A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“He has to go to school,” I say.

“His school is not so far, the bus could come.”

“What does Ricardo say?”

“Please, mister,” she says. “You took my sister and left me with this boy who is too much. You have money; you can help him. I love my sister so much, but I am not prepared. Why does everyone’s life have to be ruined? Please, you seem like a nice slob.”

Nice slob — does she mean “slob” or “SOB”?

“You can’t just give me Ricardo,” I say.

“Why not?”

“I am not approved by the state.”

“But he is a U. S. citizen,” she says. “He was born here.”

Rather than try and explain the social-service system, I say, “Let me see what I can do. Meanwhile, I can take him this weekend. We can have a sleepover.”

“He was Mommy’s baby,” she says, and she’s crying.

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” I say, almost crying along with her. She sniffles to a stop. “What do you have to cry about? You are a big white guy with a big house,” she says.

Out of the blue, a postcard arrives from George. The image on the front is of a hotel in Miami; the card itself is well worn, like it has been going around the globe at the bottom of a suitcase for years.

This place is everything I thought it might be. Around the fire at night the other guys teach me lock-picking and in arts and crafts I’m learning to make cement shoes from grass and dung. Don’t forget to deadhead my perennials.

The card, with no return address, prompts me to realize that I have no contact information for George — no address, no phone for emergencies. I put in a call to the director’s office at The Lodge.

“Good morning and thank you for calling The Lodge, the new executive conference center in the heart of the Adirondacks.”

I explain that I’m trying to reach the medical director.

“One moment, please.”

My call is transferred.

“Human Resources — are you seeking employment?”

“No,” I say crankily, and then repeat my story. “The medical director said he’d be staying on until August. And does anyone know where my brother, George, is?”

The head of HR comes on the line. “Sometimes things change faster than expected — a combo of a buyout, and vacation, and we booked a big conference for the end of July — but you didn’t hear it from me. Let’s see if someone can access that info and we’ll give you a call back.”

I phone George’s lawyer, Rutkowsky, who, surprisingly, picks up on the first ring. “Do you know where George is?”

“Now that you mention it,” the lawyer says, “no clue. Hang on.” He makes noises like he’s going through some files. “Apparently, we’re still waiting on the paperwork; he may be lost in the system.”

“Have you got an address? A way to send letters or packages? His birthday is coming up.”

“I have a card for Walter Penny and there’s an address on there. I’m sure you could put something in the mail addressed to George care of that address and it’ll get to him.”

I jot down the address he gives me. “When I called The Lodge, they said the medical director was gone. Isn’t he part of your family?”

“Separated,” Rutkowsky says. “We’re not speaking to him at the moment. And in fact, I’m representing my sister against him, so, for conflict-of-interest reasons, I’m going to be passing George’s file over to Ordy, another attorney at the firm.”

I am at the mall with Cheryl; we are going from store to store. We’ve made progress. We’re not meeting at one of the cheap motels where, fearing bedbugs, Cheryl pulls down the old chenille bedspread, puts a layer of green Hefty yard bags on the bed, and covers them with an old white sheet, and we fuck like drunk drivers sliding all over the place. Instead we’re wandering aimlessly, fully clothed, in a skylight-topped faux-tropical paradise.

“Are we here for exercise, or is there something particular we’re looking for?”

“A sofa and a nonstick pan,” she says, giving equal value to both.

This time her hair is in short blond braided pigtails — something like what an eight-year-old might wear. I’m slightly embarrassed for her but say nothing.

“Are you still seeing her?” Cheryl asks.

Apparently. But I feel uncomfortable having two sexual relationships at the same time.”

“Why?”

“It’s confusing.”

“In what way? I mean, that one’s like a mercy fuck, right?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. What’s a mercy fuck?”

“Like you feel bad for her — so

you do her.”

“I don’t feel bad for her,” I say.

“Do you care about her?” she asks. “Does she know about me?”

“I think she knows,” I suggest.

“Did you tell her?”

“She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want anything from me — zero involvement. She just wants me when she wants me. She says it’s not personal, it’s just the way it is.”

In the middle of the mall there is a missing-persons kiosk shaped like a milk carton. The kiosk is plastered in posters of Heather Ryan, notices about the Safe Haven Baby Drop and a domestic Cool Out Zone. A large permanent sign reads: “Pregnant? For anonymous assistance pick up phone.” An orange receiver waits at the ready.

“Was that always there?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, without looking.

Coming out of one of the stores, I spot Don DeLillo. Our eyes meet; he looks at me as if to ask, What are you staring at?

“I see you everywhere I go.”

“I live here,” he says.

“My apologies, I’m a big fan.” He nods but says nothing. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” He doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t say no. “Do you think Nixon was in on the JFK assassination?” DeLillo looks at me with a grim snakelike grin. “Interesting question,” he says, and walks away.

“You should dump her,” Cheryl says, having entirely missed the preceding exchange. “Keep things simple.”

I change the subject. “Are we looking for something in particular?”

“I already told you, sofa and nonstick pan. Oh, and here’s what I want: we’ll go to Macy’s, I’ll pick out some lingerie, and then you come into the dressing-room area and ask, ‘What room are you in?’ and …”

“And what?”

“You come in and do me — down on your knees, with your tongue — while I watch in the three-way mirror, and maybe I even shoot a little video with my phone. It would be the back of your head, so no one would recognize you.”

“Clearly you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

She shrugs.

“We’ll get arrested.”

“For what?”

My cell phone rings — Amanda. At first I don’t answer, but when it rings again, Cheryl urges me to pick up. “Don’t be rude on my account,” she says.

“Hello?”

“They caught the guy — Heather Ryan’s murderer. He was someone her parents had sold her old twin bed to — online. Turned out she’d sewn her diary into the mattress and the guy found it and got obsessed and had been stalking her. Her boyfriend, the one she’d recently broken up with, actually met the guy, who claimed that he was her new boyfriend and told him all kinds of personal stuff about her that he knew from the diary. And when the former boyfriend confronted Heather and she wouldn’t admit that she was seeing someone new, the boyfriend said, ‘He knows everything about you, he knows more than I know. And I’ve seen you with him, crossing campus. He’s always right there next to you, and when I get close he walks away. …’ Anyway, Heather and Adam broke up, and then the creep made his move, and let’s just say it didn’t work out. …” Her voice is so loud, its pitch so specific, that even though she’s not on speaker, every word seeps out.