A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Where were you born?”

“Lenox Hill,” she says. “I am twenty-one years old. I play professional volleyball part-time.”

“You are a lucky woman,” I say. “Transcendent.”

Before we jump in, I explain a bit about my interest in Nixon to Ching Lan. “No worry. I study,” she says. “Wanda told me what you are doing and I go on Wikipedia and learn so much.”

I nod. “I am most interested in his personality and the ways in which his actions and reactions were of a particular era and culture — the era that built and defined the American Dream. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the subject; the phrase ‘American Dream’ was coined in 1931 by James Truslow Adams, who wrote, ‘Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement regardless of social class or circumstances of birth.’ In 1931, Richard Nixon was eighteen years old, just coming into himself and when he resigned he was sixty years old, signaling the end of an era and perhaps the unacknowledged death of the dream, though some people feel it has just gone underground.”

Something about Ching Lan inspires me to talk, to digress, to keep elucidating. It feels liberating, inspiring. And she seems to follow what I’m saying.

We work side by side. I explain how I want the documents transcribed and let her know that if she comes across anything that doesn’t make sense she should bring it to my attention.

Every hour, Ching Lan takes a brief exercise break; as she stands, she encourages me to do the same. “Do what I do,” she says, and I echo her movements, flowing like an ancient dance brought forward.

“What is it called?” I ask.

“Qigong,” she says. “I do it every day — it brings blood to mind, awakens the true nature.”

I follow along until she breaks away — leaning backwards so far that her hands are on the ground behind her. She then lifts one leg, and then the other into the air. Ching Lan is standing on her head — holding the position. “So good,” she says. “So right.” And then she is upright and back in her chair, and we carry on.

Sunday at 8:30 a.m. I pick up the boy. His aunt has packed a large grocery bag full of food, Tupperware containers, metal forks, knives, spoons, napkins, and a change of clothes.

“He spills all the time,” she says.

Ricardo shrugs.

“How many meals did you pack?”

“Not so much,” she says. “He’s got a good appetite.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll plan to have him back by six — I know it’s a school night. And here’s my cell number if you need to reach us, and if you want me to we’ll check in during the day.”

“My husband is taking me on a day trip,” she says. “You go have fun.”

On the way to the car, I ask Ricardo if he’s had breakfast. “Yes,” he says, “but I could have more.”

“How about we wait a couple of hours; meantime, we can go to the park and play a little ball.”

At the park, Ricardo spots a group of boys kicking a soccer ball. I can tell he wants to join in, so I encourage him to go.

“I don’t know them,” he says sadly.

I walk with him, inject myself into the group of fathers on the side, and ask if Ricardo can join in — one of the men blows a whistle and yells, “New man comin’ in.” I give Ricardo a shove and he’s in the game. The fathers stand around talking about their hot-water heaters, their zoned heat, and other manly things like gutter cleaning. I nod along as part of the chorus. I also watch Ricardo. He’s not very coordinated — tripping over the ball, falling on his ass after he kicks it — but the other boys seem to tolerate having him in the game.

When the game dissolves, Ricardo and I sit on the benches; I suggest that perhaps he and I could do some practicing with a ball — I think there’s one in the basement.

Ricardo breathes deeply, red-faced, trying to catch his breath while digging through his grocery bag.

“Do you want to have a picnic?”

“Maybe you could eat this and I could get McDonald’s,” he suggests. “My aunt is a really good cook, but I eat it every day.”

He hands me something that looks like an empanada — it’s filled with beef, onions, spices that are hard to name. Despite the fact that it’s at room temperature, it’s delicious.

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll trade, but for what?”

“Double cheeseburger, large fries, and a shake?” Ricardo suggests.

“Cheeseburger, small fries, and no shake.”

“Fine,” he says, grudgingly.

We go to McDonald’s and then to a movie — it’s some kind of 3D kid thing — and after I get used to the glasses and my nausea passes, it’s kind of great. Ricardo laughs so many times in his funny, strange way that he wins me over — pounding me on the arm when he likes something.

“I have to run a quick errand — do you like hardware stores?”

“I guess,” the kid says.

The upstairs toilet needs a new handle. I find the part and then notice the kid poking around. From a couple of rows away I watch as he digs through bins of this and that, and then I see him digging through his pockets. At first I worry he’s shoplifting, but then realize he’s counting out change.

“How much have you got?” I ask, coming closer.

“Two dollars and sixty-seven cents.”

“How much do you need?”

“Two dollars ninety-nine cents.”

“Plus tax,” I say. “What is it you want?”

Ricardo points to a green frog-shaped flashlight that makes a sound like ribbit-ribbit. I give him a dollar.

There among the nuts and bolts, a slightly older guy says to me, “Nice boy.”

I smile. “He’s a good kid.”

And then the man bends and pointedly asks Ricardo, “Where’s your other daddy?”

Ricardo looks confused.

“What are you doing?” I ask the guy, immediately protective of Ricardo.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, I just assumed you were from a two-daddy family; usually straight families get the white kids and they give the leftovers to the queers.”

I pin the guy to a shelf. “You have no idea what you’re talking about; you don’t even have a clue.” I’ve got a fiery knot in my gut, and what I really want to do is punch the guy in the nose. All my life I’ve never punched anyone in the nose, but now would be the perfect moment.

“My father’s dead,” Ricardo says, frightened.

Realizing my behavior is actually freaking Ricardo out, I let go of the guy.

“Cocksucker,” the guy says, shaking me off.

I flip him the bird — another thing I haven’t done in years. Disgusted, the guy walks away.

“What does that mean?” Ricardo asks, mimicking the gesture.

“Please don’t do that,” I say quickly.

“You just did it,” he says.

“I know, but I shouldn’t have. It’s the kind of thing that can get a fella in a lot of trouble.” We go to the register, and while the clerk rings things up, I grab a couple of glow sticks from the bin at the counter, the kind you keep in your glove compartment for emergencies. I buy one for myself and one for the kid — spending nervous energy.

“So what does it really mean?” Ricardo asks as we’re leaving the store.

“What does what mean?”

“That thing I’m not supposed to do again.”

“It just means a person is very frustrated. …”

“I was hoping it was like sign language or like an ancient Indian gesture,” Ricardo says.

When we’re outside, I snap the light sticks; they spring to life, glowing like alien sabers against the waning afternoon light.