions along the rope, five men up front and then male, female, male, female, until the end, which is again all male. There are some who sheepishly stand off to the side and repeat their excuses — knee replacement, two hips, a shoulder eight weeks ago, quadruple bypass. There are a few boys in casts, on crutches, one in a wheelchair, and I wonder, was he in the chair before he came to the school or did it happen here?

I am watching and suddenly remember George and me playing tug-of-war, me pulling with all my might and then George suddenly letting go and me flying backwards, crashing through a window — ending up essentially sitting in the broken glass. “I’m still a mess from yesterday,” I say to Nate. “So I’m going to pass on this one.”

“No worries,” Nate says, hurrying off to secure his spot on the line.

A shot is fired — I glance up and see the Headmaster holding an ancient pistol. The air stinks of gunpowder, and his hand is singed black and appears to be smoking.

The contest has begun. I become fixated on a woman in a boiled-wool jacket, her hair band pulling dyed blond locks out of her face, her lips rolled back, teeth clenched, pulling on the rope like her life depends on it.

“I notice you keep staring at my wife. Do you know her?” the man sidelined with an amputated half-leg asks.

“She looks familiar,” I say, not because it’s true but because I have nothing else to say.

“She’s a Middlebranch,” he says. “The family goes back a very long way — one of them was Ben Franklin’s roommate in France in 1753—kept one hell of a journal.”

“How did you meet?” I ask.

“I was a student here, and she and two gals from Emma Willard came over to visit her brother. Odd that you marry someone that you meet at fourteen, don’t ya think?” he says.

“Might be the best thing, there’s great clarity in youth,” I say.

“Why aren’t you pulling?” he asks.

“Stroke,” I say. “You?”

“Goddamned colostomy,” he says, patting his stomach through his coat. “Had cancer the size of a grapefruit and they rerouted everything. They swear they’re going to reconnect the pipes, but I’m not so sure how.”

A groaning sound from the line distracts us. Someone splits his pants, a woman grinding down breaks a tooth. The adults pull and pull and pull, digging in as intractably as toddlers. Each side is so determined, so sure not only that they will win, but that in winning, in defeating the other, there is some greater gain.

“Pull,” the man on the parent side calls.

“Pull,” the boy on the student side calls.

“Pant,” one of the women calls, “remember your Lamaze.”