May We Be Forgiven Part 11

I say nothing.

"Okay, then," Larry says. "There's one other thing-the clock. She says you took the clock from her side of the bed. It was a four-by-four-inch square black Braun travel clock."

"I'll buy her a new clock," I say.

"She doesn't want a new clock," Larry says. "She wants her clock." A long silence pa.s.ses. "She's not asking for anything else, no alimony, no support of any kind. I'm authorized to offer you two hundred thousand dollars to never speak to her again."

"That hurts," I say.

"I could push it to two fifty," Larry says.

"It's not the money, it's that Claire never wants to speak to me again, with the added insult that, in order to accomplish that, she thinks she's got to pay me off."

"So, you'll take the two hundred?"

"Two fifty," I say.

"And you'll send her the clock."

"Fine," I say. And we are done.

I need air. I clip on Tessie's leash. She is hesitant to leave the yard, and as we get closer to the sidewalk, I have to really pull on her.

"Come on, Tessie," I say. "I know you like your house, but dogs need to go for walks. I need to go for a walk; once around the block and we can call it a night?" The dog sits down at the edge of the gra.s.s and won't budge. "Well, I can't very well go without you," I say. "A man walking on his own is suspicious. A man walking with a dog is someone doing his duty." I give the leash a strong yank, and Tessie yelps as she comes across the sidewalk.

"Are you okay? Did I pull too hard?"

I've never walked these streets at night. It's kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying. There's a sense of false calm, long driveways, houses at the end-lights on, emanating a pleasant kind of melancholy-the distant sounds of children playing, dogs barking.

Along the way, Tessie stops to eat strange things, dark lumps. I use my cell phone to get a better look. I'm thinking horses.h.i.t, but it seems odd, you don't see many horses around here.

The next morning, George's lawyer's secretary calls. "Do you have a pen?" she asks.

"Yes."

"I have information for you. Your brother has been moved to The Lodge, Mohonk Pavilion, Room B. They want a list of medications in the home medicine cabinet: date, dose, pharmacy, doctor. And any info regarding personal physician and psychiatrist would be helpful. Go through his credit-card receipts; anything unusual in the last six months, we want to hear about it. Meanwhile, charges have been filed." At first I'm thinking she's saying that George's credit card has been used to charge something, like when they suddenly cancel you because someone tries to buy a tractor online with your card number. But she goes on: "The district attorney is saying he left the hospital with the intent to do harm."

"Oh, I really don't think so," I say, surprised.

Something out the window catches my attention: a woman in full riding gear, crop in hand, strolls by atop a gigantic and very expensive-looking horse. It's cold out, and as the horse goes by I see steamy breath billowing out of its enormous nostrils.

"They're looking at murder or voluntary manslaughter, the bottom line being that, in their view, it wasn't an accident."

"Maybe he came home because he missed the dog. He's very close to the dog."

"Like he just needed to leave the hospital in the middle of the night and give her a cookie?" the secretary says.

"Yes, like that," I say.

"Lots of luck, mister," she says. "I'll fax you directions to The Lodge."

While waiting for the fax, I find a duffel in the closet and fill it with polo shirts, sweatpants, khakis. I grab socks, underwear, his toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit, sneakers, and bathing trunks-you never know. The dog barks-the mail slot clinks-a handwritten note slides across the floor. "We have something for you." I open the door- The street is empty.

It's a beautiful day for a car ride. That said, I'm still surprised at how far The Lodge is upstate, deep in the hills, a rustic Adirondack mansion with a gatehouse.

A man comes out and asks me to pop the trunk. He uses a mirror to look under the car, waves a metal detector over me and the bag. "Mind if I hold this?" He's got the tire jack in his hand. "We won't let you leave without it. We're very careful," he says.

At the top of the hill a valet takes the car, and I walk in holding the duffel for George.

There's a large reception desk-more like a hotel than a mental hospital.

"I'm here to see my brother?"

"What's his name?"

"George Silver."

"No visitors."

I hold up the duffel bag. "I was told to bring his things."

She takes the duffel and unpacks it, sloppily piling clothing and underwear on the reception counter.

"Hey, I folded all that."

"We're a mental hospital, not a fashion show," she says, handing me his electric toothbrush, his deodorant, his toothpaste. "Unopened products only, and no electronics."

"When can I see him?"

"New admissions, five days no visitors."

She puts the rejected products back into the bag. "Do you want to take them, or shall I throw them away?"

"I'll take them. So-what happens next? Is there a c.o.ke machine, or a place I could get a cup of coffee?"

"In town you'll find a full selection of places to eat."

"Look," I say. "His wife died, and we haven't had a chance to talk about it." The woman nods. "I'm finding this foray into mental health is anything but. I drive for three hours to-what-drop off clean underwear?"

"Enough," the woman barks. And then she settles down again. "I can give you a copy of our promotional film." She reaches under the counter and slips me a flat package. "It has all our information, a description of the program. We can't take you on an actual tour: we're very protective of our clients' privacy. I'll make a note that you'd like the doctor to call you. Family visits are scheduled in advance. We don't do drop-ins-too disruptive."

"I drove a very long way."

"Yes, you did," the woman says. "Would you like to write the note yourself?"

"f.u.c.k the note," I mutter, turning to leave.

From a pay phone at Burger King, I call the lawyer; the cell is useless up here-no signal. I pour coins into the pay phone. "You're getting me out of court to complain that they didn't accept your toothpaste and that your feelings are hurt?"

"That's correct. I drove all the way the h.e.l.l up here to see him. I could have FedExed his clothing. They didn't even accept his toothbrush, which he's not going to be happy about."

"I'm sure they'll tell him that you were there. Showing up counts for something," the lawyer says. "I gotta go." He hangs up without further explanation.

At the thruway gas station, the cell phone once again has a signal, but my bank card stops working.

"Yes," the bank representative says, talking to me from India and not Paterson, New Jersey. "It's been cut off."

"By who?"

"Fraud Protection. Do you know your pa.s.sword?"

"Jesus is coming," I shout. Everyone in the gas station stares at me.

"No abusive language," the man on the phone says.

"I'm not swearing, that's the pa.s.sword."

There is silence except for the clack of computer keys. "Fifteen dollars in a hospital cafeteria; a purchase from a garden store?"

"I made those charges. Who canceled the card?"

"I wouldn't be able to tell you that, but new cards are being mailed out; you should have them in seven to ten days."

"Can you send the card to where I'm staying, since I'm not in the city?"

"Unfortunately, we can only send them to the address on file."

"No cell phones," someone is yelling at me.

"Are you trying to kill us all?" another guy says.

"Step away from your car, f.u.c.kwad."

One hand on the gas nozzle, the other on the phone, I look at them all indignantly.

"Can't you f.u.c.king read, moron?" one of the guys yells, and points to a sign on the pumps-"Sparks from cell phones and other handheld electronics can ignite gas fumes. Do not pump and text or talk."

I take my hand off the pump; the nozzle slips out of the tank, and gas splashes on my shoes. I step away from the car and scream louder. "I'm at a gas station hundreds of miles from my branch," I say, shouting into the phone. "And I'd ask you your name, but you'll tell me it's John or Tom or some made-up name that 'sounds' American but really it's something like Abimanyu."

"Would you like to speak to a supervisor?"

"Please."

I get back in my car and start the engine, bracing myself for an explosion, which doesn't happen. The supervisor comes on the line, and I repeat the story, ending with the fact that I have no cash and am in a gas station hundreds of miles from home.

"It appears the account has been frozen due to pending legal action," the supervisor says.

"You froze my bank account; I didn't freeze the account."

"Do you need money?" she asks.

"Yes."

"There's a home-equity line attached to these accounts that, for whatever reason, has not been blocked; you can withdraw from that. The available amount is sixty thousand dollars, and that can be drawn down from a cash machine at one thousand dollars per day, excluding transaction fees."

From the snack shop of the gas station I make a withdrawal, and pocket the cash.

It's late afternoon when I pull back into George's town-the slow part of the day, when everything seems to hang unfinished in midair, until c.o.c.ktails can be poured. If we were cats, we'd be asleep.

Instead of going to the house, I head for the synagogue. I'm in need of counsel. I park. I turn off the engine, but can't get out of the car. It's like I'm stuck. Do you think the rabbi would come out and talk to me-is there a drive-thru temple? I dial Directory a.s.sistance and get the number. The temple's phone system is automated. "For Hebrew school press two, for a schedule of temple events press one, for Rabbi Scharfenberger's office press three." I press three. A woman answers, "Ni hao."

"I'd like to speak with the rabbi."

"Rabbi is very busy."

"I have suffered a recent loss. The rabbi spoke at the funeral. We shook hands."

"Are you a member of the congregation?"

"My brother is a member; my nephew was bar mitzvahed there."

"Maybe you join and then we talk."

"I don't live here."

"You make donation."

There's something about this woman's voice that's very odd-it's like she's speaking in translation. "I don't mean to be rude, but your accent is unusual: where are you from?"

"I am Chinese Jew. Big adopted woman."

"How old were you when you were adopted?"

"Twenty-three. Family came to get baby but did not like baby offered and so they take me instead. I am like a baby. I have no education. I know nothing. Good deal for all. We joke-I am big new baby-not so funny to me. I love being a Jew, nice holidays, good soup." She pauses. "So how much donation you make?"

"Are you telling me I have to buy the rabbi's time?"

"The Jewish community needs many things, hard hit by pony scream."

"Ponzi scam?"

"Yes, money up in smoke. How much you give?"

"A hundred dollars."

"That's not so good, you do better than that."

"What do you suggest?"