A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Helloooo out there,” I call out.

“You don’t have to yell,” Nate says. “I’m in the library; a normal voice is sufficient.”

“Okay, then,” I whisper.

“Where are we going over break?” Nate wants to know.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a school break coming up, and I’m wondering where we’re going.”

“Do you always go somewhere?”

“Yes,” he says in an almost patronizing tone.

“Does Ashley’s school have break at the same time?”

“Yep.”

“It seems excessive to take a trip for no reason,” I say.

“Sometimes people need a break, a little time off.”

“Where do you usually go?”

“Skiing in Aspen, sometimes the Caribbean, or on an educational exploration, like to visit a turtle habitat in the Galapagos.”

“And what about the summer, what happens then?”

“Camp, summer school, travel, some time at the Vineyard. Mom has it all figured out. I’m sure there’s already a plan for this year.”

“Good to know. So, about this upcoming holiday vacation, is there a plan? Something you’ve got in mind?”

“Not really. If you can’t think of anything, we can always go to Disney World.”

“How does a kid who has his own town in South Africa want to go to Disney World?”

Nate is silent for a moment. “I’m human,” he finally offers. “You think the kids in Nateville don’t know Mickey Mouse? They wear Mickey Mouse T-shirts. All those clothes that we stuff in charity bins in the parking lot of the mall are sold — not given — to poor people in foreign countries.”

“I had no idea.”

“No one does, but that’s why whenever you see a documentary about impoverished parts of the world the kids are all wearing U. S. character or slogan T-shirts. Meanwhile, what about the boy, the orphan — can we take him with us?”

“It’s certainly something to think about,” I say, stalling. I’ve never traveled with children, much less two children, much less two children and an orphan.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“How could you not know? Didn’t you go see him in the hospital?”

“I stopped in and dropped off some gifts,” I say, wondering if I did at one point know his name and have since forgotten. I agree with Nate, it seems odd. “I’ll find out his name,” I say. “While I have you on the phone — do you want an update on your father?”

“No,” says Nate.

“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to force it on him, but I don’t exactly like being the only one sitting with information.

“So — can we plan a conference call with Ash to talk about the trip?” Nate asks.

“Of course. Should we Skype with Ash?” I ask, more softly.

“Can’t,” Nate says. “Her school doesn’t allow video chat — they’re worried about predators and stuff.”

“Okay, then, we’ll set up a regular call for later this week.”

A few nights later, with both kids on the phone, I begin by saying, “The purpose of this call is to come up with a plan for the holidays.”

“Something fun,” Nate says.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Roller-coaster rides,” Nate says.

“Room service,” Ashley says. And then she adds, “Nowhere too hot, or too cold, and not entirely indoors.”

I don’t know how, but we decide on Williamsburg — credit goes to Nate, who Googled his way through the conference call like a travel agent, sifting wants, needs, demands.

“It’s historic, it has room service, and it’s near Busch Gardens Amusement Park and a water park called Great Wolf Lodge. If we wanted to, we could stay at Great Wolf in a room that’s, like, got bunk beds and a built-in log cabin. There’s also a go-cart track nearby.”

I look up the place he’s talking about and am reminded that he’s a child. What we’re talking about looks like a bacterial nightmare, a summer camp run amok, a child’s fantasy — water slides and French fries. I feel the chlorine singeing my sinuses as I’m picturing sheets made of 100 percent polyester, chairs with vinyl-wrapped cushions. I think of my weekend visit with George, and by comparison even that looks better than this. I say nothing — some cards are best held tight.

“Shall we take a vote?” Nate asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“All in favor of Williamsburg and the surrounding area?”

“Yay,” we all say.

And so it is decided — and as soon as it is decided, Nate starts gunning for me to take the orphan.

As we’re about to hang up, the boy’s name comes back to me — it’s really the memory of George and some crappy comment he made about the boy’s mother crying out his name—“Ricky,” I say. “His name is either Ricky or Ricardo.”

“And what do they call him?” Ash asks.

“Ricky or Ricardo,” Nate says.

“Nice,” Ashley says. “Let’s invite him.”

I agree to call, even though I fear injecting our family further into the lives of these people who we’ve already harmed so profoundly. And then I think of Nate and Ashley and their youthful belief in the possibility of repair, and so it is with that that I push myself to make the call.

“Is Christina Menendez there?” I say her name slowly — because in my head I’ve inexplicably started calling her Carmen Miranda and am convinced I’m going to actually say it to her face.

“She no home,” the man says.

I am about to ask if I can leave my name, but he hangs up.

I try again in the evening. “Is Carmen there?” I ask.

“Wrong number.”

“I’m trying to reach Carmen. It’s about the boy?”

“You got it wrong, her name is not Carmen, it’s Christina. She’s not back yet.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, not even realizing that I in fact said it. “When will she be home?”

I’m noticing things in the kitchen, photos of the kids that have been on the fridge for years, things that have been stuck there and now are almost shellacked on with age and coatings of orange juice, milk, splashed spaghetti sauce.

“Can I give her a message?”

“I’d really like to speak with her,” I say, picking at the edge of an old sticker for the newspaper delivery guy. It’s deeply stuck on; my picking makes it worse — it really needs to be scraped with a razor blade.

“Hold on.”

“Hello,” a woman says suspiciously.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m …”

“I know who you are.”

“No,” I say, “I’m the brother, the uncle of the children.”

She says nothing.

I speak, I spill my guts, I say all the things that are so difficult to say. “The children of the man who killed your family feel bad, they are very worried about the boy, they want to help him. …” It’s awkward, I really don’t know what to say. “I’m taking the children to Williamsburg and they’d like to invite the boy.”

“What’s that?”

“Williamsburg? It’s a place in Virginia, an old town, a former plantation. It was the state capital after a fire in Yorktown; I guess it’s where the American Revolution gathered momentum. It’s a place you go when you’re studying American history.” And then I jump to “There are amusement parks nearby. The kids thought the boy might like it — and you too, of course.”

“I work,” she says.

“If you can take time off, we could cover your lost salary,” I say. “We’re going for a couple of days, a long weekend.”

“He is a big pain,” she says without affect, so it’s hard to know what she’s getting at.

“Still in pain from the accident?”

“No,” she says, “he is a big pain, he has learning disability, ADD, DDD, BPI spectrum, et cetera. I have to give him medication.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, the kids would like to get to know him better, and as I said, you’re invited as well.”