A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Yes, we all have a private life,” Gerwin says, echoing my sentiment. “Prostitutes?” he asks again.

“No prostitutes. A private life — by that I mean one not discussed with you.”

“From our perspective, given the circumstances, it would be useful to discuss certain things.”

“Better for you than for me,” I say.

“How do you describe your emotional life?”

“I don’t have one,” I say honestly. In this arena I am actually jealous of Nixon — he was a good crier, you might even call him a crybaby. He often wept, or more like sobbed, openly. “I avoid emotion.”

“We all have our strategies,” he says. “If something happens that you don’t like, if someone treats you poorly, what do you do?”

“I pretend it never happened,” I say.

We find George on the tennis court, with the ball machine firing balls at him and a coach shouting at him to swing, flatten out, follow through.

“He’s got a strong backhand,” the doctor says, watching through a window.

“Always did,” I say.

At the end of George’s lesson, I’m invited to meet him in the locker room. Gerwin takes Tessie, and I go in to find George naked in the shower, talking to me through the soap and water.

“Is Tessie with you?” he asks.

“Just outside. I didn’t bring her in; she doesn’t like tile. Your backhand looks good,” I say, trying to make conversation. I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to talk about.

“They say I’m making progress.”

“That’s great,” I say, and I’m half wondering if he thinks he’s on some sort of executive retreat and not an inpatient in a lunatic asylum.

“Almost time for dinner,” he says. “You staying?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow.” It’s all a bit strange, out of body. I’ve been sent by his doctors into the locker room to reunite with him while he’s naked and floating in what would appear to be a heavily medicated, post-game high.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” I say, preparing to leave. I exit and find Gerwin, who hands me the leash, with Rosenblatt and the tennis coach, all standing around talking about how good it is that George is “back in the game.”

When George comes out of the locker room, Tessie sees him and pulls hard on the leash. George gets down on his knees, in front of her, butt in the air, arms extended — play position. The dog is excited but suspicious. George rolls onto his back, puts his hands and feet in the air. The dog acts like she’s pleased to see him but knows he’s nuts. I feel the same way myself — cautiously optimistic.

“Smart girl,” I say.

As we go into the dining room, one of the staff takes Tessie, leading her off “while you have dinner.”

George turns to me and says, “You look old.”

“I had a little incident,” I say.

“Didn’t we all,” he says.

“I had another one,” I say. “After that one.”

Rosenblatt, Gerwin, and the tennis coach follow us into the dining room.

We sit. I tuck the accordion file of papers I brought from home and have been carrying everywhere under my thighs. A waiter asks how many of us would like a “berry blast.” They all raise their hands.

“Are you in or out?” the coach says, looking at me.

“What’s a berry blast?”

“A green-and-red smoothie, antioxidant-rich, with added omega-3,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

“Fine,” I say, “I’m in.”

“What’s the candy bar?” George asks.

“A Toffee-Mocha Musketeer.”

I’m wishing I knew what language they were speaking. “I’ll have the steak,” I say.

“We’re vegetarian,” the waiter says. “I can bring you seitan piccata. It’s a mock meat; people say it tastes like veal.”

“Can’t wait.”

The waiter takes the rest of the orders and lets us know that the salad bar is open. I look at the other guests. It’s hard to tell who’s on staff and who’s a patient; everyone looks like they’re dressed to play golf. On the other side of the salad bar, there’s a door leading to what looks like a private dining room. Suddenly there’s a burst of commotion as an entourage sweeps across the main dining room and into that small dining room. In the middle of it all, surrounded, I see the back of the head of an older man with thick white hair — the former hopeful.

“You’re a historian?” Gerwin asks, attempting polite conversation.

“Professor and author; I’m working on a book at the moment.”

“My kid brother thinks he knows a thing or two about Nixon,” George adds.

“I’m older, actually, by eleven months. I’m older,” I repeat.

“What is it about Nixon that interests you?” Gerwin asks.

“What isn’t interesting? He’s fascinating, the story is still unfolding,” I say.

“The fact is, my brother is in love with Nixon, he finds him compelling despite his flaws. Kind of like me, a regular laugh riot,” George says.

“Speaking of you, will George go to jail for the rest of his life?”

“We’re not the ones who make those decisions,” Gerwin says, as if protecting George.

“We’re not legal types,” the coach says.

“Nothing like cutting to the chase,” George says.

“George, have you told these guys the story of how Dad once knocked you out and how you saw stars for a week?”

“Remind me,” George says. “How does that one go?”

“You were giving the old man a hard time about something and he asked you to come closer and you did and then he said, ‘I don’t ever want you to be confused about who’s the boss,’ and he popped you one. Pop was like a Mafia man, always bullying and berating, a very primitive man.”

“You’re saying bad things about him because he liked me better,” George says.

“I’m okay with how much he liked me or not,” I say. “When I look back at you, George, I think we should have read the writing on the wall: the coffee cup smashed against the kitchen cabinet, the body-sized dent in the Sheetrock, the trash-can lid bent.”

“Outbursts against inanimate objects don’t always signal that you’re going to kill your wife,” Rosenblatt says.

“You’re right. George, do you remember the time a psychiatrist asked you, ‘Have you ever hit a woman,’ and you said, ‘Only on the ass’?”

George laughs heartily. “I do, I do,” he says.

“What about target games?” I ask George’s team. “What about when you’re playing carnival games on a boardwalk, shooting a straw of pellets at Mr. Magoo, only you turn your rifle away from Mr. Magoo and aim right at your brother?”

“Out of context, it’s hard to evaluate,” Rosenblatt says.

“Did he tell you about how he ran me down with the car?”

“There you go, dragging out that old chestnut, your favorite of them all. And I didn’t run you down, I bumped you.”

“On purpose.”

George shrugs. “I won’t deny it.”

“His nickname in high school was Vanquisher.”

“Enough,” Gerwin says. “The point of this dinner was to talk about mindless things, and simply get along.”

“Yeah,” George says. “Put a cork in it.”

I dig into my seitan piccata, which tastes like breaded cardboard with a kind of gummy lemon-caper-cornstarch gravy. During the meal, I ask Rosenblatt about when I might have a few minutes with George alone to go over some private family business, house repairs, the children, pets, financials.

“It’s not on the schedule?” he asks, perplexed.

I shake my head. “It’s why I’m here; I need to speak with him. How about tonight, after dinner?” I suggest.

Rosenblatt looks at me like the thought never occurred to him. “Could do,” he says, taking out a pen and scribbling it in on the schedule.