May We Be Forgiven

what you will grade us on?”
    “I will be grading on a U-turn,” I say, smiling at my own wit. They look perplexed. “If you turned in your papers and participated in class discussions, you will pass the course.”
    The clock strikes five, the students cheer; I’m not sure if it’s because this is the last class or because they know I will finally stop talking. Whatever it is, I choose to take it for myself. I leave victorious, holding my cassette recorder high above my head, and thinking aloud, “You never even knew me.”

    A few days later, I am summoned to The Lodge for a “placement” meeting regarding George. When the administrative secretary calls to confirm, she advises me to bring extra clothing for George. “Think outdoorsy,” she says. “Jeans, heavy socks, wool sweaters.”
    “It’s a done deal?”
    “No idea,” she says. “I’m just reading what’s written on the Post-it. Also, I’m supposed to ask you if you’re planning to stay the night.”
    “I’m not,” I say curtly. “Do you know who else will be there?”
    “I have the attendants listed as you, your brother’s lawyer or a representative from their firm, the medical director, and someone from the State Corrections Office.”
    “Does the person from the state have a name?”
    “Walter Penny.”
    While we’re talking, I Google Walter Penny and get photos of a super-skinny college track star from Gambier, Ohio. Do we live in a world where there are multiple Walter Pennys?
    The pet minder comes to take care of Tessie and the kittens.
    I pack for George, emptying his drawers into an enormous suitcase—more like an armoire than something you’d attempt to travel with. I figure what he doesn’t want can be donated.
    At The Lodge, they remove the suitcase from the car and carry it in for me.
    “Checking in?” the fellow asks.
    “You’re new,” I say.
    “Is it that obvious?” he asks.
    “Yes.”
    They’re running late. I sit in the waiting area outside the director’s office, eating from a blue tin of Danish Butter Cookies and drinking tea poured from a pot that I suspect has a higher-than-normal bacterial count. I hold the tin on my lap to catch crumbs.
    “Manny,” the guy sitting opposite me says, jutting his hand forward, “from the firm—Wurlitzer, Pulitzer and Ordy.”
    “Have we met before?”
    “I came along for the ride with Ordy in White Plains. Rutkowsky isn’t going to be here today—he’s in the middle of a trial.”
    “Any idea how formal or informal the meeting will be?” I ask.
    Manny shrugs. I offer him a cookie; he declines.
    “I was under the impression that it was going to be a discussion of what should happen next—but then they asked me to bring George’s extra clothing. I get the sense that decisions have already been made.”
    “Nothing is definite,” Manny says. “But, in the interest of conserving energies and expenditures, we have a plan that I think will serve George well.”
    I must have scowled or made some other face.
    Manny anxiously adjusts the large shopping bag he’s got parked between his feet and says, “Why don’t we wait for the official meeting.”
    A few minutes later, we’re summoned into Dr. Crawley, the medical director’s office. Walter Penny is already there. Clearly there was a pre-meeting to which we were not invited.
    “Come in, come in,” Dr. Crawley says. He’s a plump, balding man of indeterminate age. Walter Penny introduces himself, shaking hands with a strong up-and-down pump. He’s young, rail-thin, and wearing a cheap suit, which looks good on him only because there is nothing to him. His hair is close-cropped into a fuzzy buzz cut. He could pass for eighteen. Scratching behind his ear, Walter Penny makes a repetitive gesture reminding me of Tessie scratching herself with her back foot.
    I look at him, wondering if he is in fact the Walter Penny of Gambier, Ohio, who ran track a couple of years ago, and curious what he could possibly know about people, or justice.
    He hands me his business card. Dr. Walter Penny, with a Ph.D. in criminal justice.
    “Walter, how’d you get interested in criminal justice?” I ask.
    “My family was in the military, and we’re hunters,” he says as though that explains it.
    I nod. “What part of the world are you from?”
    “Ohio,” he says.
    Manny hands over the shopping bag, and the director extracts from it an enormous tin of Garrett’s of Chicago caramel corn.
    “It’s from my