A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Do you know who killed the girl?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, that’s a start.”

She’s still crying. “I’m a liar,” she blurts.

“You do know who killed her?”

She shakes her head. “I’m a compulsive liar, I lie about everything. That’s why I go to that group at the church, it’s a group for liars; even just then I was lying. I don’t fucking quilt, and if I tell the police, they’ll think I’m lying, since that’s what I’m there for. That’s why, the other day, it was so important to me that I told you the truth about the seven-layer bar — the gift that I bought you and ate.”

“Slow down,” I say.

“What’s the point of telling the police?” she says.

“It’s a clue — like, maybe the woman was robbed, maybe the killer left something of his own in the same trash can, maybe his fingerprints are on the very same piece of ID you’re using, maybe they’re going to trace it all back to you and say you’re the one who did it.”

“Maybe I should just burn the ID,” she says.

“Destroying evidence,” I say. “How about just going to the police and saying, ‘Hi there, I found these in a trash can and realized they belong to the girl in the garbage bag.’”

“It’s kind of fascinating,” she says, “what you find in the garbage.”

“What made you look in there?”

“I don’t know. Something caught my eye. I used to have a boyfriend who was into Dumpster diving.”

“Why would you appropriate someone else’s identification?”

“Haven’t you ever just needed to be someone else?” she says.

I shrug no.

“I was working, I had a job, I lived in Brooklyn. I really liked it. I was dating this guy, flawed but a warm body; we had a cat. And then my mother fell and my father couldn’t take care of her, and so I came home, and it’s like sinking into quicksand. I had to give up my job, my boyfriend wasn’t really into family. Let’s be real, let’s not drag it out, I said, but I’m coming back soon. He didn’t believe me. He kept the cat, won’t let me see or speak to her — says I’m an unfit mother.”

“Your friends?”

“My boyfriend didn’t like most of my friends, so I’d already dropped them. I lost my health insurance and stopped taking my medication and started taking my mother’s, which is covered — but it’s not really the same.”

“I have lots of medication,” I offer, wondering, is everyone on medication?

She says nothing.

“It still feels like something’s missing from the picture — you’re taking care of your parents and you’re pretending to be someone else? Amanda?” I repeat the name. “Amanda, was that always your name?”

“Are you picking on me? I feel like you’re picking on me.”

“I’m just trying to understand. When you’re taking care of your parents, are you yourself, or this other person — the assumed identity?”

“When I’m taking care of my parents, I live in the bedroom where I grew up, with my same books and toys on the shelf, and it’s like I’m still in junior high, like I just got home from school and happened to find them there, sitting on the living-room sofa, but maybe now my dad has wet his pants.”

“Do they know what year it is?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes it changes many times in the course of a day. ‘Do you have homework?’ my mother will ask. ‘Just a little,’ I say. ‘I may have to go to the library — so-and-so’s mom is giving me a ride.’ When I take them to the doctor, she asks, ‘How did you learn to drive, and do your feet reach the pedals?’”

“And what do you say?”

“I’m tall for my age.” She pauses. “This is my life for now,” she says.

“And later?”

“I’m leaving and never coming back.”

She says this and I’m frightened — I don’t really know her, and I already feel abandoned. Racing thoughts: What about me? Take me with you — we’ll go to Europe, we’ll travel the globe.

She notes the shift in my expression. “Oh, come on,” she says. “Really? You’re living in your brother’s house, wearing his clothes, and I’m living with my parents — you can’t think this is a relationship?”

“We need to find the guy who put the girl in the garbage bag. I would feel a lot better if that was resolved.”

She gathers herself to leave. “You’ve been watching too much TV.”

In the morning, the phone again summons me. I answer quickly, thinking it might be her. “Is this Harold?” a woman asks.

“Yes.”

“Good morning, Harold,” she says, “this is Lauren Spektor, the director of celebrations here at the synagogue.”

“I didn’t know there was a director of celebrations.”

“It’s a new position,” she says. “Formerly I worked in development at City Opera.” Another pause, as though she’s reviewing her script. “We were going over our calendar and I see that we’ve got Nathaniel down for a bar mitzvah on July 3.” Another pause. “I was wondering where we are with that?”

“Good question.”

“Does Nathaniel know his Hebrew? Has he been studying? No one here has heard a peep. …”

“Actually,” I say, “I tried to make an appointment with the rabbi a while ago, but his assistant demanded a contribution of not less than five hundred dollars and I found that off-putting.”

There is a long pause. “That issue has been addressed.”

“Is the Chinese woman no longer working at the temple?”

“She’s gone back to school,” Lauren Spektor says.

“Good,” I say. “Hopefully, she’ll find something that’s a good match.”

“She’s studying at the yeshiva.”

A moment of contemplative silence passes between us.

“There are two ways we can go with this,” Lauren says. “I can refer you to some party planners and our preferred vendors for catering, flowers, personalized yarmulkes, or we could consider a postponement — I hate to use the word ‘cancellation.’”

There’s something in her tone that gives me the sense that the temple would rather there not be a bar mitzvah on July 3.

“The temple is mindful of its image; between your brother and his wife and the Ponzi, we’ve been slightly higher-profile than some of the community is comfortable with.”

I take a breath and start again. “Tell me, Lauren Spektor, is there still such a thing as the Sisterhood Luncheon?”

“Are you talking about egg salad, tuna, and cherry tomatoes galore?”

“That’s the stuff.”

“Long gone,” she says. “Our current Sisterhood is mostly working women who don’t have time to cook — but we have several caterers who can provide something similar.” She pauses. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but I’d like to know sooner rather than later. We’ve got a gay couple looking for a wedding that morning — they want to be done by eleven so they can get out to the Pines for the weekend and beat the traffic.”

“Something to think on,” I say, at a loss for words otherwise. “As you can imagine, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what the plans may have been.”

“I would think Jane had a file — everyone has a file,” Lauren says. “Also, she left a deposit. Typically, that’s nonrefundable, but we’re willing to work with you. We’d consider a partial.”

“How much was the deposit?” I ask.

“Twenty-five hundred,” she says. “So — how should we proceed?”

“Let me talk with Nate and get back to you.”

“It’s been a difficult time for everyone,” she says.

“So it has.”

When I raise the subject of the bar mitzvah with Nate, his voice cracks. I’ve been dreading this.

“I don’t think I can do it — it makes me too sad. It was something Mom was working on.”