May We Be Forgiven

was his fault. I was there; I talked to him the night of the accident.”
    “It doesn’t really matter what George said. The brakes were faulty and the manufacturer had knowledge.”
    “I picked him up at the jail; he was not himself that night.”
    “He is who he is—the fingerprints match.”
    “He killed his wife.”
    “About some things only time will tell,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
    “I have no doubt,” I say. “I saw it happen; he hit her on the head with a lamp.”
    “Is that so?” The lawyer looks at me. “Maybe it was really you—maybe you hit his wife on the head and are blaming him?”
    “I don’t think he ever denied doing it,” I say.
    “For all we know, he’s trying to protect you; you are the younger brother, after all.”
    “Actually, I’m older.”
    The lawyer shrugs. “Whatever.”
    “Is there going to be a trial for Jane’s murder—because I’d like to be here for that,” I say.
    “Remains to be seen,” the lawyer says. “We’re still negotiating.”
    I change my tactics. “Nate wants to do something for the boy, the surviving child.”
    “Who’s Nate?”
    “George’s son?”
    “And what would he like to do?”
    “He’s interested in adopting, or at least taking the kid out for a day.”
    “Because why?”
    “Because why? Because he feels bad that his father killed the kid’s family. Why are you asking why—isn’t it obvious?”
    “Obvious is meaningless. It’s not up to me,” the lawyer says. “The boy is living with his aunt.”
    “Could you give her my phone number and let her know that we’d like to do something? More than something, we’d like to do a lot.”
    “Are you seeking to avoid a civil suit?”
    “This is about one kid who lost his family wanting to help another kid who also lost his family, but if you want to make it ugly you can,” I say.
    “Just asking,” he says.
    “How about you get me the aunt’s phone number and I’ll do it myself,” I say.
    “Whatever floats your boat,” Ordy says, taking a drink from the fountain and wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
    I don’t have a boat.

    I ’m late for lunch. I arrive and tell the maître d’ that I’m meeting someone.
    “A lady alone?” he asks.
    “Yes,” I say, suddenly nervous, trying to remember what Cheryl looks like. The only thing that comes to mind—a striking but odd detail which is not useful in this situation—I’m remembering that her pubic area was groomed in such a way that instead of a vertical landing strip (that is, a strip of hair running from top to bottom) she had what she called a “flight path,” which was a wider patch running from side to side, and which had been dyed hot pink. Hard to forget that. I’m blushing as the maître d’ leads me to a table where a woman sits alone.
    “Are you you?” I ask.
    “It is I,” she says.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I say, sitting down.
    “Not a problem,” she says.
    I look at her more closely. If I were being honest, I’d say she looks entirely unfamiliar, which prompts me to think that it’s all a setup, that some guy will pop out from behind the grill and announce himself as “Stoned Pauley from peepingtoms. com.” Maybe it’s my obsession with media, with a camera crew, with the idea that everything has to be documented in order to be real. Whatever it is, it’s making me nervous. She seems to intuit my concern.
    “I changed my hair,” she says.
    “It looks nice,” I say, with no commitment.
    “I play with my hair a lot,” she says. “It’s a way of being expressive—you may recall the pink?”
    I blush but am relieved.
    “What happened to your eye?” she asks.
    “Gardening accident.”
    “It looks like you’ve been crying,” she says.
    “Sweating, not crying. The salt water may have aggravated it.”
    “So—how are you?” she asks, struggling to make conversation.
    “Weird,” I say. “And you?”
    “Were you always weird, or is it only now a thing?”
    “I was in court for my brother this morning—he’s in a bit of trouble and, oddly enough, today the charges were dropped.”
    “That’s fantastic,” she says, raising her water glass. “Cheers.”
    “He’s guilty,” I say, indignantly. “I was ripped off. I was counting on justice being served.”
    “You mentioned that you’d had a stroke?” she says, changing the subject. “How did it affect you?”
    “What makes you ask? Is my face falling? That’s what it did, it