A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

Nate and Ash give him lots of hugs and tell him they’ll see him soon.

The car is painfully quiet as we head home until Nate manages a near-perfect imitation of Ricardo’s laugh, and then we all crack up, trying our own versions of it.

At home, the kittens are a major distraction; they are tiny, helpless, and almost terrifying. We watch as the mama cat feeds and cleans them — literally licking their private parts to get them to “go.”

I overpay the pet minder—“hazardous duty”—and he updates us on what will happen next: their eyes should open within the next few days, but it’ll be a while before they can really see or do much.

Tessie is looking at me as if to ask, What were you thinking when you left the whole place in my command? Can you imagine what it’s been like for me — the stress, the responsibility? Promise me you won’t try it again. … And, by the way, can I have a cookie?

“I think the kittens are deaf,” Nate says. “I talk to them and they don’t seem to hear.”

“They’re born deaf,” the pet minder says. “It’s a defense mechanism. Soon their hearing will improve. See you soon — call if you need me,” he says as he’s leaving.

“I miss him,” Ashley says at dinner.

“Yep,” Nate says.

“What are you going to do about it?” Ashley asks.

“Well, both of you are heading back to school tomorrow,” I say, thinking that at least buys me some time.

“He needs us more than just once in a while,” Nate says.

“We want him in our family,” Ash says. “We talked about it.”

“Behind my back?”

“Yes,” Nate says.

“But you realize I’m the one who’d be taking care of him?”

“We think you can do it,” Ash says.

“He could be our little brother, like a phoenix rising out of the ashes …” Nate says.

“Didn’t Ricardo say that he’s allergic to cats?” I ask.

“We’ll get rid of the cat,” Ashley says. “I never liked the cat.”

“How can you say that? She’s your cat, she just had kittens. …”

“I like the cat,” Nate says.

“Maybe we can get Ricardo made unallergic, “Ash says.

“Maybe the cat could stay out of his room,” Nate says.

“Which room is his room?” I ask.

“His room is my room,” Nate says, like it’s obvious.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a full-time live-at-home child,” I say.

“Send him away to school,” Ashley says.

“We kill his parents, take him from his family, and send him away to school — it’s starting to sound like an old English novel.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ash asks.

“Plus, you two can’t adopt him, you’re underage. …”

“But you can,” Ash says, nonplussed.

“I am in the middle of a divorce and recently unemployed.”

“You quit your job?” Nate asks.

“I got fired.”

“You got fired?”

“Well, not exactly fired. I’ll finish teaching the semester, but, basically, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” Nate is shaken.

“I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“Well, that sucks,” Nate says. “Talk about a lack of trust. What’s the point if you don’t think you can tell us anything? It’s not all about you babysitting us, this is supposed to be some kind of relationship — a two-way street.”

“It’s true,” Ash says. “You should tell us things. No one ever told us anything except Mom.” She bursts into tears. “I love the cat,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said I didn’t — I really do.” And she gets up and runs from the table.

“Good work,” Nate says, leaving, disgusted.

I have no idea of what happened, except that I feel like shit.

The next morning, the kids go back to school. After breakfast, a minivan comes for Ashley, and I drive Nate to a collection point about twenty minutes away.

“I’ll call you tonight,” I say as he’s getting out of the car. He slams the door — I don’t know if he heard me or not. I beep. His shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t turn around; he adjusts the straps of his knapsack and keeps walking towards the bus.

I wait to leave until after the bus pulls out and then go home and sit with the kittens, who are doing well; their eyes are open, they’re standing — it’s amazing.

Cheryl calls. “Don’t you think it’s weird that you vanished without telling me? Who did I hear about it from? Julie. And how did tha make me feel? She said you went to Williamsburg on a school trip.”

“Something like that,” I say.

“A little colonial action? A happy ending over a keg of gunpowder? A wank in the stockade?”

I say nothing.

“Oh, please,” she says, “I’ve been there, done that.”

“If that’s what it was like when you went, then I went someplace else — the other Williamsburg. Were your kids on break last week as well?”

“Tad did a community-service project, Brad went to football camp, and Lad stayed home. So — when can we meet — does Friday work?”

“Trust me, now is not a good time.”

“In what sense?”

“I came home with a parasite, they’re not sure which one yet. It could have come from undercooked venison, or from the volunteer firemen’s breakfast we went to. I’ve got to bring a stool sample to the doctor this afternoon.”

“TMI,” she shouts, like a referee calling for a time-out.

“You seem to want to know everything.” I continue: “It’s very contagious. I have to wash my hands constantly, and my clothes.”

“I’ll give you ten days,” she says.

“And after that?”

“I’m not prepared to discuss that yet.”

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t tell Julie.”

“Of course not,” she says. “Some things are private. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing some reading on Richard Nixon. I’m not sure I think he was such a good guy.”

“He wasn’t a good guy.”

“Well, then, what do you see in him?”

“So much. His was an intractable personality; he believed rules didn’t apply to him. I find it fascinating.”

“It’s interesting,” she says. “I would have imagined you going for someone either more conventional, a Truman or an Eisenhower, or perhaps even more modern and heroic, you know, like JFK. But Nixon — it’s almost kind of kinky.”

“Almost,” I say.

“I’ll call you in a few days; if you’re feeling better we can make a plan.”

Something is missing. I feel like I’ve fallen into a space between spaces, like I don’t really exist — I’m always out of context. Searching for clarity, I visit my mother.

In the lobby of the home, there’s a large dry-erase board. “Feeling bored? Need a lift? Join us and Make Your Own Smoothie, 10–11 a.m. and 3–4 p.m. (We have fresh fruit, fiber, probiotics, and frozen yogurt.)”

“She’s not here,” the woman at the front desk tells me. “She’s gone out with the others, they’ve got a new hobby.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Swimming,” she says. “Eleven of them went off in the minivan to the local YMCA. They’ve all got floaties on their arms, and some of them are inside inflatable kids’ rings — like ducks and frogs — and they’re all wearing bathing caps. Big babies, we call them — because they all wear diapers. We get them dressed before they leave. It’s great for their mobility.”

“Since when does she swim?” I ask.

“We got lucky with this new therapist who also works with the psycho-pharmacologist; this place is hoppin’. More work in some ways, but very exciting. Sometimes we joke that we’re bringing back the dead. And they all seem so happy — well, almost all.” She nods towards an older man heading down the hall, seeming quite purposeful; he approaches us.