May We Be Forgiven

to get off the line—something about helping the kittens ‘go.’ He suggested I call back and leave a detailed message on the machine, but in the interest of privacy I thought I’d just give it a week or so and try you again.”
    “It was the pet minder—I was out of town, and the cat had kittens.”
    “Ahhh,” he says. “Well, anyway, I see you’ve received the letter. We’ve already been in touch with George’s lawyer as well as some folks from the state prosecutor’s office to talk about what the appropriate setting for George might be. Given that the first set of charges was dismissed and that he remains pretrial on the murder charge, you could move him to another ‘hospital’-type setting. My sense from his lawyer is that they’d like to keep him out of a traditional prison setting as long as possible—perhaps try something ‘nontraditional.’ But I must also add that I’ve spoken with George and I think, quite honestly, he’s bored with the inpatient setting, and I worry that his resistance to participating in activities like group therapy, occupational therapy, crafting, and so on could end up reflected as noncompliance in the reports—and that won’t fare well when the case goes to trial.”
    “You mean he’s going to flunk pot-holder weaving?”
    “Something like that—he doesn’t play well with others.”
    “Never did. You mentioned a nontraditional program.”
    “Yes,” he says, “I’m talking with some people at the state level about whether they might consider him for a pilot program they’re running—it’s rather unusual, and I’m hesitant to say more until I have a better sense of things. Perhaps we can talk again soon.”
    “I’m here,” I say.
    “As am I, until August,” the man says. “Then all bets are off.”

    A ll bets are off—an understatement.

    I find myself craving the normal, the repetitious, the everyday, the banal. I crave the comfort of what might seem to others to be exceedingly boring. For years, every Monday through Friday, I ate the same thing for breakfast—two slices of rye toast, one with butter, the other with orange marmalade; the same brand of bread, the same jam, the same butter. On Saturdays I had an egg along with the bread, and on Sundays either pancakes or French toast.
    Dutiful regularity was something Claire and I actually found exciting. We took pleasure in going out to dinner on Friday, staying home on Saturday, making a habit of a matinee movie and Chinese carry-out on Sunday. If we added something new or different, it was discussed, regarding what it meant to the routine, the schedule.
    But now it’s like I’m in an endless free fall, the plummeting slowed only by the interruption of being summoned to do something for someone else. If it weren’t for the children, the dog, the cat, the kittens, the plants, I would come completely undone.

    O ut of curiosity, I call the County Department of Social Services and ask what’s involved in being a foster parent. Among my questions: Do you have to take whatever kid they give you, or can you pick?
    “We’re very careful where we place all the children,” the woman says.
    “Of course you are. …” That’s why the coverage on TV about foster parents is so uplifting. “I guess what I’m asking is, what if the relative of a child needs a break and wants me to take the child for a while—is there a way to officially do that, to get certified or whatever it would be?”
    “To accept what we call a directed placement, you would need to be an approved foster parent.”
    “And what does that entail?”
    “A letter of intent, an application, a legal clearance, letters of recommendation, a home study, a medical form, proof of immunization, a letter from a lawyer, financials that would make clear you’re not doing this for personal gain.”
    “All the foster parents in your system have passed these requirements?”
    “Yes, sir, they have.”
    I go on to describe myself as a retired professor and author who does consulting work for the family of former President Nixon.
    She cuts me off. “Do you have children?”
    “I am the guardian for my brother’s two children—my brother is disabled.”
    “You should see a psychiatrist,” she says.
    “Pardon?”
    “Fancy people like you, that’s what they do. Part of the application is a mental-health evaluation. It will move more quickly if you don’t resist.”
    I am tempted to ask if the lousy foster parents I see on the