A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“I didn’t realize.”

“Do us all a favor — keep your hooker mother away from our father.”

“Look,” I say, “I don’t think name calling is useful here.”

“There you go, being all ‘reasonable,’” his daughter says. “What part of ‘stay the fuck away’ are you not hearing?” she shouts at me.

“I think everyone has heard you now,” one of the aides says, shooting the daughter a look.

I excuse myself and go back to my mother and Ashley. “Did you know his wife is still alive?”

“Of course,” my mother says. “I know her from before also — we used to play pinochle. He talks about her constantly. He tries to call the hospital. I dial the phone for him. She’s a vegetable,” my mother says. “The nurse holds the phone to her ear, or at least says that’s what she does, and he talks to her. He tells her stories about what they used to do. He remembers what they ate on their honeymoon.” She shrugs. “And then, when he hangs up, he sobs, he just wants to go home. And those girls, they’re the worst — you’d think they’d take him in, take care of him, take him to see his wife. Selfish little bitches they are, but I don’t say that to him, no, I tell him they have lives of their own, they must be so busy.” She shakes her head. “But look at you, you make time to see me. That’s the way it goes — if you were doing well, you’d have no time for your mother. You’re a shlep, you show up, you can be counted on — but you’re so boring.”

“He’s actually very nice,” Ashley says, coming to my defense.

“It’s fine,” I tell Ashley. “We’ve always had a complicated relationship.”

“Grandma, could we take you out sometime?” Ashley asks. “Take you out somewhere?”

“Like where?” my mother wants to know.

“I don’t know, like maybe to our house for dinner?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve been to your house before — the food is lousy.”

“Well,” Ashley says, not the least bit fazed, “I’ve been doing a lot of cooking; my whole science class is about the kitchen as a laboratory.”

“Why don’t you come see me again sometime, sweetie,” my mother says. She stands up, blows us each a kiss, and heads off down the hall.

Ashley and I just look at each other. “Our family isn’t like others,” Ashley says.

“None of them are quite what they seem,” I say.

We drive back to the house quietly, then take the dog for a long walk and talk about what we might make for dinner.

“I’m thinking pizza,” she says.

“There’s a pretty good place that delivers.”

She shakes her head. “We’ll make it ourselves.”

“From what?”

“Dough, sauce, cheese,” she says.

“You really do like to cook,” I say.

“I guess,” she says. “Miss Renee and I made dinner almost every night.”

“You didn’t eat with the others?”

She shakes her head. “We made dinner and watched TV,” she says. “After I did my homework.”

I nod.

“She said she loved me,” Ashley says, in a multilayered tone — both defending and questioning.

“I’m sure she did.” There’s a pause. “Can I ask you, were the trinkets from Williamsburg for her?”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s why they had to be good.”

“Right,” I say. And then we don’t say anything more until we’ve fed the animals and are mixing up some pizza dough.

“She kissed me,” Ashley says, looking at me for a response. I give her a recently rehearsed blank face. “So I kissed her back. It was soft, and I don’t know how to describe it.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, and then regret having said it — I don’t mean to cut her off.

“It felt good. It was comforting — like Mom,” she says, and then she just wails. “She said I could sleep in her bed,” she says through her tears. “And you know how they, like, say, don’t get in strangers’ cars, don’t ‘friend’ someone you don’t know in reality and all that — it was Miss Renee, I’ve known her for years.”

“Ash, it’s not you, you did nothing wrong,” I say as her tears literally fall into the pizza dough. We both notice and can’t help but laugh. “Salt,” I say. “Adds flavor.”

“When I was little, I always used to sneeze into the pancake batter,” she says. “Not on purpose, but, like, by accident. I’d be helping Mom stir it and I guess maybe a little bit went up my nose and I’d always sneeze right into the bowl.” She sniffles.

“Do you know who outed you?”

She looks perplexed.

“Who told on you?”

“Britney,” she says, without missing a beat. “Britney got jealous because she has a crush on Miss Renee, which I think is because Britney’s mom thinks Miss Renee is so great. Anyway, she started snooping — she’s got nothing better to do — I think her father is some kind of spy who works for the government. So one night she asked Miss Renee if she could come over after dinner, and so she did, and I was there doing my homework, and she said she needed to talk with both of us, and she laid out her evidence — which was some pictures and a videotape she made by hiding a camera on Miss Renee’s windowsill. She offered to forget it all if we could have a ménage à trois — which I didn’t even know what that meant and still don’t really. Miss Renee got very pale and said to both of us, ‘This is very serious.’ Britney repeated the ménage-à-trois idea a few more times, but my French sucks, so all I could think of was, like, the play The Glass Menagerie, which I saw last spring. I’m still not sure I get it. And when Miss Renee said she was going to have to call ‘the authorities,’ Britney freaked out and went back to her room and took an overdose of some kind of medicine, or really a combination of medicines, because it turns out she has a weird problem where whenever she goes to someone’s house for a weekend she steals drugs from everyone’s medicine cabinets. She actually has a prescription bottle for sleeping pills that belonged to George Bush — her father stole that one for her, it says ‘Bush, George’ and then has the name of the medicine and how often to take it for sleep. Apparently, a lot of people knew she has this ‘habit’; that’s why no one invites her anywhere anymore. I guess she’s stolen other stuff too, and then the girls have gotten blamed for it. And so she took, like, every pill she had and then ended up passing out in the bathroom after throwing up everywhere — and the cats found her. …”

“What cats?”

“Are you kidding? All of the houses have cats, on account of all the mice that are there, on account of the crumbs, on account of how all of us are always nibbling on something in our rooms at night. It’s like that book— If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. ”

“I’m not familiar with it. So is Britney still at school?”

She nods. “Her mother is an alum and is also on the board.” She pauses. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you do it with my mom?”

I don’t say anything.

“Nate says you did.”

I am still not sure how to proceed.

“You said we all need to be honest with each other.”

I nod. “It’s true we need to be honest. I just don’t really feel comfortable talking about my relationship with your mother.”

“I didn’t ask you to talk about it — I just asked if you did it.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Yes,” I say, and I start sweating profusely.

“Did you love my mom?”