May We Be Forgiven

bill.
    “We’re not paying that,” I say, and ask to speak to the manager.
    “Okay,” the manager says, “how about two hundred?”
    “A hundred and fifty and no more,” I say, and the manager accepts.
    I say nothing to Ashley. I can’t exactly give the kid a hard time; I’m glad she has a friend to talk to.
    Every time I look at Ricardo, I blank on his name. It’s further complicated by the fact that he had a name tag on his coat, clearly there for a long time, that says “Hello My Name Is” and “CAMERON” is written in faded black Magic Marker.
    “Who is Cameron?” I ask.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Hello My Name Is CAMERON?”
    “I guess it was the name of the guy who had the jacket before me,” he says.
    “Why do you keep it on there?”
    “I like it,” he says. “I call the coat Cameron.”
    And then there’s a pause.
    While we’re outside the Williamsburg Courthouse, waiting for Ash and Nate, who wanted to watch a speech given by an actor playing George Washington, Ricardo asks, “Why did you kill my mommy and daddy?”

“I didn’t kill them, my brother did—George killed your mommy and daddy,” I say, taken aback by both his directness and my own defensive tone.
    “Who is George?” he asks.
    “George is my brother. He’s Nate and Ashley’s father.”
    “Was he trying to kill me too?”
    “No, he wasn’t trying to kill anyone, it was an accident, a big huge accident.
    I’m really sorry.”
    “You brought me the balloon.”
    “That’s right—I wanted to see how you were,” I say.
    “How do I know it wasn’t you who did it?”
    “Well, because I wasn’t there when it happened. I came later. And George is in a special hospital now. He lost his mind.”
    “He killed my mommy and daddy,” the boy says.
    “Accidentally,” I say. “And then he killed Nate and Ashley’s mother.” I’m not sure the kid knows that, not sure I should be the one to tell him, but somehow I want to get the message across that he’s not the only one who lost his family.
    The boy shakes his head. “He was a rich guy with a big TV, he didn’t need to kill anybody.”
    “It’s true,” I say. “He didn’t need to kill anybody.”
    I panic. Perhaps I didn’t give him his medication—his sudden rise to the surface, his clarity is because he’s unmedicated—and I worry what will happen next. Will he turn into the Incredible Hulk?
    “Did you take your medicine today?” I ask.
    “Yes,” he says. “You gave it to me this morning.”

    N ate and Ash come out of the Courthouse, and we head for a demonstration of ice-cream making in the colonial kitchen and then to lunch. I keep waiting for something more to happen—but nothing does—and we carry on.
    In the late afternoon, the pet minder calls to ask, “Did you see the cat before you left?”
    It feels like a trick question. “Is she missing?”
    “She had kittens,” the pet minder says. “Six survived; one didn’t make it, and I buried it under the rosebushes out back.”
    “I didn’t know she was pregnant; she never mentioned it.”
    “I’m thinking I should take them all in for a checkup.”
    “Yes,” I say. “That makes sense. And Tessie?”
    “Out of her element,” the minder says. “Oh, and she had them in the master bedroom; I threw the bedding out, hope that was okay?”
    “Fine, all fine.”
    “I’ll let you know if there’s more news,” he says, and hangs up.
    I must look surprised, because the children all ask, “What?”
    “Tessie had kittens,” I say, and they look more confused.
    “Tessie is a dog,” Ashley says.
    “You’re right,” I say.
    And then in the morning, as though everyone but me got the memo, the kids show up to breakfast dressed normally and Nate announces we’re going to Busch Gardens. I’m the last to know.
    Busch Gardens is not your “average” amusement park—it’s like a fiberglass steroid extravaganza with a European theme: rides with German names—Der Autobahn, Der Katapult, Der Wirbelwind.
    Ricardo is deeply excited but scared to go on the rides, so Nate and Ash go off together, and I take Ricardo on some of the smaller-kid stuff, the Kinder Karussel, Der Roto Baron, and so on. He loves it, and soon we meet up with the big kids and he’s off and running—as long as I hold his hand, which means that I too am hurled through the air, twisted, turned, left and right, spun speechless and stupid, until, of course, I throw up.
    “Ewwwww,” Ashley says as I