May We Be Forgiven

Ash says, nonplussed.
    “I am in the middle of a divorce and recently unemployed.”
    “You quit your job?” Nate asks.
    “I got fired.”
    “You got fired?”
    “Well, not exactly fired. I’ll finish teaching the semester, but, basically, yes.”
    “And you didn’t tell us?” Nate is shaken.
    “I didn’t think you needed to know.”
    “Well, that sucks,” Nate says. “Talk about a lack of trust. What’s the point if you don’t think you can tell us anything? It’s not all about you babysitting us, this is supposed to be some kind of relationship—a two-way street.”
    “It’s true,” Ash says. “You should tell us things. No one ever told us anything except Mom.” She bursts into tears. “I love the cat,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said I didn’t—I really do.” And she gets up and runs from the table.
    “Good work,” Nate says, leaving, disgusted.
    I have no idea of what happened, except that I feel like shit.
    The next morning, the kids go back to school. After breakfast, a minivan comes for Ashley, and I drive Nate to a collection point about twenty minutes away.
    “I’ll call you tonight,” I say as he’s getting out of the car. He slams the door—I don’t know if he heard me or not. I beep. His shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t turn around; he adjusts the straps of his knapsack and keeps walking towards the bus.
    I wait to leave until after the bus pulls out and then go home and sit with the kittens, who are doing well; their eyes are open, they’re standing—it’s amazing.

    C heryl 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 tha 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.”

    S omething 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