May We Be Forgiven Part 27

I'm wishing I knew what language they were speaking. "I'll have the steak," I say.

"We're vegetarian," the waiter says. "I can bring you seitan piccata. It's a mock meat; people say it tastes like veal."

"Can't wait."

The waiter takes the rest of the orders and lets us know that the salad bar is open. I look at the other guests. It's hard to tell who's on staff and who's a patient; everyone looks like they're dressed to play golf. On the other side of the salad bar, there's a door leading to what looks like a private dining room. Suddenly there's a burst of commotion as an entourage sweeps across the main dining room and into that small dining room. In the middle of it all, surrounded, I see the back of the head of an older man with thick white hair-the former hopeful.

"You're a historian?" Gerwin asks, attempting polite conversation.

"Professor and author; I'm working on a book at the moment."

"My kid brother thinks he knows a thing or two about Nixon," George adds.

"I'm older, actually, by eleven months. I'm older," I repeat.

"What is it about Nixon that interests you?" Gerwin asks.

"What isn't interesting? He's fascinating, the story is still unfolding," I say.

"The fact is, my brother is in love with Nixon, he finds him compelling despite his flaws. Kind of like me, a regular laugh riot," George says.

"Speaking of you, will George go to jail for the rest of his life?"

"We're not the ones who make those decisions," Gerwin says, as if protecting George.

"We're not legal types," the coach says.

"Nothing like cutting to the chase," George says.

"George, have you told these guys the story of how Dad once knocked you out and how you saw stars for a week?"

"Remind me," George says. "How does that one go?"

"You were giving the old man a hard time about something and he asked you to come closer and you did and then he said, 'I don't ever want you to be confused about who's the boss,' and he popped you one. Pop was like a Mafia man, always bullying and berating, a very primitive man."

"You're saying bad things about him because he liked me better," George says.

"I'm okay with how much he liked me or not," I say. "When I look back at you, George, I think we should have read the writing on the wall: the coffee cup smashed against the kitchen cabinet, the body-sized dent in the Sheetrock, the trash-can lid bent."

"Outbursts against inanimate objects don't always signal that you're going to kill your wife," Rosenblatt says.

"You're right. George, do you remember the time a psychiatrist asked you, 'Have you ever hit a woman,' and you said, 'Only on the a.s.s'?"

George laughs heartily. "I do, I do," he says.

"What about target games?" I ask George's team. "What about when you're playing carnival games on a boardwalk, shooting a straw of pellets at Mr. Magoo, only you turn your rifle away from Mr. Magoo and aim right at your brother?"

"Out of context, it's hard to evaluate," Rosenblatt says.

"Did he tell you about how he ran me down with the car?"

"There you go, dragging out that old chestnut, your favorite of them all. And I didn't run you down, I b.u.mped you."

"On purpose."

George shrugs. "I won't deny it."

"His nickname in high school was Vanquisher."

"Enough," Gerwin says. "The point of this dinner was to talk about mindless things, and simply get along."

"Yeah," George says. "Put a cork in it."

I dig into my seitan piccata, which tastes like breaded cardboard with a kind of gummy lemon-caper-cornstarch gravy. During the meal, I ask Rosenblatt about when I might have a few minutes with George alone to go over some private family business, house repairs, the children, pets, financials.

"It's not on the schedule?" he asks, perplexed.

I shake my head. "It's why I'm here; I need to speak with him. How about tonight, after dinner?" I suggest.

Rosenblatt looks at me like the thought never occurred to him. "Could do," he says, taking out a pen and scribbling it in on the schedule.

And so, after Tofutti with fake hot fudge and pots of green tea that taste like fish water, Gerwin, the coach, and Rosenblatt stand. "We bid you adieu," Gerwin says, "for tonight."

The coach slaps George on the back. "Proud of you," he says. "You're really working hard."

They are so f.u.c.king encouraging that it's nauseating. "Are all the patients treated like this?"

"Yes," Gerwin says. "We're about creating a safe environment-much difficulty comes from fear."

"I'll be over there"-Rosenblatt points to a table near the door-"if you need me."

"f.u.c.kin' freak show," George says when they're all gone.

"And you're the star," I say.

"How's my dog and kitty?"

"Fine," I say. "It would have been nice to know about the invisible fence, but we figured it out."

"Are you giving Tessie the vitamins and the anti-inflammatory?"

"Which ones are hers?"

"In the kitchen cabinet, the big jar."

"I thought they were yours," I say. "I've been taking them daily."

"You're a moron," George declares.

I pull the accordion file out from under my a.s.s. "There are some things I have to ask you. I'll start with the small stuff: How does the outdoor light for the front yard work? Also, I met Hiram P. Moody, he came to the funeral-does he pay all the bills? Is there anything I need to know or keep an eye on, about the accounts or how Moody gets paid? What's your PIN number? Also, I tried to use one credit card but it was pa.s.sword-protected; they asked for your mother's maiden name, I typed in Greenberg, but it didn't work."

"Dandridge," George says.

"Whose name is that?"

"It's Martha Washington's maiden name," he says, like I should know.

"Funny enough, that had never occurred to me; I thought they meant your mother's maiden name, not like the mother of America."

"Sometimes I forget the actual family, but I never forget Martha," George says. "I'm surprised you didn't know, you call yourself a historian."

"Speaking of history, I tried to enter your place of birth as New York, but again I was wrong."

"I use Washington, D.C.," George says. "It's really a question of what I can keep in mind."

"Exactly," I say. "And before I forget," I say, triggered because the word "mind" rhymes with the word "online," "I met a friend of yours."

"Oh," he says, surprised.

"She says your d.i.c.k tastes like cookie dough and says you know her better from the back than the front."

The face George makes is priceless. "I'm not sure what this is all about," he says, fl.u.s.tered. "You said you wanted to ask me about some things in the house, and now this bombsh.e.l.l. Are you sure you're not working for the enemy?"

"How would I know? Who is the enemy, and do they identify themselves? And while we're sailing down the slippery slope, does your lawyer visit you? Are they preparing any kind of a defense? Do you receive any calls or letters?"

"Nothing," George says. "I have been forsaken, like Christ on the cross."

I am amused by the grandiosity of George's comparison of his situation to Christ on the cross. "Are you making friends here?"

"No," he says, getting up from the table, "they're all wack jobs."

"Where are you going?"

"I have to take a leak," he says.

"Are you allowed to go by yourself?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

"I may be insane, but I'm not an infant, you a.s.shole," he says, and exits the dining room.

Rosenblatt, sitting up front writing in his charts, shoots me a look-all okay?

I give him the thumbs-up.

The dining room is empty except for one guy setting tables for tomorrow and another working the carpet sweeper.

When George comes back, it's as though we start fresh. He smells like rubbing alcohol. "I Purelled," he says. "I did my hands and face; it felt so good, I took my shirt off and did my pits too. I love the smell, very refreshing. Gerwin's got me hooked on the stuff. All day long I see him washing himself-can't help but wonder what's going on there, what makes him feel so dirty." George winks at me.

I ignore the wink and tell him about the trip to school for Field Day. "I stayed in a B&B for a hundred eighty a night-everything was sold out, the woman rented me her kid's room. I had a h.e.l.lo Kitty mobile spinning over my head all f.u.c.king night."

"I have a room at the Sheraton; it's booked and paid in full for the next five years."

"How would I know?" I ask.

"You wouldn't," he says.

"So that's why I'm here: there are things I need to know. Do you think the children should see you, should they come for a weekend?"

"I don't think children are popular here," he says. "I've never seen any." George looks wistful, lost in time. "Do you remember the day-a long time ago, we might have been eight or nine-when I punched a random stranger, some guy who was walking down the street?"

I nod: who could forget?

"It was fantastic," George says, clearly still getting pleasure, if that's the word for it, from the incident. "I saw him double down and wonder what the h.e.l.l, and I felt fantastic-high." He shakes his head, as if clearing the memory and coming back into the present time. "We were lucky little s.h.i.ts who got what we needed."

I shrug. "Speaking of oddities," I say, "there's a particular memory that keeps coming back to me." I pause. "Did we screw Mrs. Johannson?"

"What do you mean, we?" George asks.

"I have a memory of the two of us s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the neighbor lady: you giving it to her on the king-sized bed, me cheering you on, bursting with pride-go, go, go. Then, when you were done, she still wanted more, and I gave it to her."

"I screwed her and maybe I told you about it," George says. "I used to mow their lawn, and then sometimes she'd invite me in for lemonade, and then she started inviting me upstairs."

Is that what happened, did George screw her, tell me about it, and I came up with a fantasy that put me right there in the room? My mental footage is so vivid, I can see George's purple p.r.i.c.k, sliding in and out of her, her dress hiked up, her dark mother-cave gaping open, like a raw wound.

I am quiet for a moment, suddenly drained.

"You a.s.shole," George says, as I'm packing up the accordion file, getting ready to go. "The one thing you haven't told me about is Mom. How is Mom? Does she ask about me?"

I remind George of my own recent incident and tell him that I've not seen Mom lately, but that the home says she's doing well. I tell him about the crawling, and he looks disturbed.

"She's crawling like a roach along the floor?"

"That's what they say. They have photos, if you want to see them."

"You need to go see her," George says. "The minute you get out of here, you go see her and find out for yourself."

"It's on my list," I say. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Take care of my roses," he says. "Feed them frequently, spray them, don't let them get aphids or thrips, black spot, canker, or any other plague. My favorite is the pink Gertrude Jekyll near the front door."

"I'll do my best," I say. "Do you have any kind of a list of who fixes things, your plumber, electrician, gra.s.s cutter, et cetera?"

"No idea; ask Jane," he says briskly, and then we are silent.

"Time for bed," Rosenblatt says, coming to claim us. He's got Tessie with him, and George reaches for the leash at the same time I do.

"She's coming with me," George says.

"George wants her," Rosenblatt says.