May We Be Forgiven Part 65

"What's that?"

"We have no idea what we're talking about. Have you ever been to South Africa?"

"No."

"Me either," she says. "But I have a couple of clues. Whenever I'm in slightly over my head, I ask myself, what would Lynne Tillman do?"

"Who is Lynne Tillman?"

She looks at me as if to say, you don't know? "You know how Oprah works with Colin Cowie?"

Again I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Colin is this amazing party planner who arranges events all over the world for Oprah, but Colin knows what he knows because he studied with Lynne Tillman."

"Also a party planner?"

"No, she's a writer, but filled with insight about why people do what they do, so Colin applies the aesthetic of Lynne Tillman to everything he does, which is what makes him so good. I was thinking I might reach out to Colin and see what he suggests-or I suppose I could call Lynne Tillman. It might help to get her opinion."

I nod, still not sure what it is she's talking about.

"Let's move on for the moment to the gifties. In the past I've suggested things like the personalized yarmulkes, sometimes a personalized iPod-but that's expensive, and most of the kids have them now. We do a lot of snow globes, baseball hats, T-shirts.... But in this case I'm thinking soccer b.a.l.l.s that say 'Nate 13.'"

"That's brilliant," I say, genuinely excited for the first time.

She takes my enthusiasm and runs with it. "And jerseys, baby-blue and white with felt hot-press letters with each individual's name on them. Do they have electricity there? Is it the same alphabet?"

"How much are custom soccer b.a.l.l.s?"

"We'll buy them by the dozen. Do you want just shirts? Or shirts, shorts, socks? It would be nice if we got everything. Sneakers in a variety of sizes? And a couple of umpire things? Maybe we should get two colors of jerseys, half and half, so they can have teams?"

"Better get it all," I say.

"For the girls too?"

"Of course, everything equal."

She hands me another to-do list, my homework for our next meeting: (1) Address books, preferably in electronic format. (2) Ideas regarding content of service. (3) Do I want her to find a rabbi or not? (4) Budget?

Cheryl comes in with a tray of coffee and cookies. We have a quick snack, during which Cecily, the travel agent, arrives. Sofia packs her box, leaving me with a pen and paper stamped with her info and logo: "Swa-Rei by Sofia."

Cecily has prepared a PowerPoint presentation featuring three scenarios, from least to most expensive. "I've done a little legwork; we're talking approximately nine thousand per person for airfare."

"No need to fly business-coach is fine," I say.

"That is coach. I may be able to get it down to about sixty-five hundred if there's a little leeway with your dates and flight times."

"Plenty of leeway."

"Don't forget," Sofia says as she's leaving, "the date is set-July 9 at noon."

"Right," the travel agent says. "So-how many days in the village?"

"Two? Maybe three?"

"Let's do two nights, three days. And then what, big-five game safari? You know-lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard, and rhino. And from the safari we go to a hot-air balloon ride, bungee jumping, ride over a waterfall?"

"Let's stick to nature and history-no bungee, no balloon, no ride over the waterfall," I say. "Did you always want to be a travel agent?"

"I was a stewardess," she says. "I met my husband on the plane-he was a frequent flier, married. The other girls said, 'They never leave their wives,' but he did. He came back and said, 'You gotta make an honest man out of me.'" She pauses. "So I guess the big question is, how luxe do you want to go?"

"I want it to be nice but not excessive. I care more about safety than luxury."

"You don't want to impress them?"

"I don't want to look like a jerk, going to some remote poor village for a couple of days and then saying 'Hasta la vista, baby,' and heading off on a luxury safari. It would seem dissonant with the core idea-celebrating a rite of pa.s.sage from boy to man."

Cheryl is beaming, pleased with herself and her resources.

"Who do they think I am to you?" I ask when Cecily is in the bathroom.

She laughs. "They know all about you," she says. "They call you my other husband. I think everyone should have one-even my husband thinks so. We are such a backward culture, too literal to survive."

"What about tutors for Ashley and Ricardo? Do you know any?"

"Of course," she says. "Between us we have an annotated list of who is good for what kind of kid and in what subject matter."

"Electrician?"

She looks at me. "I'll e-mail you the list."

On Sunday at noon, my mother marries Bob Gold. Ashley starts shooting video as the sliding gla.s.s doors to the home open with a sucking sound, like a pop, and the air lock is breached. She pans to the left. "Silver marries Gold at noon" is written on the dry-erase activity board by the front door of the home. The air conditioning in the home is on the blink-and the place stinks like old diapers. My mother is in her room, being tended to by her bridesmaids. Two large ladies block the door. "No boys," they say, allowing Ashley and her camera to slip between them. Ricardo and I wait in the dining room, which has been transformed into a chapel of sorts, with a three-storied wedding cake and flowers.

"Will you be giving your mother away?" someone asks, and I'm not sure what she means. "Down the aisle?" she says.

"Yes, of course, no problem."

A middle-aged man introduces himself as Bob Gold's son, Eli. "Apologies with regard to my sisters."

"I understand."

"He is still married to our mother, even though she's in a coma." I nod. "It's difficult for my sisters to see him move on. When Dad told us that he felt capable of loving more than one woman at a time, my sisters weren't ready to hear it." He pauses. "We have a mutual acquaintance," he says. "Your aunt Lillian's son, Jason. I used to date him-small world."

"Tiny," I say.

The dining room has begun to fill with old people dressed in their Sunday best, arriving in varying stages of mobility: some on their own, some with canes or walkers, others being pushed in wheelchairs. A caravan of three wheelchairs pushed by an aide makes its way into the room.

"Cake before dinner," one of the residents says, excitedly.

Ricardo is wearing a blazer of Nate's; his stocky build absorbs the excess.

"You look good, Ma," I say, kissing her cheek as she comes into the room.

"You're very tan," my mother says to Ricardo. "And you're shorter and fatter than you used to be."

"This is Ricardo, Grandma, not Nate. Ricardo is new," Ashley says, coming to his rescue.

"Oh," she says, "pleased to meet you."

"He's my brother," Ashley says.

"Welcome to the family," my mother says, distracted.

"Thank you," Ricardo says. "Congratulations on your wedding."

"Can Ricardo be the ring boy?" Ashley asks. "He wants to be in the wedding too."

Bob gives Ricardo the ring, and Ashley is given a basket of rose petals. The music begins, and Ashley starts off down the aisle, followed by Ricardo. I take my mother's arm and lead her down the aisle while one of the nurses takes Bob Gold's arm.

Bob Gold, I realize, is my new stepfather. Somehow this dawns on me when he and my mother are side by side facing Cynthia, the "energy worker" and former nurse who has agreed to perform the ceremony.

The ceremony itself is surprisingly moving, even though it's not legally binding. The words p.r.o.nounced upon my mother and Bob stress companionship and good care, memories and history. I am on the verge of tears when my mother throws her bouquet and it's caught, or more like lands, in the lap of a woman with one leg, who smiles. "You never know," she says.

My mother and Bob cut the cake, and when Bob moves to feed her the first bite, his hand is shaking so badly that Mother takes his arm, guiding him towards her mouth.

I overhear two aides talking.

"Is he moving into her room?"

"Apparently," the aide says. "They'll put their beds side by side. Let's hope the wheels stay locked and they don't fall in the crack and break a hip."

When it is over, the residents are ushered back down the hallway for an afternoon nap, and we bid the newlyweds adieu.

We're all dressed up with nowhere to go. "Do you guys want to go out for an early dinner somewhere nice?" I ask, as we're walking out to the car.

"We could," Ashley says. "Or we could go home and have, like, a pajama-and-pizza TV party."

I look at Ricardo buckling himself into the back seat.

"I would like to try someplace new," he says.

"How about we go into the city?"

Both kids nod. "That would be inventive," Ashley says.

I take the kids to the Oak Room at the Plaza and we have Shirley Temples and club sandwiches; it's the most fun I've had in years.

"My cousin used to work in a hotel," Ricardo says, as he's digging into a thick slice of cheesecake. "He'd come home with his pockets full of chocolate coins that they put in the beds at night-can you imagine going to sleep in a bed filled with chocolate?"

I'm thinking all too well of myself when I tell Nate that I found some novelties to bring to South Africa-mini-solar chargers for cell phones.

"That's nice," he says. "But what they need is solar heat for the houses, solar hot-water heating, lights for the village at night-maybe think a little bigger."

"Okay," I say, "note taken. Is there someone in charge at Nateville, like a mayor or an elder?"

"Sakhile is the induna, the headman. His wife is n.o.buhle. Mthobisi, Ayize, and Bhekiziziew-his top dogs."

"How do I contact them?"

"Usually I e-mail."

"They have e-mail?"

"They do now," he says.

"And how do you send money?"

"Lots of ways-through PayPal, or on Dad's credit card, or direct into a bank account. They also do a lot of banking via cell phone. And there's also, like, a corner deli near Nateville that processes the charge and gives them the cash."

"How much do you send?"

"A couple hundred dollars a month."

"Where do you get it?"

He's quiet for a minute. "You really want to know?"

"I do."

"Selling stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" I say slowly, hoping that by stretching it out I won't show that I'm panicking.

"School supplies?" Nate says like he's not sure himself.

"Nate, right now this story has so many holes, it's like Swiss cheese. Pony up."

"Okay, okay, so, like, when a kid here at school needs to buy something at the school store..."

"Yes?"

"I buy it for him on my account, which is linked to Dad's credit card, and the kids pay me in cash, and I send the cash to Nateville."

I'm relieved.

"No one minds," Nate says. "They think it's a good cause. They're very 'keep the change.' I did this thing last fall: whenever someone bought a school team shirt, I asked people to buy one for the school there."

"What does the head of your school think about that?"