May We Be Forgiven Part 13

I fish through my pocket for the hardware-store receipt. "Is there a code or something you need to know to turn the system on and off?"

"It's all in the book," Nate says. "Read the book."

"All right, then," I say.

"I better go," Nate says.

And I make a mental note to call again soon, like tomorrow at five-forty-five.

Ashley can't talk. That's what her roommate says. She's in the school infirmary with strep throat. I call the nurse.

"Why didn't the school call me?" I demand to know.

"Who are you?" the nurse asks.

"I'm the uncle," I say, incredulous.

"We don't call uncles, we call parents."

"Well," I say, preparing to deliver an earful, "clearly you're a page or two behind...."

And with that the cat hocks up a hairball, and I simply say to the nurse that I will call again tomorrow expecting to speak with Ashley, and that for now she should give Ashley my love.

"Are you on the call list?" she asks, but I am already hanging up.

I almost vomit cleaning up the hairball. Both the dog and cat look at me rather pathetically as I'm down on my knees scrubbing the carpet with seltzer and a sponge.

When I'm finished, I go into Jane's Amazon account and send Ashley some books. It's super-easy: Jane made a list of gifts in the computer. I pick a couple and click "send to Ashley." I spring for the extra bucks for gift wrap. "Feel Better Soon," I type. "Lots of Love, Tessie (Your Dog) And Your Cat, aka The Hairballer."

A little while later, the sharp clink of the mail slot catches Tessie off guard. She barks frantically as another note slides onto the floor.

"Tomorrow will come."

"Yes," I say to Tessie, "tomorrow will come, and I should be prepared." My cell phone rings, startling me. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Is this the brother of George Silver?"

"Who's this?" I ask.

"Dr. Rosenblatt calling from The Lodge," he says, p.r.o.nouncing "The Lodge" like it's supposed to mean something special, like the words themselves are encoded.

"You called my cell phone."

"Is this a good time to talk?"

"I can hardly hear you. Call me on the landline, I'm at George's house." I hurry into George's office and pick up the phone on his desk as it starts to ring.

I'm standing on the "wrong" side of the desk, looking at George's chair, at the bookcase behind his desk, at the price tags still on the backs of his picture frames.

"Should I sit down?" I ask.

"Whatever is comfortable for you."

I circle around the desk and settle into George's chair, facing photos of George's kids; Jane; George, Jane, and the kids; Tessie; Tessie, George, Jane, and the kids.

"As far as you know, has your brother ever suffered any head injuries, concussions, comas, any previous accidents other than the most recent one, which I have some notes on?"

"Not that I know of," I say.

"Any illnesses such as meningitis, rheumatic fever, malaria, untreated syphilis?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Drug use?"

"What does he say about that?"

There's an awkward pause. The doctor begins again: "In your experience, does your brother use drugs?"

"He self-medicates, medicine for this, medicine for that."

"Is your brother a s.e.x addict?"

"The thing is this," I say. "As much as you think you know somebody, there are some things that one never knows."

"How about his early life? He doesn't seem to remember much about his childhood. Were you punished, spanked, or beaten?"

Unexpectedly, I laugh.

"What's so funny?" the doctor asks.

"I have no idea," I say, still laughing.

"There are rules," the doctor says. "Boundaries that exist for a reason."

I stop laughing. "We weren't spanked, screwed, or otherwise taken advantage of. If anyone was beaten, it was George who was beating them-he's a bully."

"So you experienced your brother as a bully?"

"Not only me, others as well, many others. I could give you names and numbers-the effects are still being felt."

The psychiatrist grunts.

"How would you describe your brother?"

"Large," I say. "Inescapable," I say. "Actually, he is small, medium, and large, it fluctuates. He is a person whose size fluctuates, whose mood fluctuates. He can be very intolerant of others."

"Your experience of him is one of intolerance?"

I pause for a moment. "What about you?" I ask. "How do you describe yourself and what you do?"

He doesn't take the bait-maybe he doesn't even know it was bait.

"Our approach is to treat the whole person, the family, the community in which we live. Mental health begins with each individual, but mental illness unchecked spreads exponentially." As he speaks his enthusiasm swells, as though the idea of an entire mentally ill country is amazing, a perfect storm of challenge. He takes a calming breath and shifts back to a more modulated voice. "We've run a battery of tests on your brother-blood, brain scan, standardized intelligence panels-and are wondering if you'd consent to have the same tests done, for comparative purposes."

"I'm not so sure I want my head examined."

"You don't have to decide tonight." He pauses. "Let me ask you another question: beyond your mother are there any relatives of your parents' generation still with us?"

"My father's sister."

"Would you be willing to pay a visit and ask some questions?"

"Perhaps," I say, unwilling to admit my own curiosity about why no one in the family has spoken of Aunt Lillian in years-was there a falling out?

While the doctor is talking, I'm on George's computer. Like a reflex, I automatically start Googling. First I check the ten-day forecast on the Weather Underground and then without thinking I type in "s.e.x+Suburbs+NYC," and a thousand sites pop up, as though the computer itself goes into hyperdrive. I put in the ZIP code, and am filling out the quick search. I am a MAN looking for a WOMAN between 35 and 55.

What's my e-mail? the computer wants to know. My e-mail address, [email protected], feels like something left behind, like it belongs to another person in another time. I craft a new one, , certify that I am over eighteen, and voila. It's surprising how fast you can find naked women online.

The doctor is asking about food allergies: peanuts, wheat, gluten..."Was George a picky eater? Did he have issues with his clothing, finding tags irritating? Did he rock or spin?"

"He threw rocks," I say, "right at people's heads."

"Again," the doctor says, "that's your opinion."

"He frequently threw rocks that hit people in the head," I rephrase.

"Bad aim," the doctor says. "And what about food?"

"He didn't throw food."

"Did he eat it happily?"

"In our generation there wasn't an option not to like something, you either ate it or you didn't. You wore the clothes your parents bought you-or you wore the ones your cousin wore before you-there wasn't a lot of choice."

"Did he have trouble in school?"

"He liked school. He was big for his age, and there were a lot of people he could pick on. At home, funny enough, my father thought of himself as the boss, which didn't go over so well with George."

I'm seeing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lots of b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Apparently, women photograph their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and post them online and, depending on how far you're willing to drive, you can date a woman who is large, small, ginormous, subtle or not.

I'm filling out forms, describing myself, my hobbies, my income, eye color, hair pattern, all in haste to locate a woman who might want to meet me, who might want to do more than meet me.

"So-it was only the two of you growing up?"

"Uh-huh."

"And George and his former wife had two children?"

"She wasn't his former wife, she was his wife."

"They had two children?"

"Correct."

"And the children, where are they now?"

"Away at school. Nate is doing okay, and Ashley is in the infirmary with strep throat."

My mind wanders to what's on-screen; I am glad to be doing this under professional supervision, able to devote only a portion of my attention to what's before me, and equally glad that my "professional supervisor"-aka George's shrink-has no idea. If I were left alone with these sites, I would be overwhelmed. It's all more than I'd ever imagined. Why have I never done this before?

The doctor senses my distraction. "How do the children deal with their father?"

"Well, since he killed their mother, I think that changes things. I don't think it's clear yet to what degree. The last time they saw him was at the cemetery when they were burying their mother."

I am going through photo after photo, a veritable fleshy catalogue of human anatomy. Who knew that people would advertise themselves so explicitly, by showing their bare bits, it's so...animal kingdom.

The doctor is still speaking: "We'd like to encourage you to come up. Could you stay overnight, spend some time with us?"

"I can't," I say, not really listening. "I'm staying at George's and I've got his pets to care for."

"Perhaps you could bring them-George misses the dog."

Online, someone has posted: "Are your b.r.e.a.s.t.s filled with milk? I j'adore breast milk and would like to meet a lactating or pregnant woman for daytime feedings. If you like I will also bury my face between your legs and tongue you to o.r.g.a.s.m after o.r.g.a.s.m till you tell me to stop. No reciprocation required. I'm a professional MWM, D/D free, nonsmoker, gentle & respectful. Would like to do this on a regular basis at your place."

"Do you think you might come up sometime?" the doctor asks again.

The ads are so specific, so uncomfortably arousing, that I have to look away from the computer for a moment.

"I've been there," I say, distracted. "Just the other day, I drove all the way the h.e.l.l up there with his stuff and didn't exactly have what I'd call a good experience."

"Yes. The hope would be that a scheduled visit would go better."

"We will see," I say; I am a million miles away.

"We'll talk again soon," the doctor says.

"Sure," I say. "Call anytime. I'm always here."

I am in the glow of the computer, bent like an old man hunkered down for the duration. The cat and the dog come to check on me.

"Suburban Mom seeks friends for lunch, NSA."

I mistake "NSA" for "NASA" and wonder what the h.e.l.l the s.p.a.ce program has to do with women in suburbia making dates. I Google "NSA" and find it to be an acronym for everything from the National Sawmilling a.s.sociation to No Significant Abnormalities and No Strings Attached-which is apparently the most modern and intended meaning.

Somewhere between two-thirty and three in the morning, I fall asleep at the computer in mid-chat, and the woman I'm talking with asks, "Are you texting while driving?"

"No," I type, "not asleep at the wheel but at the desk." The woman I was chatting to was (or said she was) the wife of a cop, waiting for her husband to come home-she says she manages her anxiety about her husband's work by Internet-s.e.xting.