A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“I know, but she’s not here,” I say as tactfully as possible. “What happened?”

“I’m going through some, um, changes, and I need her advice.”

“Changes?”

“You know, like, growing up.”

“Did you get your period?”

She sniffles and doesn’t say anything.

“Is there a school nurse or someone there you could talk to?”

“I tried. She gave me a big biology lecture and some pads and Tampax and said if I was religious I should discuss with my priest before using them, and then said, ‘Actually, I take that back — use whatever you feel most comfortable with.’ I found it all very confusing.”

“What do your friends do?”

“They talk to their moms or their older sisters.” She sobs. “I don’t know anything about this stuff. The only thing Mom ever told me was some story about when she was in junior high and the school nurse gave her a giant sanitary pad. She said it was like a diaper, and she put it between her legs and waddled down the hall, sure that everyone knew she had her period. She was so embarrassed, she asked to be excused from gym, took a scissors into the bathroom, cut the pad into four pieces, and used masking tape to attach it to her underwear.”

“Your mom was always right out there on the cutting edge,” I say, finding myself not exactly excited about the story but happy to be talking about Jane. “I tried to use the Tampax,” Ashley says, bursting into tears again. “I put it in the wrong hole.”

I am trying to imagine what she’s talking about. I say nothing. “You know how there are two holes down there?”

“I think so,” I say.

“I put it in the wrong one.”

“How do you know?”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“You put it in your tush?” I don’t know what else to call it — I don’t want to say “behind” because everything we’re talking about is behind, and I don’t want to say “ass” or “butt” or “bung hole” because it’s all too crude when talking to an eleven-year-old.

“Yes. It hurts a lot. It was really hard to feel what was going on down there, and the first hole seemed too small, and so I kept going.”

“Does it have a string?” I only know about the string because once I was trying to have sex with a girl and she said, I have my period, and I said, I don’t mind, and she said, But I’m plugged — and I looked confused. Pull the string, she said, and I did, and out popped a clotted wad of cotton and blood, and, thinking I was going to drop it on the floor, I kind of let go and sent it flying harder than I thought — it slapped against the wall, slid down, and landed at the molding, leaving a bloody trail.

“It had a string,” Ashley says.

“Can you get a mirror and take a look?”

I feel like someone trying to land a plane who’s only ever ridden on one.

“It’s so gross down there,” she says.

“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” I say. “Where are you now?”

“In my room.”

“Do you have phones in the room?”

“No, I talked someone into loaning me her secret cell, we’re not allowed to have them.”

“Turn on the radio so no one can overhear you,” I suggest.

She turns on some music in the background.

“Okay, now take a look with the mirror and tell me what you see,” I say, thinking I could get arrested for this.

“I don’t know.”

“Can you put your finger in the place where you think you put the Tampax in — can you feel it in there?”

“I can feel it, but I can’t reach it.”

“Which hole is it in?”

“The back hole,” she says.

“The farthest-back hole?”

“Yes,” she says, exasperated and embarrassed.

“It’s okay, I’m sure it’s happened to lots of other people. You can’t be the only person who’s made this mistake. Are you sitting or standing?”

“I’m just standing here.”

“Okay, well, squat down. Can you feel it now?”

“Yes, but I still can’t grab it,” she says, her frustration evident.

“We’re going to get it,” I say. “Don’t worry. So, while you’re squatting down, I want you to push, like you’re trying really hard to go to the bathroom, and see if you can get it out at the same time as you’re pushing.”

“Oh my God, that’s so gross,” she says. And the phone drops.

“What happened? Did you get it?”

“I pooped on the floor,” she says. “It’s disgusting.”

“Did you get the Tampax?”

“Yes,” she says. “Oh God, how am I going to clean this up?”

“Pretend it’s a Tessie poop; use a plastic bag and carry it down the hall to the bathroom.”

“I gotta go,” she says, hanging up.

I am left shaken, but, oddly, I feel like a rock star, like I am a NASA engineer having given the directions that saved the space lab from an uncertain end.

In the evening, when the phone rings again, I answer ahead of the machine.

“It’s Julie,” she says, reminding me of another Julie, Amtrak Julie: “Hi, I’m Julie, Amtrak’s automated agent. Let’s see if I can help you. Are you calling about a reservation? I think you said that you’d like to speak with someone; one moment and I’ll connect you.”

“Are you there?” she asks. “Can you hear me okay? I’m on a mobile.”

“Loud and clear,” I say.

“Good. I’ve arranged for you to view the materials. Thursday at ten a.m. at the firm of Herzog, Henderson and March.” She gives me the address and closes by saying, “Ask for Wanda, she’ll take care of you.”

“Is there anything in particular you want me to be looking at or looking for?”

“I’m sure you have questions, but at this point the less said the better. Take a good look, and then we’ll talk further. And just so we’re clear, this is not an invitation for ongoing access, it’s a first step; if it goes well, we’ll take it from there.” She pauses. “By the way, do you know anyone at Random House?”

“No one comes to mind,” I say.

“At one point an editor named Joe Fox asked my father if he had an interest in writing fiction. Does that name ring a bell?”

“He’s gone on,” I say.

“To another company?”

“Dead, collapsed at his desk,” I say, wondering how it is I know this. “He was Truman Capote’s editor.”

“That explains it,” she says. “My father kept the letter but jotted ‘Never in a million’ in the margin. He hated Capote, loathed him, said he was among the worst of them.”

“Them?”

“Homosexuals. Daddy did not like homosexuals.” She pauses. “Thursday at ten, Wanda will show you the way.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I am intrigued.”

“As it should be,” she says.

At 6 a.m. on Thursday morning, I am showered, wearing one of George’s suits fresh from the dry-cleaning bag, and online looking up “cheapparking. com” to find an inexpensive garage near the law office. I pack one of George’s old briefcases with legal pads and pens and set off.

I park half a block from Claire’s office; did I not know that, or did I know and choose to forget? The streets are teeming with well-dressed men and women. I feel like an out-of-towner, like everything about me is all wrong. Overcome with déjà vu, I know that I have been here before, under other circumstances; it is as though I now live in an alternate reality and I can’t help but worry there might have been more damage from the stroke than I realized.

My excitement turns to anger.

In the lobby of the building a guard asks me for my identification. I put my hand in my pocket: I find two twenties and a fifty rolled together — funny money — and realize that when I put on George’s suit I forgot to “repack” my pockets. Anxious, I begin to sweat; I confess to the guard that I have no identification.