May We Be Forgiven Part 62

"Was there an accident?" the aunt asks.

"Did you go see Dad? Did he beat you up?" Ashley wants to know.

"You look crazy," Ricardo offers.

"Let's just say it was quite an adventure." I excuse myself, take a shower, have some Tylenol, eat a giant breakfast, and promptly fall asleep.

"I called in sick," Christina says in the afternoon, when she comes to check on me. "I couldn't leave you and the children like this."

I nod and fall back asleep, facedown-arm throbbing, a.s.s stinging.

I can't say I'm entirely surprised when a state trooper comes to the door that evening to ask me about a hit-and-run forty miles away. He comes right out and says it: "My brother-in-law works at the car wash and is really into these crime-solver shows...."

"I get it," I say, handing him Walter Penny's card. He calls Walter, and despite the late hour Penny answers and explains that it was a special operation and, yes, there was damage to both the person and the vehicle, but in general it went well, and he has no further comment.

"You're like an operative-cool, very cool," the trooper says, hanging up. "I'm going to have a hard time not telling the brother-in-law."

"I'm really just a former professor who sometimes gets dragged in over my head."

"Are you coming to the wedding?" my mother asks, near the end of my visit.

"When are you getting married?"

"Soon," she says. "And why are you just standing there?" she asks. "You've been standing there for more than an hour with an awful expression on your face."

"I have an injury," I say. "Sitting is difficult at the moment."

"Hemorrhoids?" she asks.

"No," I say. "Is the wedding definite?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Are you really going to marry him?"

"Isn't that why I asked you?"

"I think so," I say. "But what do you two have in common?"

"We're old," she says. "And we both have a love of motion. We like to play catch-they give us these Nerf b.a.l.l.s. We love to throw them back and forth. And bingo," she says. "I help him with his cards. He doesn't see so well-he lost an eye playing golf years ago-and he has a ringing sound in his head that he's had for years."

"That's what you like about him?"

"We want to move in together," she says.

"I have no problem with that. And, so you know, you and your friend are always welcome to come and live at home."

"With you?" she says. "You're a slob. I was so happy when you moved out of my house. Why should I leave my condo to come to you and have to cook and clean? I'm happy here."

"Marriage is something to take seriously."

"It's not such a big deal," my mother says nonchalantly. "I've done it before. So," she says, "I'll put you down as a yes?"

I say goodbye and hurry down the hall, hoping to catch someone from the nursing-home administration before they leave for the day. "Excuse me, who do I talk to about your policy on inter-patient marriage?" I get an old-fashioned runaround, lots of hemming and hawing, and finally someone comes out and says it: "We don't like unmarried couples to room together."

"That's the least of my worries," I say, wondering if my mother and her husband-to-be are in their right minds. "There are estate issues to be concerned about. Should there be a prenup? At their age, shouldn't this be more of a family decision?"

"Do you have power of attorney?" someone from the home asks. "Are you prepared to have her declared incompetent?"

"Look, I've only met the man in question twice, and he's already calling me 'son.' I'm not sure what I'm prepared to do."

"On occasion," the social worker chimes in, "we have facilitated commitment ceremonies complete with real flowers, cake, dress-up, and someone who does a little ceremony. That seems to do the trick. We tell the couple that the person performing the ceremony is not recognized by the state but that it costs less than an official wedding. I have the couple and their families sign a release stating that the ceremony is not binding and that, should the couple break up or either or both members die, there is no right of survivorship, no community property, and so on. The paralegal who does the DNR paperwork can help you with that."

"That sounds good," I say. "And then do you let them room together?"

"For as long as they are willing and able," the social worker says. "Meanwhile, your mother is up and walking. She's been dancing. She may not be the woman you remember, but whoever she is now-she's doing very well."

On the way home, I pull into the drive-thru at the Chick-Inn and order a whole bird to go. The woman shoves an enormous piping-hot roasted bird through a window that I think was built only for doughnuts and coffee. A second bag follows with sides of biscuits and potatoes.

As I'm coming in the door, I hear Walter Penny's voice on the answering machine: "I received your claim form: thirty-eight hundred dollars for damages to the car. We should be able to get this processed pretty quickly."

I put the bags down and let him go on for a while.

"Don't forget you've still got the halvah in the trunk; I think it worked for you as ballast when that nutcase was driving you out. No worries about bringing it back-once it's out of our hands, we can't take it back anyway. I wanted to remind you. It shouldn't stay in the trunk, probably too hot in there. And, by the way, you left your cookies up at the camp-they're very good. What's the trick?"

I can't resist any longer. I pick up the phone. "Tablespoon of warm water," I say.

"Just one tablespoon?" Penny asks.

I cut to the chase. "Where's George?"

"George complained of an injury, so we brought him in just after you left-didn't seem like we could leave him out there after what happened. As soon as he's feeling better, they'll transfer him to a more traditional facility."

"What about the agreement?" I ask.

"What agreement?" Walter says.

"The agreement we signed in the director's office at The Lodge that said George would never go to a regular jail?"

"Do you happen to have a copy? I don't think I have a copy."

I'm not sure what kind of game Walter is playing with me, but I make an excuse to get off the phone and immediately call George's lawyer.

"We never got a copy," he says.

I call Walter back in the afternoon. "So, if no one has a copy, I guess there is no agreement?" Walter says.

"How long is he in for?" I ask.

"Five to fifteen," Walter Penny says. "We compromised."

"No trial?"

"Trust me, it's better this way."

"When's the soonest he'll be out?"

"Figure three years. We had to give him some credit; the Israeli was a good catch."

Late one night, I drive to the temple and unload the halvah on the back steps. I leave a note: "This is good halvah-I am leaving it here for the community to enjoy as it's more than one man can manage."

As I'm unloading, the rabbi appears, sneaking out of a side door. He's clearly frightened when he sees me, as though I'm a religious terrorist-unpacking C-4 plastique explosives.

"It's just halvah," I call out.

"What?" he says, his tone the familiar annoyance of an old deaf Jew.

"Halvah," I shout as loudly as possible.

He comes closer, and I introduce myself as George's brother, and lie: "I was recently doing a job and received the halvah as partial payment," I say. "I thought perhaps the temple had a soup kitchen."

"We have a preschool, and a day camp for the elderly," the rabbi says.

Now is the moment. I have the rabbi's attention; this is the meeting that I called months ago to arrange. It's my chance to get good counsel.

"So," I say, "what do you think? Was Nixon really an anti-Semite?" I ask, surprising myself.

"Nixon?" the rabbi intones.

I nod.

"You want to know about Nixon?"

"I do."

"He was a son of a b.i.t.c.h, hated everyone but himself. The one who makes me nervous is Kissinger, who never stood up for himself-he sold us down the river."

A police car pulls into the parking lot. "You okay, Padre?" the cop asks.

"Fine, thank you," the rabbi says.

The cop looks at me like he knows me from somewhere. "Why don't you go home now, mister," he says. "Let the padre get a good night's sleep." He hovers until I say goodbye and then follows my car most of the way home.

As part of my quest to become a foster parent, I've made an appointment with Dr. Tuttle, a psychiatrist. Strange though it may seem, I've never been to a psychiatrist before, and so it is with some trepidation that I approach his office on the ground floor of a small strip mall. To the right of his "suite" is Smoothie King, to the left a dry cleaner's, and next to that a cell-phone store. The office windows are covered in wide metal vertical blinds circa 1977; the waiting room is dark, with a low acoustical-tile ceiling and oatmeal-colored wall-to-wall. Six chairs with caned seats that are starting to sag dot the room in pairs like couples. There's a little gla.s.s table with a precarious pile of magazines and a trash can so small it seems to say, Don't use me. Sitting down, I spot a lone Cheerio in the corner, and then more-a series of Cheerios tucked up against the molding, likely pushed there by a vacuum cleaner. There are numerous signs, handwritten and poorly laminated with Scotch tape.

If you need a bathroom, go to Smoothie King and ask for the key.

If you need your parking validated, please ask, 1 hour free.

The psychiatrist opens the door and calls me in. "Tuttle," he says, shaking my hand. His hand is wet, smelling of perfume and rubbing alcohol. I immediately spot a bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk-the sample from a drug company. Tuttle is a short, thin fellow, prematurely hunched-the top of his head comes to a kind of a shiny point, absent of hair but for a ring of yellow fringe that goes all the way around and is longer than the fashion. He wears horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, which he edges higher by repeatedly wrinkling his nose. The office has the same metal blinds as the waiting room and would be dark but for the afternoon sun reflecting off the cars parked outside.

"Have a seat," Tuttle says, directing me towards a worn sofa.

I look past Tuttle; clear plastic cups from Smoothie King are in an even row on the edge of his desk, each less than a quarter full, one yellow, one pink, one purple. Mango, strawberry, and berry-berry lined up like some kind of experiment. There's a half-empty old five-cent gumball machine filled with what look like greasy peanuts and piles of used legal pads. An air conditioner hums noisily.

"First let me get a little information: name, address, phone?"

I give him the details.

"Employer?"

"Self," I say for the first time.

"Insurance? I don't take insurance, but I'll give you a bill each time we meet and you can submit it. The initial meeting is five hundred and runs for an hour, and subsequent visits are forty-five minutes and the charge is two fifty. I am a psychiatrist, not a social worker, not a psychologist." He looks at me carefully. The gla.s.ses seem to be magnifiers-his eyes look enormous. "What medications do you currently take? Previous hospitalizations?"

I mention the stroke.

"Do you have a diagnosis that you are familiar with? And/or how has your condition been described to you? What was the referring agency?"

"A girl at Social Services gave me your name," I say, thinking that something here is not entirely on the mark.

"Do you require court-ordered drug testing-i.e., do I have to watch you pee?"

"No," I say.

"Good," he says. "When I watch someone else pee it makes me feel like I have to pee. In fact, I usually get one of the employees from Smoothie King to do the watching. I tap one of the guys to follow us into the toilet, and I tip him a few bucks to do the watching. I really don't want to see a patient's water works and then have to talk to him about what he's like with his wife. Plus, I happen to know the bathrooms are monitored-so there's very little chance of the patient trying to get away with anything. But I digress, and this isn't about me, and this isn't about Smoothies. What can I do for you?" He puts his pad down, crosses his legs, and looks at me, again wrinkling his nose and lifting the gla.s.ses up a little.

"I think I'd like to begin by asking, what kind of people do you typically work with?"

"Spans the gamut, from court-ordered counseling for boys who get into trouble, to anger-management issues with married men, a few middle-aged ladies who wished they'd done things differently, and a good number of teenage girls who want to be dead. What brings you here?"

"I've applied to be a foster parent and I need a psychiatric evaluation." I hand him the form. "You were among those recommended by the Department of Social Services."

He takes the form and looks at it as though he's never seen one before.

"It would be a directed placement of a little boy with some learning problems who was recently orphaned."

"Have you ever been arrested?"

"No."

"Do you enjoy p.o.r.nography?"

"Not especially," I say. "But there is something," I say, laying the groundwork. I tell him about George. He listens carefully, appearing never to have heard any of it before. Either he doesn't read the papers or he's very good at concealing what he knows.

"Let him cast the first stone..." the doctor says, when I come clean about my part in the domestic debacle. "And so, before all this, before last Thanksgiving, you led a conventional life, no affairs, no relationships outside the marriage?"

"A most conventional life," I said.