A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“I will, and thank you.”

I watch as they drive off, and then turn back towards the house. The woman has already gone inside and is in the kitchen, looking for plates and silverware.

While we’re eating, she asks if I’ve ever stolen anything.

“Like what?”

“Like anything?”

“No, but it sounds as though perhaps you have.”

She nods.

“Okay, so what’s the biggest thing you’ve ever stolen?”

She stops to think for a moment and takes a bite of her moo-shu roll-up; cabbage and soy sauce squirt out. “A thirty-seven-inch plasma TV,” she says, still chewing.

“Under your coat?”

“No, in a rented car; I had to have it; I’d lived with a thirteen-inch for so long — no remote. It was time to get with the program.”

“Do I need to worry that the real reason you came here is because you’re casing the joint and you and your boyfriend are going to come back later with a U-Haul and clean me out?”

She looks up. “Oh no, I don’t steal from people, only stores. I would never take something from someone I know.”

“Do you know me?”

“You know what I mean, an individual as opposed to a corporation.”

We finish eating, and then she neatly packs up the leftovers, puts them back in the brown bag, and tucks it into the fridge.

“Time for cookies,” she says.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask.

“More wine,” she says, cracking a fortune cookie. She opens one and then another and another, each time apparently not pleased with the result, until, finally, the fourth fortune reads, “Your Good Fortune Starts Now.”

She feeds cookie bits to Tessie until I say no more: otherwise she’ll get a tummy ache.

We retreat back to the sofa and watch more television, and I find myself thinking that I now understand what the perfect use for TV is — it gives people who have nothing in common something they can do together and talk about: it gives us familiar territory. I have a new respect for what George used to do, how television binds us as Americans — we are what we watch.

“Soon I have to go,” she says.

I nod. I’m not thinking about sex, but apparently that’s part of the deal — on the menu, right after orange sections and fortune cookies. Without warning, she dive-bombs me on the sofa with heavy wet kisses, her mouth open and oddly gifted: I can’t help but respond. She’s thrusting her tongue into me and then pulls back for a moment, lifts her shirt over her head — and essentially gifts me with herself. Her breasts are bigger, fuller than I would have expected — she wears a bra that is dark blue and lacy, which sets off her pale skin. Rather deftly she’s down on me, wrestling my stiffening situation from its hiding place, but when I reach for the button of her jeans — she shakes her head no. I obey. The rest is frenetic, urgent, with a lot of grappling and sliding off the leather cushions and onto the floor. And then I come and it’s over. I am left, spilled, my dick shrinking back in my lap like messy melted ice cream, and she is up, putting her shirt back on like this is just the way it goes. She walks into the kitchen, collects her frozen stuff from the freezer, and pops back into the living room, where I’m still on the floor. “See ya,” she says, like it’s all so easy.

“Do you want to give me your phone number?”

“I know where you live,” she says.

When she’s gone, I clean myself up, straighten the sofa cushions, and try not to think about how really strange it all was. I don’t even know her name.

The next morning, via certified mail, I am informed that I am officially divorced. The mailman rings the bell, Tessie barks, I sign for the letter, and, voilà, I have the divorce in hand. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be.

I remember as a kid overhearing conversations about marriages that had failed and how the wife had to prove the husband had been cheating, had to “catch him in the act,” and other cases where one or the other of the couple would have to go live in another state for at least a year or two until things could be resolved.

Now it literally comes in the mail, along with discount coupons for pizza and a thank-you note from Ashley, written on her “official” stationery, embossed “A.S.S.”

Ashley Sarah Silver.

Why didn’t anyone think this might someday look odd when they named her — ASS?

“Thank you for the trip to Williamsburg, it was really fun, I learned a lot. Thank you for the dress, the shoes, the quill pens, the powdered ink, the writing paper, the sealing wax and seal, the book about Pocahontas, and anything else I forgot to write here. Your friend — Ashley Silver. P. S. I know you’re not really my ‘friend’ but I didn’t know what else to write — it seemed queer to write ‘Love.’ …”

Also in the mail is a letter from The Lodge.

Dear Family Member,

At a recent meeting The Board of Directors voted to approve the proposal to transition THE LODGE INC. from an inpatient mental health center to an executive conferencing and seminar site. This vote represents a change in direction for the organization from therapeutic environment to motivational and organizational meeting facility.

As you know, The Lodge Inc. has served its patients, their families, and our surrounding community for almost fifty years. This change in focus represents a significant shift in the direction of mental health and associated health care services, not just at this facility but across the country, as the therapeutic model moves from inpatient to more outpatient, community-based services.

We will work closely with all of our patients and their families to facilitate a smooth transition either back to the home community or to an appropriate facility for your family member. We hope to complete the transition process by the end of August and we will be in touch with you on an individual basis as to how best to proceed. We realize that receiving a letter such as this can prompt a spectrum of emotions and questions and would like you to feel free to call the director of our medical staff or our communications office with any questions you might have.

As this news was somewhat unexpected, we apologize for the mass mailing — but wanted to be in touch with you before the news breaks in the media.

Our deepest thanks for allowing us into your hearts, homes, and minds.

Sincerely,

John Trevertani CEO,

The Lodge Inc.

I call.

“We tried to reach you about ten days ago,” Rosenblatt says — clearly he’s the designated ‘responder’—“but someone else answered the phone and said you’d gone colonial, and then said he needed to get off the line — something about helping the kittens ‘go.’ He suggested I call back and leave a detailed message on the machine, but in the interest of privacy I thought I’d just give it a week or so and try you again.”

“It was the pet minder — I was out of town, and the cat had kittens.”

“Ahhh,” he says. “Well, anyway, I see you’ve received the letter. We’ve already been in touch with George’s lawyer as well as some folks from the state prosecutor’s office to talk about what the appropriate setting for George might be. Given that the first set of charges was dismissed and that he remains pretrial on the murder charge, you could move him to another ‘hospital’-type setting. My sense from his lawyer is that they’d like to keep him out of a traditional prison setting as long as possible — perhaps try something ‘nontraditional.’ But I must also add that I’ve spoken with George and I think, quite honestly, he’s bored with the inpatient setting, and I worry that his resistance to participating in activities like group therapy, occupational therapy, crafting, and so on could end up reflected as noncompliance in the reports — and that won’t fare well when the case goes to trial.”