May We Be Forgiven: A Novel

by Homes, A. M.

  “Don’t you worry about someone seeing us?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll just tell them you’re a stroke patient and I’m doing volunteer work.” She feeds me another spoonful of yogurt.

  “So—about the missing girl,” Cheryl says.

  I wipe yogurt from my face—her aim sucks.

  “I think they know who did it,” Cheryl says.

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “They—i.e., the police—know more than they’re telling the public—i.e., us.”

  “Is that based on fact or your own independent conclusion?”

  “I’m just saying…. We all know how these things work. I watch a lot of TV, reality and otherwise, and I’m telling you—they’re waiting for the guy to come to them, for him to make a little screw-up, to give himself away.”

  “So you’re thinking they’ve already got him pegged and are watching him?”

  “I’m sure of it. Nothing is as random as it seems.”

  “Except that which is totally random, such as this…” I say.

  “What’s this?”

  “This—whatever this is between us,” I say. I can’t help but notice that I’ve become close to Cheryl, that I share things with her, that I’m starting to think of her as a friend, a confidante.

  “Honey, if you were doing the math, it’s not all that random—it’s common as hell,” she says.

  There’s something brash about her voice that prompts me to ask, “Have you been drinking?”

  “I had a Bloody Mary this morning—kind of a little celee-bration.”

  “On a weekday?”

  “Yes,” she says. “They all got out early, and I spotted the tomato juice and some celery in the fridge and thought, Why the hell not.”

  “You scare me,” I say.

  “No, I don’t,” she says.

  “Yes, you do,” I say.

  I debate telling her about the A&P woman. I don’t like feeling sneaky, but what is my obligation to this married woman? I can’t exactly ask for help and then say, “Oh, by the way, I’m seeing someone.…” All the same, it slips out:

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re seeing someone and you don’t know her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Where’d you meet her? Is she from online?”

  “We met at the A&P.”

  “How often have you seen her?”

  “I’ve seen her twice,” I say, and she seems relieved.

  “And what have you done on those occasions?” she asks, like she’s trying to get to the bottom of it.

  “I’m not sure it’s fair for you to ask me to elaborate—it’s kind of private.”

  “Since when is life fair, mister? If you’re going to put your poker into someone else’s pookie, I think I have a right to know—minimally, for security purposes, so I can make an informed decision.”

  “And vice versa?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you should know what I’m doing, should your husband know what you’re doing?”

  She looks down for a moment as if contemplating her next move—as if.

  “I told him,” she says.

  “Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

  “Really,” she says.

  “When?”

  “After the night at Friendly’s.”

  “Why?”

  “I panicked.”

  “About what?”

  “I thought maybe someone he knew was there and had seen me.”

  “Wouldn’t they be outing themselves if they told your husband?”

  She shrugs. “They might have assumed that he knew, and, more to the point, I felt the need. I’m not deceitful by nature.”

  “What did he say?”

  She looks down again. “He said he was glad to have someone to share the burden with. And was I seeking a divorce or just entertainment?”

  “And?”

  “I said entertainment, and he said, ‘Well, then, I won’t worry unless you tell me there’s something to worry about.’”

  “It’s nice he trusts you to use your own judgment about when he should be worried.”

  “I’m very trustable,” she says, and then is quiet. “He asked if you pay me; he always wants to pay someone. And I asked if he’d ever ‘strayed,’ and he said no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Scared,” she says.

  “Of what?” I ask

  She shrugs. “I told him that if he wanted to he should. He’s got hooker fantasies. I said, ‘Do it’; he said, ‘I can’t.’ And then I asked him, ‘Do you want me to do it with you?’ ‘Like, you would participate?’ he asked. ‘No, like I would just go with you,’ I said. ‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said. ‘Since when am I not nice?’ I asked him.”

  “So?” I ask, surprised by all of it—wanting more.

  “So I went with him.”

  “When?”

  “Last Tuesday, after work.”

  “To whom did you go?”

  “He got a number from a guy he knows.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” I ask.

  “You were busy.”

  “How was it?”

  “I have no idea. I sat in the girl’s living room and read a magazine—my own that I brought with me—and I kept my coat on, and then I washed it when we went home. I was careful not to touch things.”

  “Did your husband have a good time?”

  “He was glad to get it out of his system—but it was weird.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said her breasts were enormous. I met her before he went in; they looked big but not that big. He said they were hard like basketballs. And she wouldn’t kiss him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Her pookie was completely waxed, from front to back. He’d never seen such a thing—he used the word ‘industrial.’ In the middle of it all, her roommate came home and said she needed to get something from the bedroom. She acted innocent enough, but I whipped out the kitchen knife I’d brought from home, figuring it was all part of the plan: the roommate comes home and they hold the guy hostage for more money. I don’t think she was planning on seeing me there. I told her, My husband is in the other room having private time with the roommate, and if you scream or ruin it for him, I’ll kill you. She and I sat quietly on the sofa. I told her it wouldn’t be long—it’s always quick with him. When he came out and saw me there, defending his…his…whatever you want to call it, I think he was very impressed. It was good for our marriage.”

  “Really?” I ask, somewhat skeptical.

  “It opened things up,” she says, “took us to a whole new level.”

  I’m stunned.

  “He wants to meet you,” she says.

  “For sex?”

  “No, just to say hello, maybe dinner.” She smiles. “And you thought you were the only one with news.”

  “So you’re not upset about the A&P woman?”

  “Of course I’m upset,” she says. “You’re shtupping some chick you met at your grocer’s dairy case who doesn’t even have a name. What exactly is it that you like about her?”

  “It’s hard to put a finger on—she’s kind of mysterious.”

  “It sounds like you don’t know her very well.”

  “You’re not being nice.”

  “You don’t even know her name,” she reminds me.

  “You know what I like about her?” I say. “She demands nothing of me.”

  Cheryl scrapes the last drops out of the yogurt cup; the Styrofoam squeaks. She checks her phone. “Gotta go,” she says, getting up abruptly.

  “Are you dumping me?” I ask, suddenly vulnerable.

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Which part of my-husband-wants-to-meet-you-for-d
inner sounded like I was dumping you?”

  “Sorry,” I say, “it’s been a very weird day.”

  That evening, I finally speak to Ashley. “Are you okay?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Was that an invisible shrug? It’s not a video phone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you alone? I mean, are you somewhere where you are at liberty to speak?”

  “There’s no one here,” she says.

  “You sound sad,” I observe.

  I can hear her clothing shrug.

  “Scared?”

  She says nothing.

  “Ash, if it’s okay, I’m just going to talk for a couple of minutes, but I want you to feel free to interrupt at any point. Okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. So the woman who runs your school called me. I know what happened. And the first thing I want you to know is, it’s okay. I want you to know that you’re not in trouble. And that I understand and don’t think it’s weird or anything. I also want you to know that you can talk to me, tell me whatever you want or not tell me, I just want you to be okay. The thing that I care most about is your well-being.”

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do I have to move back into my old house?”

  “Your old house?”

  “It’s officially called Rose Hill, but everyone calls it Patchouli.”

  “Is there a reason you shouldn’t live in your old house?”

  “Well, where I am now there’s a TV, and I really like watching TV. It helps me calm down. Like at night, if I can’t sleep, I just put it on and Miss Renee doesn’t mind.”

  “Miss Renee? The head of the lower school?”

  “Yeah, and then, like, if I’m really stressed, sometimes I come back in the middle of the day and watch, like, All My Children, General Hospital, One Life to Live, and then all is good again—it’s like they really help me understand the world and get some perspective. Also, my life is more like the people on the soaps than most of the people around here.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “I need to think about that.”

  “I really can’t go back to the old house,” she says. “I’m not okay with that.”

  “I hear you.”

  She starts to cry. “I want to come home.”

  “We can do that,” I say.

  She sniffles. “I have a project due.…”

  “How about you come home for the weekend?”

  “Okay,” she says, sniffling.

  “Can you manage until then? We don’t have to decide about the house issue right now. I think Mrs. Singer said you could stay with her—I bet she has a television.”

  “Not as many channels,” Ashley says, still sniffling.

  I pick her up on Friday afternoon. The entire way up to the school, I marvel at the scenery; the trees have sprung into bloom.

  Ashley babbles the whole way home—going on and on about soap operas. I can’t tell if it’s an anxiety response, an odd verbal downloading of daytime drama, or some kind of hypomanic state—I simply let her roll.

  “All My Children is set in Pine Valley, it has the Tylers, the Kanes, and the Martins; it’s been on for, like, forty years, that’s more than ten thousand episodes.…” She details a bit about Erica and the Cortlandts.

  “And then, this week…” She lays out the story lines—the past history, who was married to who, who fathered what child, what secrets have not yet been revealed.

  “Ash, how long have you been watching these shows?”

  “A long time,” she says. “I started when I was, like, seven and was home with mono for a month and Mom let me watch them with her.”

  “Your mom watched them?”

  “She loved them. She’d been watching the exact same shows since she was in junior high and stuck at home with a broken leg. And once, at an airport, she actually saw Mrs. Tyler, Mrs. Phoebe Tyler! Mom saw her at the airport and ran over and helped her with her bag. Her ‘real’ name was Ruth Warrick. She died a few years ago. Mom said something about having seen it in the newspaper.”

  “You really miss your mom,” I say.

  “I have no one,” she says.

  “Well, I’m very glad to see you, and Tessie and Romeo will be happy to see you—you’re gonna love Romeo.”

  “Could we go to the cemetery?” she asks. “Would that be weird?”

  “We can go—I’m not sure how it would be.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “We were there for the funeral; do you remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s like a big park and there are some trees and the graves are flat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the Jewish tradition, to have flat graves, and a year after the funeral there’s what’s called an unveiling, and the plaque with your mom’s name will be there. And whenever you visit you leave a small stone on the marker, which indicates that you were there and the person is not forgotten.”

  “Why does it take a year?”

  “That’s the tradition. We could go visit your grandmother—would that be fun?”

  “Can we take her out?”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Just out—it’s like she’s one of those fragile dolls in a box that you can just kind of look at, and maybe she’d like to get out and go somewhere.”

  “We can certainly ask her; my sense is, she’s pretty happy where she is—but, like I said, we can ask. So what do you think? Visit Grandma? Bake cookies? Clean your closets?”

  “We could bake cookies and bring them to Grandma,” she says.

  “We could.”

  “Okay, so tonight, when we get home, we’ll make cookies.”

  “Tonight, when we get home, we’ll have dinner and go to bed.”

  “Okay, so tomorrow morning we’ll bake the cookies and go see Grandma,” she says, pleased to have a plan.

  “When you bake cookies, what do you do?” I ask a couple of minutes later.

  “What do I do?”

  “Like, how do you make them?”

  “We either do slice-and-bake or we mix together all the things that are listed on the back of the chocolate chips—they call that ‘from scratch.’”

  “And you know how to do that?”

  “Yes,” she says, like now I’m the idiot. “Have you never made cookies?”

  “Never,” I say.

  “We better stop at the store,” she says, and we do. Ashley makes a beeline for the chocolate chips, and we buy everything as directed on the back of the bag, plus extra milk.

  “You have to have really fresh milk,” she says. “Otherwise there’s no point.” And then she looks around, smiling at the rows and rows of groceries. “I really miss grocery stores,” she says in a way that reminds me of the oddity of her existence, and how boarding school is an isolated kind of social/educational incubator.

  We make the cookies, and when the kitchen starts to fill with a wonderful warm chocolaty smell I feel deeply accomplished. We immediately eat too many and drink the milk, and Ash was entirely right when she said it was all about the milk’s being fresh. It’s amazing—a truly sublime experience. We start laughing for no reason, and the cat comes out and rubs my leg for the first time since I gave away the kittens—I pour her a saucer of milk.

  And when the cookies are cool, we go to the nursing home. On the way there, I explain about Grandma’s progress and Grandma’s boyfriend.

  “I don’t get it, are they married or not?”

  “Not officially.”

  “And what’s the deal with her crawling and swimming?”

  “Remember how she was in bed last time we saw her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, she’s out of bed now. We’re not sure if it’s a new medicine or perhaps she forgot why she was in bed. I myself c
an’t remember exactly what happened. I know that we put her in the nursing home because she was bedridden—I’m not sure anyone ever knew why.”

  “Well, so that’s cool, she’s getting better.”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say as we walk into her room.

  “So you say,” she says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re here,” she says with a particular expression of annoyance, as though long-awaited aliens have finally made themselves known.

  “They are?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says, definitively. “They came this morning and they haven’t left yet.”

  She looks up at Ashley. “You look less Chinese—did you have work done?”

  “Mom, this is Ashley—not Claire.”

  “Who are your people?”

  “You are my people,” Ashley says, kissing her.

  “Mom, Ashley is your granddaughter, she is one of us.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, shaking Ashley’s hand.

  “Mom, I’ve been meaning to tell you—when I visited Aunt Lillian, I got your jewelry back.”

  “The diamond engagement ring?” my mother asks.

  “No, some pearl earrings, a bracelet, the necklace with the ruby, and a few other little things, a pin, and a little necklace. She was very happy to give them back—seemed to want it off her chest.”

  “I’m sure,” my mother says. “Did you look at her hand? Is she still wearing the engagement ring your father bought for me?”

  “I have no idea, Ma,” I said. “It really seems like something the two of you should work out together. When you told me to ask her for the jewelry you didn’t mention a diamond engagement ring.”

  “I wanted to see what she would fess up to—before I really put the screws on her,” my mother says.

  Time for lunch—in the dining room. The floor assistant comes to take her to the dining room.

  “I’m not going,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask

  “A protest,” she says.

  “I don’t think they’re going to bring your lunch,” the aide says, shaking her head.

  “They used to,” my mother says.

  “That was before,” I say.

  “Well, it’s not like I’d miss much,” she says.

  “Don’t be too sure,” the aide says. “It’s chicken and pasta.”