A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Cool,” Ricardo says.

I hand him one. We pretend to duel — it’s fun. I haven’t played like that in … forever.

And later, when I drop him off at his aunt’s house, I say, “Hey, I’m sorry about what happened in the hardware store.”

Ricardo shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says. “You protected me.” And then he gives me a kind of a hug, like how maybe he once saw a kid on a TV show hug a grown-up, or like something from Two and a Half Men that would be punctuated by a guffaw from the laugh track. “Let’s do it again soon,” he says, exiting.

That evening, while looking for something, I find myself in the basement. It’s like a multigenerational storehouse of stuff, skis, golf clubs, tennis racquets, sprinklers, old garden hoses, boxes of glass Mason jars, a good amount of which I suspect was left here by the previous owners and somehow memorialized by George and Jane as ephemera from another era.

I decide to get rid of it all.

Four hours later, with a dozen giant green plastic bags dragged to the curb and an overflowing blue recycle bin, I feel as though I’ve mucked out a stall. Someone had to do it.

Why did George have four sets of golf clubs? Why were there tennis racquets galore and skis so long, bindings and boots so old, all of it caked with a kind of crusty residue, perhaps toxic?

Finished and filled with a master’s sense of virtue, I microwave myself a late dinner and call Nate.

“How was Ricardo?” he asks.

“Good. I accidentally taught him to flip the bird.”

“Accidentally?”

I explain, and Nate says, “Sounds like you’re off to a good start.”

“In the long run I like to think it’s a minor offense.” I pause. “I never know what to tell you or not — about your father.”

“Yeah,” Nate says, not exactly giving me a clue, “it’s hard to know.”

“The place where he’s been is closing.”

“What kind of a place is it?”

“Therapeutic,” I say, for lack of a better word.

“Do you know what he used to do with me?” Nate asks. “He’d turn me upside down and swing me around. It was half fun, half terrifying; sometimes he would crash me into things, like a table, chairs, or a wall. I didn’t know if he just got so distracted or if he really had no idea, but it was a fine line. It might have been different if I was another kid — another kid might have liked it more.”

“Or less,” I say. “It sounds like you were a pretty good sport about it. Why take on what some other kids would have tolerated? It’s okay to say it scared you, or that you just hated it for whatever reason.”

“I always thought he wanted me to be another kid, he thought I was a wuss.” Nate pauses. “Are you eating while we’re talking?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m starving; somehow I didn’t eat with Ricardo. I was setting an example about moderation, and then, when I got home, I went on a tear and cleaned out the whole basement. There was so much shit down there.”

Nate gets very quiet. Worse than quiet — serious. “Like what?”

“Skis, tennis racquets, boxes of old glass jars …”

“My award-winning science experiment on remaking antibiotics from home-grown sources such as ginger, horseradish, mustard, and nasturtiums?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, worriedly remembering that some of the jars did in fact have dirt and something growing inside — I thought it was simply mold. … “It was just a lot of junk, your dad’s old golf clubs.”

“And my clubs?” Nate asks.

“Which ones are yours?” I quiz, likely sounding as nervous as I am.

“Mine were in a wheely plaid bag, and I have a second set as well with blue knit toppers.”

“You know what,” I say, stumbling, knowing full well they’re in a bag at the curb, “I’ll take a look, I’ll double-check on that, just to be sure.”

“Damn it,” Nate says, “can’t you leave anything alone? Do you have to put your mark on everything? It’s not your stuff. It’s my house — that’s where I live. … Are you going to make it so I don’t have a home, so there’s no place left to go?”

“Nate,” I venture, trying to repair what’s been done. “Nate …”

“No. I have been so fucking calm, so goddamned decent through this whole thing — I think I gave you the wrong impression. You fucked my mother, my father killed my mother, and now you’re in charge of me? I am not going down this road — I am not going to be another one of you. I will not let you drag me down.” And he hangs up.

I am taken aback — not only is he right, but it’s surprising that this moment hasn’t come sooner. I run down to the curb and reclaim his golf clubs along with any other equipment that looks reasonably current, and “reinstall” the goods in the basement in what I hope is a user-friendly sort of way.

A couple of hours later, Nate sends me an e-mail.

“Apologies — one of the guys gave me some of his medication telling me it would help me concentrate and I think I had a bad reaction. P. S. My school may call you about the broken desk but I can assure you that was really an accident — it had been in precarious condition from the year before when Billy butthead landed on it during an attempt to fly.”

I write back: “No worries, your point well taken. Your clubs and all else — safe and sound.”

Tuesday morning, just after eight, the phone rings.

“There’s someplace I need you to go with me,” Cheryl says.

“What happened to ‘hi, hello, how are you’?”

“Is that necessary?” she says. “I’m trying to ask you for a favor.”

“It’s customary,” I say. “It’s the way most things begin. Where is it you’d like to go?”

“Is that important? Isn’t it enough just that I’m asking you to go?”

I wait.

“A club,” she says.

“What about your husband, can’t you get him to take you?”

“I can’t even get him to go to a movie. So — will you go?”

“What is it?”

“Like-minded people?” she suggests.

“A political group?”

“Not exactly, more like a social gathering.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“This evening?”

“Like you’re so busy? It’s eight to eleven — I figure to go around nine.”

“Does it have a name?”

She sighs. “It’s a friends-and-neighbors party. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you there. Have you got an address?”

“It’s at the laser-tag place called Night Vision, in the mini-mall. …”

“The one with the CVS?”

“That’s the one. Can we meet in the parking lot?”

“Sure,” I say. “What’s the dress code?”

“Casual,” she says.

Sitting in the car outside of CVS, waiting, I consider telling Cheryl about the woman from the A& P. I’m not sure why I feel guilty about letting the grocery-store woman “service” me — like I’m somehow cheating on a woman who is cheating on her husband — or why I feel compelled to tell all to a woman who I have absolutely no relationship or commitment to, and yet I am equally or more uncomfortable keeping it to myself. I am lost in this peculiar reverie about confession when she taps on my car window — scaring the hell out of me.

I get out. “I’m not usually up and out at this hour,” I say, half kidding — I used to like to go and listen to jazz in the evenings when I lived in New York.

“I went to the grocery store to kill time,” she says, somewhat nervous. “I spent a hundred seventy-eight dollars. I’m assuming the perishables will be fine for a couple of hours.”

“As long as you didn’t buy anything melty.”

“Meat and milk,” she says.

“You changed your hair,” I say, realizing that every time I see her she looks different. Today it’s in more of a wedge, like Dorothy Hamill, the ice-skater.