May We Be Forgiven Part 57

The berries prompt the father to talk about eating strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. "Back in the days when tennis was played with racquets."

No one says anything; I am a.s.suming he means wooden racquets.

"Let me tell you a little bit about what I do," the father says, leaning in. "I'm the guy who would decide what your life is worth if you died right now. I'd evaluate who you were, what you might have become, and what your family counted on you for-a big responsibility. Everyone thinks they're more special than they are. Sometimes I just pick a person and think, what would we settle that life for?"

"Like who?" I ask.

"William F. Buckley," the father says.

"He's dead," Amanda says.

"When?"

"A few years ago."

"That's a shame-he was valuable. Mother Teresa, then," he suggests.

"Also dead," Amanda says.

"What would you pay for her?" I ask.

"Nothing. She had no family, no obligations, and no income; she's worth nothing. Interesting, isn't it?" he says enthusiastically. "Any ketchup or c.o.c.ktail sauce? Sometimes I like to spice it up."

Amanda goes into the kitchen, and returns with condiments.

"I'll be sure to leave you a good tip," her father says, and I can't tell if he's kidding or not.

"Coffee or tea?" Amanda asks.

"I couldn't manage another bite," her mother says. The tomato is half gone, two asparagus, half a fish stick, and two Tots.

"My daughter tells me you like social studies. Ever read the report of the Warren Commission?" her father asks.

I nod.

"I can't put it down. I'm on my second copy-the first one fell into the tub. I just keep going through it. I'm not sure why, not sure what I'm looking for. It's like an Agatha Christie mystery. Off the record, a fellow in my field used to swear that what killed Jack Kennedy was his corset."

"Pardon?"

"Look at the film, you see that after the first shot Kennedy goes down but then he bounces back up; that's because he was wearing a corset for his back, which held him up. The second shot gets him in the bean," he says, tapping the side of his head. And then, as if speaking to himself, he asks, "How many bullets were there?"

"Three?"

"So-you think it was a conspiracy?"

Before I can answer, he continues, "The arrogance caught up with him; he was taking ladies upstairs during state dinners, leaving his wife right there at the table. I'd like to have had half the bad back he had-if you get my point. I'm telling you he had one too many of the ladies, and some Miami mafioso with a baby boy a little too Kennedy-looking wanted revenge."

"Interesting, I hadn't heard that one before," I say.

"Harrumph," he says, like I'm an idiot.

"Daddy," Amanda says, "Harry isn't so interested in Kennedy, he's a Nixon man."

Amanda clears the table; I get up and help her. In the kitchen, I press against her as she's rinsing dishes.

"No," she says. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Not in my parents' house."

"Didn't you ever make out with a boy in here? Play spin the bottle in the recreation room?"

"Ours is an unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt," she says, glaring at me defiantly.

When we come back, her mother is sitting in the living room with a book and her father is nowhere to be seen. Her mother looks up, "Do you remember that I used to call you and your sister Salamanda?" her mother asks. "Samantha and Amanda combined. I loved that. 'Come, Salamanda, time to get outta the wattah.'"

"I loved it too," Amanda says, her face softening for a rare moment. "Do you know where Daddy is?"

"No idea."

"I'll be right back," Amanda says, heading off to find her father.

"Nixon liked to put ketchup on his cottage cheese," I say to her mother in an attempt to make conversation. "His breakfast usually consisted of cottage cheese with ketchup or black pepper, fresh fruit, wheat germ, and a cup of coffee."

"You can bet that's not what his mother fed him growing up," she says. "Cyrus's mother always made shirred eggs and dry white toast. Took me years to get his breakfast right."

"Where was Daddy?" the mother asks when Amanda comes back.

"He's gone to bed. He said he thought we were done for the night."

"So much for game night," her mother says. "We were going to play Scrabble; your father is a very good strategist."

I'm home by seven-thirty; the sky is still light. The air is filled with the promise of spring; each day the light clings a little longer, the plants are plush with new growth. I hear crickets, distant dogs barking.

Ricardo's aunt is waiting on the front stoop. "Everything okay?" She shakes her head. "My husband is jealous of the time I spend with Ricardo," she says. "Maybe Ricardo could come live here for a while. I would do everything like I do now-I would cook and clean and do his laundry-but he could stay here with you."

"He has to go to school," I say.

"His school is not so far, the bus could come."

"What does Ricardo say?"

"Please, mister," she says. "You took my sister and left me with this boy who is too much. You have money; you can help him. I love my sister so much, but I am not prepared. Why does everyone's life have to be ruined? Please, you seem like a nice slob."

Nice slob-does she mean "slob" or "SOB"?

"You can't just give me Ricardo," I say.

"Why not?"

"I am not approved by the state."

"But he is a U.S. citizen," she says. "He was born here."

Rather than try and explain the social-service system, I say, "Let me see what I can do. Meanwhile, I can take him this weekend. We can have a sleepover."

"He was Mommy's baby," she says, and she's crying.

"Don't cry, please don't cry," I say, almost crying along with her. She sniffles to a stop. "What do you have to cry about? You are a big white guy with a big house," she says.

Out of the blue, a postcard arrives from George. The image on the front is of a hotel in Miami; the card itself is well worn, like it has been going around the globe at the bottom of a suitcase for years.

This place is everything I thought it might be. Around the fire at night the other guys teach me lock-picking and in arts and crafts I'm learning to make cement shoes from gra.s.s and dung. Don't forget to deadhead my perennials.

The card, with no return address, prompts me to realize that I have no contact information for George-no address, no phone for emergencies. I put in a call to the director's office at The Lodge.

"Good morning and thank you for calling The Lodge, the new executive conference center in the heart of the Adirondacks."

I explain that I'm trying to reach the medical director.

"One moment, please."

My call is transferred.

"Human Resources-are you seeking employment?"

"No," I say crankily, and then repeat my story. "The medical director said he'd be staying on until August. And does anyone know where my brother, George, is?"

The head of HR comes on the line. "Sometimes things change faster than expected-a combo of a buyout, and vacation, and we booked a big conference for the end of July-but you didn't hear it from me. Let's see if someone can access that info and we'll give you a call back."

I phone George's lawyer, Rutkowsky, who, surprisingly, picks up on the first ring. "Do you know where George is?"

"Now that you mention it," the lawyer says, "no clue. Hang on." He makes noises like he's going through some files. "Apparently, we're still waiting on the paperwork; he may be lost in the system."

"Have you got an address? A way to send letters or packages? His birthday is coming up."

"I have a card for Walter Penny and there's an address on there. I'm sure you could put something in the mail addressed to George care of that address and it'll get to him."

I jot down the address he gives me. "When I called The Lodge, they said the medical director was gone. Isn't he part of your family?"

"Separated," Rutkowsky says. "We're not speaking to him at the moment. And in fact, I'm representing my sister against him, so, for conflict-of-interest reasons, I'm going to be pa.s.sing George's file over to Ordy, another attorney at the firm."

I am at the mall with Cheryl; we are going from store to store. We've made progress. We're not meeting at one of the cheap motels where, fearing bedbugs, Cheryl pulls down the old chenille bedspread, puts a layer of green Hefty yard bags on the bed, and covers them with an old white sheet, and we f.u.c.k like drunk drivers sliding all over the place. Instead we're wandering aimlessly, fully clothed, in a skylight-topped faux-tropical paradise.

"Are we here for exercise, or is there something particular we're looking for?"

"A sofa and a nonstick pan," she says, giving equal value to both.

This time her hair is in short blond braided pigtails-something like what an eight-year-old might wear. I'm slightly embarra.s.sed for her but say nothing.

"Are you still seeing her?" Cheryl asks.

"Apparently. But I feel uncomfortable having two s.e.xual relationships at the same time."

"Why?"

"It's confusing."

"In what way? I mean, that one's like a mercy f.u.c.k, right?" she asks.

"I'm not sure. What's a mercy f.u.c.k?"

"Like you feel bad for her-so you do her."

"I don't feel bad for her," I say.

"Do you care about her?" she asks. "Does she know about me?"

"I think she knows," I suggest.

"Did you tell her?"

"She doesn't care. She doesn't want anything from me-zero involvement. She just wants me when she wants me. She says it's not personal, it's just the way it is."

In the middle of the mall there is a missing-persons kiosk shaped like a milk carton. The kiosk is plastered in posters of Heather Ryan, notices about the Safe Haven Baby Drop and a domestic Cool Out Zone. A large permanent sign reads: "Pregnant? For anonymous a.s.sistance pick up phone." An orange receiver waits at the ready.

"Was that always there?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, without looking.

Coming out of one of the stores, I spot Don DeLillo. Our eyes meet; he looks at me as if to ask, What are you staring at?

"I see you everywhere I go."

"I live here," he says.

"My apologies, I'm a big fan." He nods but says nothing. "Hey, can I ask you a question?" He doesn't say yes, he doesn't say no. "Do you think Nixon was in on the JFK a.s.sa.s.sination?" DeLillo looks at me with a grim snakelike grin. "Interesting question," he says, and walks away.

"You should dump her," Cheryl says, having entirely missed the preceding exchange. "Keep things simple."

I change the subject. "Are we looking for something in particular?"

"I already told you, sofa and nonstick pan. Oh, and here's what I want: we'll go to Macy's, I'll pick out some lingerie, and then you come into the dressing-room area and ask, 'What room are you in?' and..."

"And what?"

"You come in and do me-down on your knees, with your tongue-while I watch in the three-way mirror, and maybe I even shoot a little video with my phone. It would be the back of your head, so no one would recognize you."