May We Be Forgiven Part 77

"And you can't blame them. They're from another country, but they live in the same world as we do."

Labor Day weekend is spent packing and shopping for school supplies.

Come Tuesday, we all make the pilgrimage with Nate back to the academy. Nate seems to enjoy giving Cy and Ricardo a tour, and Ricardo asks if one day he might get to go to a school like this. "Yes," I say. "If you want to."

We get Nate set in his dorm room, Cy gives him twenty bucks "mad money," and we head home. The next day, Ashley and Ricardo start at the public school down the road, and by the end of the week Madeline and Cy are signed up for three days a week at a program for seniors.

Even my mother places herself in the autumn mix, informing me that she and her husband are going back to school. They've signed up with OLLI, an organization devoted to Lifelong Learning, and are taking cla.s.ses in political science and radio theater.

n.o.body seems to notice that I am the only one who has not gone back to school. I am now officially unemployed; the feeling is disconcerting-I manage the stress by organizing everyone else.

The house is filled with life. There are people coming and going constantly. Ricardo gets a pet frog and a turtle and begins taking drum lessons. Ashley resumes her piano lessons. On weekends there are activities such as leaf raking; Cy and Ricardo enjoy creating enormous piles and then either jumping in them or simply walking straight through, and having to do it all over again. We borrow the Gaos' minivan and go on group excursions to see the foliage, or go pick apples and pumpkins. It is all good and mostly uncomplicated-except for the twenty minutes during which Cy goes missing in a corn maze.

I meet with Hiram P. Moody, to discuss the cash flow-he seems to think it's not a problem. "Families are like little countries," he says. "It's an ecosystem, an ebb and flow. Between the money coming in for rent for Cy and Madeline's house, their Social Security checks, and income from investments-they're fine. With regard to Ashley and Ricardo, you function like a human cash machine, but between Jane's life-insurance coverage, George's severance from the network, their previous investments, and the settlement from Ashley's school-you're more than fortunate."

I try to live within my means; they're limited, but I have the benefit of George's full wardrobe, and when my insurance runs out, I pick up a freelancers' health policy, and beyond that my wants and needs are few.

I keep track of all the money in dedicated notebooks-one for each child, one for Cy and Madeline, and another for the household and one for myself-carefully noting each expense and from what source it was paid. Not only does it give me something to do, it protects me from a nagging fear of being accused of mismanagement.

Cy is increasingly frail, more forgetful, and having trouble "containing" himself. All this prompts a visit to the doctor, who basically says, "You get what you get and you can't expect more. None of us last forever."

I ask the doctor to step out of the examining room for a word in private. We leave Cy on the table, his pale, hairless long legs nearly blue, and veined like a plucked chicken.

"What does that mean-'none of us last forever'?" I say just outside the door. The doctor shrugs. "How old are you?" I ask.

"Thirty-seven," he says.

"You got a f.u.c.k of a lot of nerve," I say to him.

"What do you want?" he asks. "You want painkillers, you want Valium? You tell me," he blithers on.

"What I want is compa.s.sion, some understanding of what it's like to be sitting there in that gown that is one step away from a funeral shroud and worrying what it's all about."

"Right," he says. We go back into the room, and the young doctor hops up onto the exam table next to Cy and says, "Can you hear me okay?"

"No need to yell," Cy says. "I'm old but I'm not blind. I can see your lips moving."

"You're doing very well," the doctor says. "The more you can get out and exercise, go for walks, the better; just keep moving, and enjoy yourself." And he hops down off the table, hands me a couple of prescriptions: a statin for Cy's cholesterol, Flomax for the prostate, Valium as needed for anxiety. He winks at me and is gone.

Ashley, continuing her embrace of Judaica, asks me to please get tickets for the High Holy Days. Having declined to renew the membership at the temple George and Jane belonged to, I find myself online buying tickets from a "liquidator." The idea that one "buys" tickets to an annual religious event bothers me; I'm aware that for many Jews the High Holies mark their annual visit to temple, and it's also when synagogues raise their funds for the year-but it doesn't feel right.

I meet some guy on a corner and pay six hundred dollars cash for two "member" tickets to Yom Kippur services at a conservative temple in Scarsdale.

Excited, Ashley insists we get there early to get good seats. We sit for hours and hours, and when we finally get to the Viddui, the communal confession of sin, I find myself right there with the rest of them, beating my chest, repenting "for the sins that I have done before you." There are at least twenty-four sins: the sin of betrayal, having an evil heart, causing others to sin, eating what is forbidden, speaking falsely, scoffing at others, being scornful, perverse, rebelliously transgressing, the sin of having turned away from G.o.d...I am pounding my chest along with the rabbi as he recites the litany of our wrongs. I am guilty. I am guilty of even more than I realized I could be guilty of.

"We're bad," Ashley whispers to me. "Just listen to all that we have done, all the harm and trouble we cause."

I sober up for a moment. "We're human, Ashley. We atone because, despite our best efforts, we will always do harm to others and ourselves. That's why each year we ask those we have hurt for forgiveness, and each year we present ourselves to G.o.d and ask to be forgiven."

She starts to cry. "It's just so terrible," she says.

"Which part?" I ask.

"Being human."

Out of the blue I get a call from the Department of Social Services with regard to scheduling a home visit for a pending foster-care application. "We had a cancellation; the social worker can come tomorrow, or I can book you for December 23...?"

"Tomorrow is fine," I say. "What time?"

"Anytime between nine and five," she says.

"Could we narrow it down?" I ask.

"No," the woman says.

"All right, then."

The social worker pulls up at 2 p.m. in a small nondescript car. Tessie barks.

"I don't like dogs," the woman says when I open the door.

"Would you like me to have her wait in the other room?"

"Please," the woman says.

I put Tessie on a leash and ask Madeline to hold on to it. I escort the social worker, and her fat folder, into the house.

"So the boy is already living here?" she asks.

"Since the spring," I say, "at the request of his aunt."

"Where does he sleep?" the social worker wants to know.

I take her to Nate's room and show her the bunk bed-Ricardo's is the bottom bunk, with all the stuffed animals. "He likes animals," I say, showing her his frog and the turtle.

"How does he get to school?"

"He and Ashley, my niece, walk to and from school together."

"Have you completed your advocacy training?"

"Not yet. I'm signed up to start in a few weeks-the cla.s.ses were all full."

"And have you thought about the impact of a foster child on the family?"

"Yes," I say. "The family is thrilled; in fact, it was the children's idea."

"Your approach to discipline?"

"Firm but flexible."

"I see you have your parents living with you," she says.

I nod and say no more.

"And the small outbuilding in the yard?"

"It's a temporary structure," I say. "A celebration of the autumn."

"The boy cannot sleep there," she says, firmly.

I nod. "Of course not."

"Your application mentions one cat?" The social worker says, as the two cats run by.

"She had kittens," I say, leading the social worker the rest of the way around the house.

"How many children live in the home?" the social worker asks.

"Three," I say.

"Don't forget our brown babies," Madeline calls out, "that's five in all."

The social worker visibly bristles at the phrase "brown babies."

"They're twins," Cy yells, over the narration of the golf tournament.

"The babies are dolls from South Africa," I explain. "Dolls are very good for older people, they think of them as real."

The social worker nods without interest. "If you are approved, you will be paid for board and care; you will receive a clothing allowance; money can be requested for special things, such as after-school programs, tutoring, a winter coat, and clothing for religious occasions. But, given budget constraints-don't ask. To avoid the appearance of servitude, please don't have the child do any cooking, cleaning, anything that might be construed as work for hire." She hands me some papers to sign and is gone.

"I hope you're not going to hire that woman to work here," Madeline says. "Tessie and I thought she had an att.i.tude."

I am in the A&P when Amanda calls. I look around, thinking perhaps she is here, watching me through the loaves of bread, peering over the mountain of navel oranges. I am here often, because we use more groceries than ever before: numerous appet.i.tes to cater to, young and old.

"Where are you?" I ask.

She doesn't want to say.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You?"

The randomness of her call has caught me off guard. I feel intruded upon. "Good," I say. "Funny enough, I'm in the A&P right now; they changed the layout, they put in a new pathway, like a winding country road, it's supposed to make shopping more relaxing, more natural."

There's a long pause. "What else?" she asks.

"I finished my book." I offer myself up, leaving out the part about the lightning strike. "Your parents are doing well; the kids are at school. What have you been doing?"

"It's hard to say," she says.

I find my frustration growing: her opacity, the thing that used to make her seem compelling, the impossibility of knowing what she was really thinking, is now an irritant.

"Can I ask you a question?" I pause. "When 'something' happens, do you want to know?"

"No," she says, definitively, "I really don't. I like not knowing, just imagining. Knowing might change something; I might end up doing something differently. I don't want to be burdened."

"Okay," I say. "Do me a favor...."

"What?" she asks.

"Don't call this number again." I pause. "It's not all about you, Amanda, it's not like you get to leave your parents with a total stranger, like it's a coat check, and then just check back whenever you want, to make sure everything is right where you left it."

I hear the sound of rustling paper in the background. "A couple of things," she says, ignoring everything I said. "Every year, my parents go to West Point for the Army-Navy game-they have season tickets. Have they mentioned it?"

"No," I say. "Not a peep."

"And it's their anniversary on the twenty-fifth of September. Forty-five years."

As she talks, I'm in the dairy section, filling the cart: low-fat milk for Ricardo, lactose-free for Cy, soy for Ashley, and Maxwell House International Instant Peppermint Mocha Latte for Madeline, who described it as her "addiction." As I go up and down the aisles, grabbing bread, crackers, paper towels, Amanda continues to give me details about things like getting the chimney at the house swept, making sure the storm windows go up. She's downloading information, letting each bit go like an autumn leaf, riding the breeze as it makes its way down to the ground. After a few more minutes, I say, "Amanda, let it go, you don't have to worry about this stuff anymore. It doesn't matter-none of this matters, this is all just stuff."

"The stuff of life," she says. "I've been writing it all down so I can pa.s.s it on."

"These are operating instructions-not what you need to pa.s.s on. I've got to go," I say, preparing to hang up. "Take care."

In the car on the way home, I'm filled with an overwhelming sense of dread-was I out of line? Will she retaliate? I imagine Amanda sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and leading her parents down the stairs, reclaiming them. I imagine myself being proactive-packing everyone up and going underground, like in some kind of witness-protection program. Cy and Madeline are mine now. I'm using them-the children are using them. I can't afford to lose them.

Cy tells me he needs my help. "We have to go on a little trip-back to the old house. I left something there."

"Not a problem," I say. "Whatever it is, Mrs. Gao can bring it over."

"No, we need to go, just you and me, tonight, with a shovel," he says.

"Really?" I ask.

"Yes."

I phone Mr. and Mrs. Gao and let them know we'll be making a surprise visit and ask them to pretend not to see us. As soon as it's dark, we head over there with two shovels and a couple of head-mounted flashlights I have picked up at the hardware store.

Cy marches ten paces out from the bas.e.m.e.nt door and three to the left and starts to dig. "It's about eighteen inches down," he says.

"Here, let me, my back is stronger." He watches me dig for a couple of minutes and then starts digging another hole, about a foot away.

"There's more than one?" I ask.

"Seven or eight," he says.

I keep digging until I hear the sound of the shovel hitting metal.