May We Be Forgiven: A Novel

by Homes, A. M.

  Binnie and Stanley Herschlag celebrated their lifelong love of learning with the creation of the Herschlag Fellowship on the occasion of their 50th Wedding Anniversary. They are so proud of their sons, Arthur and Abraham, “twin boys who became rabbis,” says Binnie Herschlag. “Who could ask for more?” says Stanley Herschlag. “I could,” Binnie says. “And I did.” The text is interrupted by a photo of Binnie holding her first grandchild. “Allen Steven Koenig Herschlag. I couldn’t be more proud. Well, I could but…”

  I locate Ryan by methodically searching the Web and little postings, like rabbit droppings along the way. His thumbs-up “like” of a site called “Embracing the Gap (Can Jews and Gentiles Really Be Friends?)” is what leads me to him.

  “Did you finish your paper on Jews gone criminal?” I ask when I finally make contact by phone.

  “I quit,” he says.

  “What do you mean, you quit?”

  “I’m done,” he says. “Dropped out of school.”

  “But you’re from a family of rabbis, you’re not allowed to quit.”

  “Can you imagine how hard it was?”

  “What happened?”

  “I got so depressed at how disingenuous people are, how fake leaders are, how full of shit everything is. I had a big spiritual and familial crisis and had to ask myself—do I want to be a rabbi?”

  In the background there’s a weird snuffling kind of honking sound. “What is that noise?”

  “Pigs,” he says. “I’m working upstate on an organic farm, and one of my jobs is to tend to the pigs. Isn’t that ironic?”

  “I guess.”

  “They’re very intelligent animals,” he says.

  I ask for advice on bar-mitzvah essentials, what makes a bar mitzvah legal—are there rules, specific prayers you have to do or say to be sure you’re officially a bar mitzvah?

  “What they don’t tell you is that nothing is required,” Ryan says. “When you turn thirteen, you are a man—the ceremony is a public gesture. At thirteen you are obligated to observe the Torah’s commandments, to be counted as part of a minyan, and you are liable for your misdoings, you can be punished. Usually the bar-mitzvah boy reads from that week’s portion of the Torah, or he could deliver a paper on a particular topic.”

  I ask Ryan if he’d consider joining the trip as our official spiritual leader. He loves the idea of bringing Jewish traditions to a remote village, loves what Nate has done, but…“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t. I want to but I can’t. The pigs need me, or maybe I need the pigs.”

  I’m at the office in Manhattan, making small talk with Wanda while waiting for the vault man to pull out the boxes.

  “Just a heads-up that I’m going to be taking some time off this summer,” I say. “I am taking my family to South Africa.”

  “Have a good time,” she says.

  “I’ll be reachable on my cell in an emergency.”

  Wanda nods. “What kind of an emergency? Like a misplaced comma?”

  “I’m just saying. It’ll give Ching time to catch up on the transcriptions and copyediting.”

  “Okay,” Wanda says.

  “Any travel tips? Pointers about great places to go, fabulous restaurants?”

  “Not a clue,” she says.

  “But aren’t you the granddaughter of—?”

  “The Nixons’ old cleaning lady in Washington?” she says, cutting me off. “Marcel tells everyone that my mother worked for Mrs. Nixon.”

  “That’s weird,” I say and go no further. “What’s Marcel’s story?”

  “Well, he’s either the illegitimate son of Nelson Mandela who was sent to Harvard to get a divinity degree and flunked out, or he’s a kid from New York City who does stand-up comedy at the Upright Citizens Brigade.”

  “I wonder where the truth lies,” I say, knowing I’ve been had.

  “It’s an open question,” she says.

  As the days go by, everything becomes more urgent. I’m juggling passports, plane tickets, health forms for camp, iron-on name tags.

  Cheryl and I are in the drugstore at the mall, shopping for supplies. “I thought it went well with Ed,” she says.

  “As well as could be expected,” I say.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t picture the two of you together. What do you talk about?”

  “We don’t talk. That’s why I’m here buying hand sanitizer with you,” Cheryl says, annoyed.

  “Are you mad about something in particular?”

  “Sofia has a crush on you,” she says.

  “All she talks about is you and the bar mitzvah and how wouldn’t it be so fun if she got to go with you and that she can’t believe she’s going to miss it.”

  “I’m not interested in her,” I say. “Maybe she just wants whatever you’re having. Women are like that: when they go to lunch they like to both order the same thing.”

  “She’s after you,” Cheryl says. “Her husband is dumping her for a new kind of trophy wife, a particle physicist who’s a big skier.”

  “Not going to happen,” I swear to Cheryl.

  “Because you’re already in a ‘relationship’ with Amanda?”

  “Because I’m not interested in Sofia.”

  “Are you inviting Amanda on the trip?” Cheryl asks.

  “I haven’t yet,” I say. “Are you asking because you want to go?”

  “I’m not going,” she says. “It would look weird. What would my kids say if I said I had to go to South Africa for your nephew’s bar mitzvah? They’ve never even met you.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, but didn’t want to say it. Just so you know, it’s an open invitation for you and your family, husband, kids, whoever.…”

  “Sounds fun, like an adulterers’ Brady bunch,” she says.

  “And,” I say, like a TV game-show host heaping on the prizes, “I really would like to meet your kids sometime—it would make things more real.”

  “Meet them in what way? Like you come for dinner and I say, ‘This is the guy Mommy plays with while Daddy’s busy vulcanizing’?”

  “Meet them like I’m a friend of yours,” I suggest.

  “I’ll think on it,” she says. “Married women don’t have male friends.”

  “Times are changing,” I say.

  I’m loading my basket with travel sizes of toothpaste and shampoo while Cheryl is trying to get me to “do” her in the new grocery section—“grab and go,” it’s called. Her idea is that we should have a sexual adventure in every store in the mall. We’ve made our way approximately one-quarter of the way around the horseshoe-shaped structure, but I’m convinced store personnel, security guards, and others recognize us. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re regulars—like the old ladies who come to walk, doing exercise laps—or because they’re trading some kind of hidden-camera videos.

  I’m putting disposable toothbrushes in the basket when my cell phone starts to ring. I ignore it. After four rings it stops, and then it rings again. “It’s her,” Cheryl says. “Who else calls you twice in a row? You may as well answer it.”

  “Hello,” I say.

  “I can’t find my father,” Amanda says, panicked. “He’s wandered off.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Outside, in some fucking shopping center,” she says, “near the parking area.”

  “What does your mother say?”

  “I sent them into the Dairy Queen while I was taking the sofa cover into the dry cleaner’s—I didn’t want to embarrass them by explaining that there were feces on the sofa.…” Despite the fact that I’m not on speakerphone, every word is coming through loud and clear for Cheryl and anyone within ten feet to hear. “My mother told my father that he couldn’t have chopped nuts on his sundae because it’s bad for his diverticulosis, and he stormed out. I’m trying to look for him, but she can’t walk fast enough to keep up.”

  “Maybe put her in the car while you look, or see if there’s someone who can keep her for
a few minutes.”

  “Ask her if there’s a Home Depot,” Cheryl whispers. “Men gravitate towards hardware.”

  “Is there a Home Depot?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Check there. Find one of the people in an orange vest and tell them that you’re with the missing person.”

  There’s a bit of a delay, and then Amanda says: “The orange vests are on the lookout. Hang on—something’s coming over the walkie-talkie…. They’ve spotted him in the plumbing section—he’s peeing in one of the display toilets. I’m heading over there now. He sees me. He’s heading the other way, he’s running. My father is running away. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later,” she says, hanging up.

  While I’m talking, Cheryl has been adding things to my cart, things I don’t notice until I’m in the checkout line: enemas, Tampax, adult diapers, duct tape, and now she’s somewhere in the makeup aisle.

  “What do you think of these?” Cheryl texts.

  I turn my head; standing at the end of an aisle, Cheryl lifts her shirt and flashes me a bare breast wearing false eyelashes.

  My heart beats fast—did anyone else see that?

  “Is this yours?” the man at the register asks, taking a large tube of K-Y out of my basket.

  “No,” I say as I’m rapidly digging through and taking out the glycerin suppositories. “All that’s mine is the Purell and the travel sizes. Someone must have confused my cart for theirs.” I take out a box of Midol and leave it on the counter.

  She texts again: “I’m not the only one laughing.”

  “How do you confuse your cart when you’ve got diapers and a large milk of magnesia?” someone mumbles.

  “He’s just embarrassed,” someone else says.

  “I’m not embarrassed,” I say. “I was buying travel sizes for a family trip.”

  The security guard comes towards me. “What’s the problem?”

  “These people keep saying that I’m embarrassed by what’s in my basket—but my point is, someone put these items in my cart and no one believes me.”

  “Do you want to buy the things or not?”

  “No,” I say, putting my hands up, as though surrendering. “Forget it, I’ll do it some other time.”

  “Look, mister, get what you need. Don’t let people intimidate you.”

  “I’m not intimidated,” I say, my pocket vibrating again.

  “Sore loser,” Cheryl texts.

  I pay for my items, and the security guard follows me to the door. I buzz loudly as I leave, and I just stand there—knowing Cheryl is watching from somewhere laughing.

  “Go,” the guy says.

  “But I’m making noise,” I say.

  “Did you steal anything?” he asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then just go.”

  “I’ve got a falsie glued onto my nipple and no idea how to get it off—I wasn’t thinking about how much more sensitive nipples are when I put it on,” Cheryl says when I catch up with her.

  “Try nail-polish remover,” I say.

  “I already did, on aisle three; that’s why I was late.”

  “Well, then, you’re going to have to keep it on until it falls off,” I say, unmoved.

  She sticks her hand into my back pocket and pulls out a bunch of metallic bar-code sensors. “You’re free,” she says.

  “You’re getting too weird,” I say.

  “I admit it,” she says. “I’m jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you and what’s-her-name.”

  “Amanda,” I say.

  “Exactly,” she says.

  On Sunday, when I take Ricardo to Aunt Christina’s house, I tell Christina and the uncle that I’ve been planning a South Africa bar mitzvah for Nate. I describe the trip, explaining that, as part of the celebration, we might slaughter and cook a goat, there will be dancing and people wearing traditional beaded costumes, old-fashioned drums, and feathers. I can tell they think it’s weird.

  Christina shakes her head. “I don’t know why you want to go into the past when the future is right here in front of you.”

  “He is a historian,” Ricardo explains. “He lives in the past. All day he reads books about things that already happened.”

  The uncle revs Ricardo’s remote-control car and sends it speeding across the floor backwards and forwards—popping wheelies.

  “Does Ricardo have a passport?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” the aunt says.

  “Is it okay with you if I find out what we need to do in order to get one?”

  She nods.

  Ricardo dances around the room. “I’m goin’ on safari,” he says. “On safari, I’m gonna catch an ele-phant, an ele-phant.”

  The uncle crashes his car into Ricardo’s foot—on purpose.

  “Have a good time,” he says.

  The invites arrive. They are beautiful, substantive, serious. The envelope looks elegant with its blue tissue lining. I FedEx one to Nate.

  “I got the invitation,” he says—it sounds like he’s crying.

  “You don’t like it?” I ask, heart sinking.

  “No,” he says. “I mean yes. It looks totally real.”

  “It is real,” I say.

  His crying sniffles to a stop. “I’m kind of amazed. Since everything went weird with Mom and Dad, I gave up on the normal stuff—it just didn’t seem possible.”

  “So you think it’s okay?”

  “It’s great,” he says.

  “All right, then, what kind of cake do you like?” I ask, figuring I should take care of a few things on my checklist while I’ve got him on the phone.

  “Chocolate,” he says.

  “And what about the Torah—have you decided what you want to do in terms of a reading?”

  “You know,” he says, “I’m not really so into Hebrew as a language. I kind of want to write my own thing.…”

  “Consisting of what?”

  “Have you ever been to Burning Man?”

  Sofia sends out the invites, each addressed in her beautiful calligraphic script. She gives me a computer spreadsheet to track the RSVPs. I know the invitations have landed when Cousin Jason starts e-mailing me bad press about South Africa, articles saying that car crashes are the leading cause of tourist death, and about how many people are mugged at the airports, and that there’s been increased violence against white people and diseases like Ebola, and that if you’re stopped at a red light at night, people will come and smash your windows and grab whatever is in your car, or hijack you.

  “Thanks for all the advice,” I write back. “I’ll assume from the attachments that you’ll be joining us in spirit but not in person.”

  Shopping heavily from both the Oriental Trading Company and the Lillian Vernon catalogue, Sofia has ordered pencils, notebooks, and backpacks for every kid in the village. She’s packed giant plastic tubs with soccer jerseys, school supplies, musical instruments, sheet music, a cassette player, and a recorded copy of all the songs she wants them to learn, along with devil’s-food cake mix, chocolate frosting, sprinkles, and candles.

  Meanwhile, on the floor of George’s office are four suitcases that I’ve been packing with clothing for the children—the same items for each kid but in different sizes and colors. I take Ricardo and Ashley to Dr. Faustus for shots, and arrange for Nate to get what he needs at school.

  And as I prepare, I worry; I don’t doubt that the villagers’ affection for Nate is genuine, but without the money backing him up, they would be less enthusiastic. Not wanting to detract from his moment, I say nothing to Nate, but I am aware they are working us for our sympathies, for whatever we can give, as well they should—if ever there was a population entitled to reparations, this is it.

  During an increasingly rare afternoon rendezvous, Amanda tells me there’s more to know about the murdered girl, Heather Ryan.

  “Like what?”

  “Like when I found her wallet I found some other stuff t
oo.”

  I look at her. “Like what?” I repeat.

  “Gym clothes, notebooks from school—stuff.”

  “Do you ever think of giving it back to her family?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “They have a whole lifetime of her stuff, but this is all I have,” she says.

  “But they are her family—”

  “And she is me,” Amanda says, cutting me off.

  “So, when you said there’s more to know about her, what did you mean?”

  “Her cell phone still works.”

  “I guess her parents haven’t turned it off yet. I’m sure it’s not the first thing on their list.”

  “She gets messages.…”

  “What kind of messages, and from who?”

  “Voice mail from her best friend.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  Amanda nods and hands me the phone. “The first one is from the day she went missing,” she says, pushing the voice-mail button and putting it on speakerphone. “Where are you? Helloooo? Call me. Okay, seriously, why are you being so weird? Call. Should I be worried? If you don’t call me in the next five minutes I’m going to call Adam…. Okay, so Adam doesn’t know where you are either. FYI, you’re officially a missing person…. Helloooo! Okay, so, the police told your parents that they found your body in a garbage bag. Your mom screamed and then vomited all over the kitchen floor. Your dad told me and Mrs. Gursky to stay with her, and he left with the police. Mrs. Gursky cleaned up the mess. I took your mom into the living room. I’m not sure what to think. I spent the night in your room with your sister. We just kind of sat up. I kept thinking you’d come home at any moment—and show everyone that this whole thing with search dogs and people canvasing was all a giant overreaction. Your dad got back at about five in the morning. They made him look at your dead body to make sure it was you. How could you be dead? Is it freaky that I’m calling a dead person? I guess I don’t really believe it. It’s like I won’t believe it until you tell me it’s true. You’re the one who always tells me what is and what isn’t, how weird is that? Who am I supposed to talk to now? I went home this afternoon, my parents kept asking if I was okay. I’m not okay, but I couldn’t take the way they were looking at me, like I was a lost dog. I had to get out of the house, and then all these reporters were chasing after me and I went to your house and your family is a mess, which makes sense. The rest of us are, like, in shock. I met Adam at the park; he thinks that it’s all his fault, on account of how he didn’t believe you when you said you weren’t going out with that guy, and that he fucked everything up.…”