A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“When would this happen?” I ask.

“Sooner rather than later,” Walter Penny says.

“I’d also like to note that I presented this package to the parents of Jane, George’s now deceased wife. Their response was ‘Good riddance’—they were more than happy to send him deep into the woods.”

“When?” I ask again.

“By the end of the week,” the medical director says. “In case something backfires or we have to rethink — we want to be there as backup.”

“Is that the forty-eight-hour clause that I heard a moment ago?”

“The first forty-eight hours are the most telling,” Walter Penny says. “If a man makes it through two days, chances are he’ll do well. We’ve only had to pull one man out.”

“Does George know about all of this?”

“Yes,” the medical director says. “We’ve talked it through.”

“I showed him the photos,” Walter Penny says.

“We met privately and discussed the legal ramifications earlier this morning.”

“What does he think?” I ask.

“To be fair,” the medical director says, “there are some mixed emotions.”

“Which would seem reasonable,” Manny adds.

“Does he know that I’m here now?”

“Yes,” the medical director says. “Would you like to see him, or are you afraid?”

I say nothing and just stare at the man.

“It’s a question, isn’t it?” he says.

The meeting ends with Walter Penny once again shaking hands, and, oddly, I congratulate him on his innovative project, his spirit, and his drive.

“We get the job done,” he says.

I couldn’t be more different from Walter Penny, but, inexplicably, I like him; he’s the kind of guy you want to have on your team when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, when your plane crashes into a snowy mountain. …

George is in his room, alone. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

I sit at the edge of his bed.

“I’m fucked,” he says again, loudly. “And I’m not medicated. Over the last month, they’ve been cutting me back, taking me down, so now it’s just me, au naturel. I’m fucked,” he repeats.

“Maybe there’s another way to look at it?”

He glares at me.

“Kind of like a Get Out of Jail Free card?” I suggest.

“You’re an idiot,” George says.

“Well, it’s not jail and it’s not a nuthouse.”

“They’re fucking feeding me to the wolves,” George says.

“I’m not sure now’s the moment to say it, but I never trusted your lawyer. He’s in bed with the medical director of this place.”

“They’re not in bed — they’re related, you idiot,” George says.

“I’m just not sure they have your best interests in mind.”

“So now, at the eleventh hour, I should get a new lawyer.”

“It would buy you some time.”

“I’m fucked,” he says, panicking. “They’re sending me out into the wilderness, into the cold night, to live among men worse than animals.”

“It’s spring, George. Every day it’s going to be warmer and warmer, and every night it’ll be warmer too — it’s getting on to summer, George. Think of how you always wanted to go camping. Remember you loved Yogi Bear and all that — and hated that we didn’t have a real backyard.”

“This isn’t fucking Jellystone Park we’re talking about. They shot a chip into the back of my neck and gave me a tetanus shot — my arm is hot like a baseball — tomorrow I get a rabies vaccine.”

“Well, George, your options are limited. Try it — if you don’t like it, we’ll see what else there is.”

“Were you always this stupid?” George says, looking me in the eye. “I remember you as dim-witted, but not so moronic.”

“I don’t know what to say. Do you want to hear a bit about my life, about the kids, Tessie, and the kittens?”

“Who the fuck is Tessie?”

“Your dog.”

“Oh,” he says — like now it makes sense.

“She’s doing well.”

George nods.

“And the children seem to be finding their way.” Again he nods. “Look, George, I know this isn’t easy. It’s an odd situation, with this place closing and the idea of this nontraditional program, but, seriously, maybe you can make something of it. You have done things that none of these guys have ever done. Okay, so maybe they stole stuff, you’ve certainly done that; they’ve murdered, so have you. But how many of them held a job for years, how many of them ever ran a television network?”

It’s like I’m giving him a pep talk, convincing him that he can get back in the ring, he can go another round — it’s not all over yet. “You’re as big and bad as any of the men out there — remember when you bit me?”

“By accident,” he says.

“It wasn’t an accident, you tore off flesh.”

George shrugs.

“My point is, you can do this. Remember when we used to wear Dad’s old army uniforms and play in the basement? You are Colonel Robert E. Hogan.”

George quotes a line from Hogan’s Heroes.

“That’s it.”

George quotes another line.

“That’s the spirit. You can do this. Don’t think long-term — think about it like an Outward Bound summer camp. And we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

He nods and speaks in German.

As I’m getting ready to go, I stand, and George hugs me hard — almost too hard. I reach into my pocket.

“I brought you something,” I say, handing him a Hershey bar with almonds.

Tears well up in his eyes. Our grandmother always used to give us each a Hershey bar with almonds — she’d open her enormous purse, reach in, and extract one for each.

“Thank you,” he says. And then hugs me again.

“We can write to each other, and I’ll come visit you in a couple of months — you’ll be okay.”

He sniffles and pushes me away. “You are such a fucking asshole,” he says.

I nod. “Okay, then, George, we’ll be in touch.” And I am gone. “Such a fucking asshole”—what did he mean by that, and do I even want to know? I am such a fucking asshole that I come when called, I mop up after him, I take care of his wife — a bit too well — I water his flowers, feed his dog, care for his children — I am such a fucking asshole.

The kittens are ready. Ashley and I have agreed that we’ll keep one for ourselves. I e-mail photos of the kittens to her, but the school computer system doesn’t allow her to open them, and so I print them out and FedEx the pictures before we confer — deciding on “Romeo,” small; black, white, and gray; deeply mischievous; and clearly one the mama thinks she needs to keep an eye on.

“How are you going to find homes for the others?” Ashley wants to know.

“The good old-fashioned way,” I say. “I’m going to set myself up somewhere with a big box marked ‘Free Kittens.’”

The truth is, I feel like a giant bully taking the kittens from the mother cat. For a couple days, I practice separating the mother and her kittens by taking the kittens away and then bringing them back a few hours later — thinking it’s somehow less stressful than a sudden and permanent absence.

When the day comes, I bring the plastic cat-crate up from the basement and line it with old towels. I find an old card table in the basement, which still has a sign on it from a lemonade stand Ashley must have had. I flip the poster board over and write “Free Kittenz” in large artful letters. I’ve prepared paperwork — eight-by-ten photos of each kitten, information on the mother, the date of birth, and what vaccinations they’ve had so far. I also prepare starter kits for each cat, with samples of their current food and litter.