May We Be Forgiven by A. M. Homes

Author:A. M. Homes [Homes, A. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Literary
ISBN: 9781101601143
Google: H9pt8zB2b3QC
Amazon: B007V65ORK
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2012-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

Cheryl calls. “Don’t you think it’s weird that you vanished without telling me? Who did I hear about it from? Julie. And how did that make me feel? She said you went to Williamsburg on a school trip.”

“Something like that,” I say.

“A little colonial action? A happy ending over a keg of gunpowder? A wank in the stockade?”

I say nothing.

“Oh, please,” she says, “I’ve been there, done that.”

“If that’s what it was like when you went, then I went someplace else—the other Williamsburg. Were your kids on break last week as well?”

“Tad did a community-service project, Brad went to football camp, and Lad stayed home. So—when can we meet—does Friday work?”

“Trust me, now is not a good time.”

“In what sense?”

“I came home with a parasite, they’re not sure which one yet. It could have come from undercooked venison, or from the volunteer firemen’s breakfast we went to. I’ve got to bring a stool sample to the doctor this afternoon.”

“TMI,” she shouts, like a referee calling for a time-out.

“You seem to want to know everything.” I continue: “It’s very contagious. I have to wash my hands constantly, and my clothes.”

“I’ll give you ten days,” she says.

“And after that?”

“I’m not prepared to discuss that yet.”

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t tell Julie.”

“Of course not,” she says. “Some things are private. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing some reading on Richard Nixon. I’m not sure I think he was such a good guy.”

“He wasn’t a good guy.”

“Well, then, what do you see in him?”

“So much. His was an intractable personality; he believed rules didn’t apply to him. I find it fascinating.”

“It’s interesting,” she says. “I would have imagined you going for someone either more conventional, a Truman or an Eisenhower, or perhaps even more modern and heroic, you know, like JFK. But Nixon—it’s almost kind of kinky.”

“Almost,” I say.

“I’ll call you in a few days; if you’re feeling better we can make a plan.”

Something is missing. I feel like I’ve fallen into a space between spaces, like I don’t really exist—I’m always out of context. Searching for clarity, I visit my mother.

In the lobby of the home, there’s a large dry-erase board. “Feeling bored? Need a lift? Join us and Make Your Own Smoothie, 10–11 a.m. and 3–4 p.m. (We have fresh fruit, fiber, probiotics, and frozen yogurt.)”

“She’s not here,” the woman at the front desk tells me. “She’s gone out with the others, they’ve got a new hobby.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Swimming,” she says. “Eleven of them went off in the minivan to the local YMCA. They’ve all got floaties on their arms, and some of them are inside inflatable kids’ rings—like ducks and frogs—and they’re all wearing bathing caps. Big babies, we call them—because they all wear diapers. We get them dressed before they leave. It’s great for their mobility.”

“Since when does she swim?” I ask.

“We got lucky with this new therapist who also works with the psychopharmacologist; this place is hoppin’. More work in some ways, but very exciting. Sometimes we joke that we’re bringing back the dead.

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