May We Be Forgiven

ask.
    “Wrong number.”
    “I’m trying to reach Carmen. It’s about the boy?”
    “You got it wrong, her name is not Carmen, it’s Christina. She’s not back yet.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, not even realizing that I in fact said it. “When will she be home?”
    I’m noticing things in the kitchen, photos of the kids that have been on the fridge for years, things that have been stuck there and now are almost shellacked on with age and coatings of orange juice, milk, splashed spaghetti sauce.
    “Can I give her a message?”
    “I’d really like to speak with her,” I say, picking at the edge of an old sticker for the newspaper delivery guy. It’s deeply stuck on; my picking makes it worse—it really needs to be scraped with a razor blade.
    “Hold on.”
    “Hello,” a woman says suspiciously.
    “Hi,” I say. “I’m …”
    “I know who you are.”
    “No,” I say, “I’m the brother, the uncle of the children.”
    She says nothing.
    I speak, I spill my guts, I say all the things that are so difficult to say. “The children of the man who killed your family feel bad, they are very worried about the boy, they want to help him. …” It’s awkward, I really don’t know what to say. “I’m taking the children to Williamsburg and they’d like to invite the boy.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Williamsburg? It’s a place in Virginia, an old town, a former plantation. It was the state capital after a fire in Yorktown; I guess it’s where the American Revolution gathered momentum. It’s a place you go when you’re studying American history.” And then I jump to “There are amusement parks nearby. The kids thought the boy might like it—and you too, of course.”
    “I work,” she says.
    “If you can take time off, we could cover your lost salary,” I say. “We’re going for a couple of days, a long weekend.”
    “He is a big pain,” she says without affect, so it’s hard to know what she’s getting at.
    “Still in pain from the accident?”
    “No,” she says, “he is a big pain, he has learning disability, ADD, DDD, BPI spectrum, et cetera. I have to give him medication.”
    “Oh,” I say. “Well, the kids would like to get to know him better, and as I said, you’re invited as well.”
    She seems unmoved, or like she doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
    “I will talk to my husband,” she says.
    “Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

    A little too proud of myself, I call Jane’s father. “I took your suggestion,” I say.
    “You couldn’t have,” he says.
    “I did,” I say.
    “Trust me,” he says.
    “I’m taking the kids away—we’re going to historic Williamsburg.”
    “I get it,” he says, pauses, and then comes back: “My suggestion is that you goddamned rot in hell, you and your piece-of-shit brother. You took my beautiful daughter, God knows what you’re doing to those children.”
    I collect my thoughts. “You’re right,” I offer. “What happened was unforgivable, and I wanted you to know I heard what you said; I’m trying to do my best for these children.”
    “Shmuck,” he says—and then there’s a pause. “So why are you calling?”
    “You suggested I take the children somewhere; I wanted you to know we’re going to Williamsburg.”
    “And you’re expecting me to pay for that? You think Williamsburg is like Israel? Not a penny, asshole, not a penny.”
    “I wasn’t asking for money—I just wanted you to know. We’ll send a postcard,” I say, hanging up.

    T he next time we talk, I tell Nate that I called the boy’s aunt.
    “What’s today?” Nate asks.
    “In what sense?”
    “The date?”
    I give him today’s date.
    “I know,” he says. “Mom’s birthday.”
    “Right,” I say, not having realized.
    “Are we supposed to do something—have a cake with an unlit candle, something symbolic?”
    “You could do that,” I say.
    “Yeah,” he says, “I could ask the kitchen for a birthday cake for my dead mother, with an unlit candle. …”
    “I’ll go to the cemetery,” I say.
    “And do what?”
    “Check on things, talk to her. …” The more I say the worse it seems—I picture myself standing at her grave singing “Happy Birthday.”
    Silence …
    “So what did the boy’s family say?” Nate asks.
    “They’re thinking about it,” I say.
    “I hope he comes with us.”
    “How come?”
    “This whole thing has been so bad,” Nate says, “we have to make something go right, and this is something we