May We Be Forgiven: A Novel

by Homes, A. M.

  I meet some guy on a corner and pay six hundred dollars cash for two “member” tickets to Yom Kippur services at a conservative temple in Scarsdale.

  Excited, Ashley insists we get there early to get good seats. We sit for hours and hours, and when we finally get to the Viddui, the communal confession of sin, I find myself right there with the rest of them, beating my chest, repenting “for the sins that I have done before you.” There are at least twenty-four sins: the sin of betrayal, having an evil heart, causing others to sin, eating what is forbidden, speaking falsely, scoffing at others, being scornful, perverse, rebelliously transgressing, the sin of having turned away from God…I am pounding my chest along with the rabbi as he recites the litany of our wrongs. I am guilty. I am guilty of even more than I realized I could be guilty of.

  “We’re bad,” Ashley whispers to me. “Just listen to all that we have done, all the harm and trouble we cause.”

  I sober up for a moment. “We’re human, Ashley. We atone because, despite our best efforts, we will always do harm to others and ourselves. That’s why each year we ask those we have hurt for forgiveness, and each year we present ourselves to God and ask to be forgiven.”

  She starts to cry. “It’s just so terrible,” she says.

  “Which part?” I ask.

  “Being human.”

  Out of the blue I get a call from the Department of Social Services with regard to scheduling a home visit for a pending foster-care application. “We had a cancellation; the social worker can come tomorrow, or I can book you for December 23…?”

  “Tomorrow is fine,” I say. “What time?”

  “Anytime between nine and five,” she says.

  “Could we narrow it down?” I ask.

  “No,” the woman says.

  “All right, then.”

  The social worker pulls up at 2 p.m. in a small nondescript car. Tessie barks.

  “I don’t like dogs,” the woman says when I open the door.

  “Would you like me to have her wait in the other room?”

  “Please,” the woman says.

  I put Tessie on a leash and ask Madeline to hold on to it. I escort the social worker, and her fat folder, into the house.

  “So the boy is already living here?” she asks.

  “Since the spring,” I say, “at the request of his aunt.”

  “Where does he sleep?” the social worker wants to know.

  I take her to Nate’s room and show her the bunk bed—Ricardo’s is the bottom bunk, with all the stuffed animals. “He likes animals,” I say, showing her his frog and the turtle.

  “How does he get to school?”

  “He and Ashley, my niece, walk to and from school together.”

  “Have you completed your advocacy training?”

  “Not yet. I’m signed up to start in a few weeks—the classes were all full.”

  “And have you thought about the impact of a foster child on the family?”

  “Yes,” I say. “The family is thrilled; in fact, it was the children’s idea.”

  “Your approach to discipline?”

  “Firm but flexible.”

  “I see you have your parents living with you,” she says.

  I nod and say no more.

  “And the small outbuilding in the yard?”

  “It’s a temporary structure,” I say. “A celebration of the autumn.”

  “The boy cannot sleep there,” she says, firmly.

  I nod. “Of course not.”

  “Your application mentions one cat?” The social worker says, as the two cats run by.

  “She had kittens,” I say, leading the social worker the rest of the way around the house.

  “How many children live in the home?” the social worker asks.

  “Three,” I say.

  “Don’t forget our brown babies,” Madeline calls out, “that’s five in all.”

  The social worker visibly bristles at the phrase “brown babies.”

  “They’re twins,” Cy yells, over the narration of the golf tournament.

  “The babies are dolls from South Africa,” I explain. “Dolls are very good for older people, they think of them as real.”

  The social worker nods without interest. “If you are approved, you will be paid for board and care; you will receive a clothing allowance; money can be requested for special things, such as after-school programs, tutoring, a winter coat, and clothing for religious occasions. But, given budget constraints—don’t ask. To avoid the appearance of servitude, please don’t have the child do any cooking, cleaning, anything that might be construed as work for hire.” She hands me some papers to sign and is gone.

  “I hope you’re not going to hire that woman to work here,” Madeline says. “Tessie and I thought she had an attitude.”

  I am in the A&P when Amanda calls. I look around, thinking perhaps she is here, watching me through the loaves of bread, peering over the mountain of navel oranges. I am here often, because we use more groceries than ever before: numerous appetites to cater to, young and old.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  She doesn’t want to say.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. You?”

  The randomness of her call has caught me off guard. I feel intruded upon. “Good,” I say. “Funny enough, I’m in the A&P right now; they changed the layout, they put in a new pathway, like a winding country road, it’s supposed to make shopping more relaxing, more natural.”

  There’s a long pause. “What else?” she asks.

  “I finished my book.” I offer myself up, leaving out the part about the lightning strike. “Your parents are doing well; the kids are at school. What have you been doing?”

  “It’s hard to say,” she says.

  I find my frustration growing: her opacity, the thing that used to make her seem compelling, the impossibility of knowing what she was really thinking, is now an irritant.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I pause. “When ‘something’ happens, do you want to know?”

  “No,” she says, definitively, “I really don’t. I like not knowing, just imagining. Knowing might change something; I might end up doing something differently. I don’t want to be burdened.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Do me a favor.…”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Don’t call this number again.” I pause. “It’s not all about you, Amanda, it’s not like you get to leave your parents with a total stranger, like it’s a coat check, and then just check back whenever you want, to make sure everything is right where you left it.”

  I hear the sound of rustling paper in the background. “A couple of things,” she says, ignoring everything I said. “Every year, my parents go to West Point for the Army-Navy game—they have season tickets. Have they mentioned it?”

  “No,” I say. “Not a peep.”

  “And it’s their anniversary on the twenty-fifth of September. Forty-five years.”

  As she talks, I’m in the dairy section, filling the cart: low-fat milk for Ricardo, lactose-free for Cy, soy for Ashley, and Maxwell House International Instant Peppermint Mocha Latte for Madeline, who described it as her “addiction.” As I go up and down the aisles, grabbing bread, crackers, paper towels, Amanda continues to give me details about things like getting the chimney at the house swept, making sure the storm windows go up. She’s downloading information, letting each bit go like an autumn leaf, riding the breeze as it makes its way down to the ground. After a few more minutes, I say, “Amanda, let it go, you don’t have to worry about this stuff anymore. It doesn’t matter—none of this matters, this is all just stuff.”

  “The stuff of life,” she says. “I’ve been writing it all down so I can pass it on.”

  “These are operating instructions—not what you need to pass on. I’ve got to go,” I say, preparing to hang up. “Take care.”

  In the car on the way home, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of dread—was I out of li
ne? Will she retaliate? I imagine Amanda sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and leading her parents down the stairs, reclaiming them. I imagine myself being proactive—packing everyone up and going underground, like in some kind of witness-protection program. Cy and Madeline are mine now. I’m using them—the children are using them. I can’t afford to lose them.

  Cy tells me he needs my help. “We have to go on a little trip—back to the old house. I left something there.”

  “Not a problem,” I say. “Whatever it is, Mrs. Gao can bring it over.”

  “No, we need to go, just you and me, tonight, with a shovel,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I phone Mr. and Mrs. Gao and let them know we’ll be making a surprise visit and ask them to pretend not to see us. As soon as it’s dark, we head over there with two shovels and a couple of head-mounted flashlights I have picked up at the hardware store.

  Cy marches ten paces out from the basement door and three to the left and starts to dig. “It’s about eighteen inches down,” he says.

  “Here, let me, my back is stronger.” He watches me dig for a couple of minutes and then starts digging another hole, about a foot away.

  “There’s more than one?” I ask.

  “Seven or eight,” he says.

  I keep digging until I hear the sound of the shovel hitting metal.

  “Bingo,” Cy calls out.

  We get down on our hands and knees, and I dust off the top of what turns out to be a .50-caliber military-issue ammunition can, and suddenly I’m terrified.

  “You have ammunition buried in the yard—explosives? This could be dangerous. We could blow ourselves up.”

  “It’s not explosives—it’s cash. I put it in the ammo cans because they’re waterproof. Why do you think I never went along with the idea for an in-ground sprinkler system? It would have wrecked my retirement plan.” He chortles.

  “Cy, are you telling me that you have seven or eight cans of cash buried back here?”

  He nods gleefully. “Yes, I never trusted the markets, so I socked away whatever I could, a little here and there over the years.”

  “And this isn’t the money you stole?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I gave that back; this is mine.”

  “Are you sure about this, Cy?”

  “Positive,” he says. “Keep digging.”

  And so I do. I dig for hours; we find six cans.

  “That’s odd,” Cy says. “I could have sworn there were more.”

  I shrug. I’m nearly crippled, my head is throbbing, I’m thinking I could have another stroke any minute now. “It’s enough, Cy. Whatever it is, it’s enough.”

  He nods. “There’s ten thousand in each can,” he says.

  “Sixty thousand dollars?”

  “I sold insurance, son, and I was damned good at it. Insurance was big back then, late 1950s, early 1960s. Everyone thought we’d be blown to kingdom come…. I was very careful: every bonus, every little extra bit, I squirreled away. Look,” Cy says as we’re finishing up. “I know it costs a pretty penny to take care of Madeline and me. And Christmas is coming, and I want to do something for the kids—maybe buy them some United States Savings Bonds. And, well, here’s the truth, I’ve always wanted a Lionel train set. Every Christmas, despite my age, I still come downstairs hoping it’s going to be there. And you know what, this year it will be, because I’m going to get it for myself. You’ll come with me,” he says. “We’ll go into New York and pick it out.” He pauses. “So—you think I’ve got enough for the train?”

  “Yeah, Cy, I think you’ve got it covered.”

  Together we fill in the holes and make a plan to come back and repair the damage to the lawn. “Before they notice,” Cy says—which is of course impossible, because for several hours the Gaos have been staring out their back windows, wondering what the hell we’re doing as we dig up the heavy green metal cans.

  “I should have asked you before we started,” Cy says, “but I’m assuming that you can keep what happened here tonight just between us.”

  “Not a peep,” I say.

  A letter arrives with no stamp, no return address. It’s neatly typed on fine blue stationery.

  Franklin Furness shared your manuscript with me—he wanted my opinion as an off-the-record fact-checker. I put two and two together and wanted to drop you a line, a note of congratulations. I was pleasantly surprised to see that your belief in the dream survives along with your hope that the hearts of men are not as dark as their behavior might lead one to believe. The smog of history never really clears, there’s an enormous amount we’ll never know, suffice to say it hasn’t been a government by the people for a very long time. It’s a company, a multinational—the land of the free and home of the brave as brought to you by the People’s Republic of China. Historical forces are underestimated—just like physicists describe gravity as a weak force—the shape of history is surprisingly easily recast. And here we, you and me, once again front and center of the Zeitgeist, the fragrant and foul, mix fact and what you hope is fiction that is bubbling up like an ancient tar pit. And while we might revel in the accuracy of our conspiratorial musings—and, yes, we were right all along; our youthful doppelgängers are at it again. Do you realize that there are now more than eight hundred and fifty thousand people employed with Top Secret security clearances? No one knows who is doing what, and even those authorized to know it all can’t possibly keep up. A plan or ten could be hatched, threaded through in such a way that it would take years to unfold with no one person in the lead. This is the new terrorism, buttons pushed made by people just doing their jobs with no idea of the cause and effect, the relation of any one action to another. The drone, just look at the definition—a stingless male bee—aka a powerless man—the most dangerous kind. A strange buzzing by your ear—no longer a humble bee but a fake bug that can be flown into your house, land on your dining room table, or fly right up into your ear and on command, with a computer keystroke, blow you and your house the fuck up and you’d never know why. They are among us and we will never know who they are or what is happening. It is all bigger than any of us could ever imagine. Forty-nine years since the big event—the implosion of American politics, the inauguration of our dark age—and this is where we got to. As you can imagine I am working on a book of my own—seems there are still a few of us thinking along the same lines—carrying baggage, something we need to get off our chests before it’s too late. Anyway, all this to say: Congratulations. Good work. The world needs more men like you, Silver.

  I read the letter several times. I can’t help but be pleased. It’s what I’ve wanted to hear—it confirms my feelings, my suspicions, my hope that it’s not all for naught. I assume it’s from my “friend” at the law firm, the guy in the elevator—but who is he? Is he someone I should know—a familiar name? I pocket the letter, thinking that I’ll do more digging later—maybe there’s something in it, a phrase, a way of speaking, that will ring a bell.

  Walter Penny calls to say that George has been moved again. “He was having tummy trouble, so we sent him to a place with better medical care. I can give you the address and visiting info—it’s been a while since you saw him.”

  “The incident is still fresh in my memory,” I say.

  “Did you get the check?” Penny asks, like that should have fixed it.

  “I did, thank you.”

  Walter gives me the prison information. “It’s about an hour from where you are, overlooking the Hudson.”

  I drive up the following day. On the outside it’s bucolic, set in the landscape like an old castle or fortress. The parking lot has an employee-of-the-month parking spot with the person’s name written in red marker in a white rectangle. As I’m pulling in, I happen to glance at an old house off to the right, and, like witnessing an apparition, I see a dapper fellow wearing an old tan corduroy jacket come out the front door and head towards an ancient station
wagon, and I’m thinking it’s the ghost of John Cheever going out for a ride.

  Bucolic on the outside, but like a furnace inside, sweaty, sticky, with a gamy smell. I pass through the metal detector and into the waiting area. The guards bring George to the visiting area in shackles; we speak through holes drilled in thick Plexiglas—holes filled with the spittle of every criminal’s family that has come before us.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “How could I be?”

  “It was an accident,” I say.

  “I am not asking for your opinion,” George says.

  “You look horrible. Walter mentioned that you’d been in the hospital.”

  “I had proctitis and gonorrhea.”

  “What is going on in there?”

  “I’ve had to make my own way,” he says, shaking his head bitterly. “There’s nothing good about this place. My teeth are rotting. I used to get them cleaned four times a year, now my breath smells like shit all day. You sold me out. You gave me up, and for what—Lillian’s chocolate-chip cookie recipe?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You took advantage of my sweet tooth; you used the cookies to fuck me over.”

  “They already had you, George,” I say. “I’m the one they used, like a human shield. I gave of myself to protect you. I had no option to turn them down,” I say. “They had me by the balls.”

  “You have no balls,” George says.

  “Nice, George.”

  The inmate in the visiting booth next to ours falls to the floor and has a seizure.

  “How are my roses?” George asks as the guards move to clear the room so they can attend to the sick prisoner.

  “They have black spot. I’ll spray again tonight if it doesn’t rain,” I say as I’m exiting.

  On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Nate comes home from school with a friend named Josh. The next day, we borrow the Gaos’ minivan and drive into New York City. Cy, Ricardo, Nate, Josh, and I head for the Lionel Store while Ashley and Madeline have a plan to get their hair done and go for lunch. The city is crazy with people, I feel like a tourist—jostled by everything.