May We Be Forgiven

happily.
    “Where were you born?”
    “Lenox Hill,” she says. “I am twenty-one years old. I play professional volleyball part-time.”
    “You are a lucky woman,” I say. “Transcendent.”
    Before we jump in, I explain a bit about my interest in Nixon to Ching Lan. “No worry. I study,” she says. “Wanda told me what you are doing and I go on Wikipedia and learn so much.”
    I nod. “I am most interested in his personality and the ways in which his actions and reactions were of a particular era and culture—the era that built and defined the American Dream. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the subject; the phrase ‘American Dream’ was coined in 1931 by James Truslow Adams, who wrote, ‘Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement regardless of social class or circumstances of birth.’ In 1931, Richard Nixon was eighteen years old, just coming into himself and when he resigned he was sixty years old, signaling the end of an era and perhaps the unacknowledged death of the dream, though some people feel it has just gone underground.”
    Something about Ching Lan inspires me to talk, to digress, to keep elucidating. It feels liberating, inspiring. And she seems to follow what I’m saying.
    We work side by side. I explain how I want the documents transcribed and let her know that if she comes across anything that doesn’t make sense she should bring it to my attention.
    Every hour, Ching Lan takes a brief exercise break; as she stands, she encourages me to do the same. “Do what I do,” she says, and I echo her movements, flowing like an ancient dance brought forward.
    “What is it called?” I ask.
    “Qigong,” she says. “I do it every day—it brings blood to mind, awakens the true nature.”
    I follow along until she breaks away—leaning backwards so far that her hands are on the ground behind her. She then lifts one leg, and then the other into the air. Ching Lan is standing on her head—holding the position. “So good,” she says. “So right.” And then she is upright and back in her chair, and we carry on.

    S unday at 8:30 a.m. I pick up the boy. His aunt has packed a large grocery bag full of food, Tupperware containers, metal forks, knives, spoons, napkins, and a change of clothes.
    “He spills all the time,” she says.
    Ricardo shrugs.
    “How many meals did you pack?”
    “Not so much,” she says. “He’s got a good appetite.”
    “Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll plan to have him back by six—I know it’s a school night. And here’s my cell number if you need to reach us, and if you want me to we’ll check in during the day.”
    “My husband is taking me on a day trip,” she says. “You go have fun.”
    On the way to the car, I ask Ricardo if he’s had breakfast. “Yes,” he says, “but I could have more.”
    “How about we wait a couple of hours; meantime, we can go to the park and play a little ball.”
    At the park, Ricardo spots a group of boys kicking a soccer ball. I can tell he wants to join in, so I encourage him to go.
    “I don’t know them,” he says sadly.
    I walk with him, inject myself into the group of fathers on the side, and ask if Ricardo can join in—one of the men blows a whistle and yells, “New man comin’ in.” I give Ricardo a shove and he’s in the game. The fathers stand around talking about their hot-water heaters, their zoned heat, and other manly things like gutter cleaning. I nod along as part of the chorus. I also watch Ricardo. He’s not very coordinated—tripping over the ball, falling on his ass after he kicks it—but the other boys seem to tolerate having him in the game.
    When the game dissolves, Ricardo and I sit on the benches; I suggest that perhaps he and I could do some practicing with a ball—I think there’s one in the basement.
    Ricardo breathes deeply, red-faced, trying to catch his breath while digging through his grocery bag.
    “Do you want to have a picnic?”
    “Maybe you could eat this and I could get McDonald’s,” he suggests. “My aunt is a really good cook, but I eat it every day.”
    He hands me something that looks like an empanada—it’s filled with beef, onions, spices that are hard to name. Despite the fact that it’s at room temperature, it’s delicious.
    “Okay,” I say, “I’ll trade, but for what?”
    “Double cheeseburger, large fries, and a shake?” Ricardo suggests.
    “Cheeseburger,