May We Be Forgiven

Nate.
    “How was Ricardo?” he asks.
    “Good. I accidentally taught him to flip the bird.”
    “Accidentally?”
    I explain, and Nate says, “Sounds like you’re off to a good start.”
    “In the long run I like to think it’s a minor offense.” I pause. “I never know what to tell you or not—about your father.”
    “Yeah,” Nate says, not exactly giving me a clue, “it’s hard to know.”
    “The place where he’s been is closing.”
    “What kind of a place is it?”
    “Therapeutic,” I say, for lack of a better word.
    “Do you know what he used to do with me?” Nate asks. “He’d turn me upside down and swing me around. It was half fun, half terrifying; sometimes he would crash me into things, like a table, chairs, or a wall. I didn’t know if he just got so distracted or if he really had no idea, but it was a fine line. It might have been different if I was another kid—another kid might have liked it more.”
    “Or less,” I say. “It sounds like you were a pretty good sport about it. Why take on what some other kids would have tolerated? It’s okay to say it scared you, or that you just hated it for whatever reason.”
    “I always thought he wanted me to be another kid, he thought I was a wuss.” Nate pauses. “Are you eating while we’re talking?”
    “Yeah, sorry, I’m starving; somehow I didn’t eat with Ricardo. I was setting an example about moderation, and then, when I got home, I went on a tear and cleaned out the whole basement. There was so much shit down there.”
    Nate gets very quiet. Worse than quiet—serious. “Like what?”
    “Skis, tennis racquets, boxes of old glass jars …”
    “My award-winning science experiment on remaking antibiotics from home-grown sources such as ginger, horseradish, mustard, and nasturtiums?”
    “I don’t think so,” I say, worriedly remembering that some of the jars did in fact have dirt and something growing inside—I thought it was simply mold. … “It was just a lot of junk, your dad’s old golf clubs.”
    “And my clubs?” Nate asks.
    “Which ones are yours?” I quiz, likely sounding as nervous as I am.
    “Mine were in a wheely plaid bag, and I have a second set as well with blue knit toppers.”
    “You know what,” I say, stumbling, knowing full well they’re in a bag at the curb, “I’ll take a look, I’ll double-check on that, just to be sure.”
    “Damn it,” Nate says, “can’t you leave anything alone? Do you have to put your mark on everything? It’s not your stuff. It’s my house—that’s where I live. … Are you going to make it so I don’t have a home, so there’s no place left to go?”
    “Nate,” I venture, trying to repair what’s been done. “Nate …”
    “No. I have been so fucking calm, so goddamned decent through this whole thing—I think I gave you the wrong impression. You fucked my mother, my father killed my mother, and now you’re in charge of me? I am not going down this road—I am not going to be another one of you. I will not let you drag me down.” And he hangs up.
    I am taken aback—not only is he right, but it’s surprising that this moment hasn’t come sooner. I run down to the curb and reclaim his golf clubs along with any other equipment that looks reasonably current, and “reinstall” the goods in the basement in what I hope is a user-friendly sort of way.
    A couple of hours later, Nate sends me an e-mail.
    “Apologies—one of the guys gave me some of his medication telling me it would help me concentrate and I think I had a bad reaction. P. S. My school may call you about the broken desk but I can assure you that was really an accident—it had been in precarious condition from the year before when Billy butthead landed on it during an attempt to fly.”
    I write back: “No worries, your point well taken. Your clubs and all else—safe and sound.”

    T uesday morning, just after eight, the phone rings.
    “There’s someplace I need you to go with me,” Cheryl says.
    “What happened to ‘hi, hello, how are you’?”
    “Is that necessary?” she says. “I’m trying to ask you for a favor.”
    “It’s customary,” I say. “It’s the way most things begin. Where is it you’d like to go?”
    “Is that important? Isn’t it enough just that I’m asking you to go?”
    I wait.
    “A club,” she says.
    “What about your husband, can’t you get him to take you?”
    “I can’t even get him to go to a movie. So—will you