May We Be Forgiven

from there. Okay?”
    He nods and speaks in German.
    As I’m getting ready to go, I stand, and George hugs me hard—almost too hard. I reach into my pocket.
    “I brought you something,” I say, handing him a Hershey bar with almonds.
    Tears well up in his eyes. Our grandmother always used to give us each a Hershey bar with almonds—she’d open her enormous purse, reach in, and extract one for each.
    “Thank you,” he says. And then hugs me again.
    “We can write to each other, and I’ll come visit you in a couple of months—you’ll be okay.”
    He sniffles and pushes me away. “You are such a fucking asshole,” he says.
    I nod. “Okay, then, George, we’ll be in touch.” And I am gone. “Such a fucking asshole”—what did he mean by that, and do I even want to know? I am such a fucking asshole that I come when called, I mop up after him, I take care of his wife—a bit too well—I water his flowers, feed his dog, care for his children—I am such a fucking asshole.

    T he kittens are ready. Ashley and I have agreed that we’ll keep one for ourselves. I e-mail photos of the kittens to her, but the school computer system doesn’t allow her to open them, and so I print them out and FedEx the pictures before we confer—deciding on “Romeo,” small; black, white, and gray; deeply mischievous; and clearly one the mama thinks she needs to keep an eye on.
    “How are you going to find homes for the others?” Ashley wants to know.
    “The good old-fashioned way,” I say. “I’m going to set myself up somewhere with a big box marked ‘Free Kittens.’”
    The truth is, I feel like a giant bully taking the kittens from the mother cat. For a couple days, I practice separating the mother and her kittens by taking the kittens away and then bringing them back a few hours later—thinking it’s somehow less stressful than a sudden and permanent absence.
    When the day comes, I bring the plastic cat-crate up from the basement and line it with old towels. I find an old card table in the basement, which still has a sign on it from a lemonade stand Ashley must have had. I flip the poster board over and write “Free Kittenz” in large artful letters. I’ve prepared paperwork—eight-by-ten photos of each kitten, information on the mother, the date of birth, and what vaccinations they’ve had so far. I also prepare starter kits for each cat, with samples of their current food and litter.
    If you’re wondering what this newfound energy is all about, all I can say is that I’ve gotten particularly attached to a bottle of small round blue pills I found in George’s bathroom, the bottle marked “1–2 daily upon awakening.” I take a couple, and for about five hours I’m amazingly organized. In an effort to identify what it is I’m taking, I repeatedly Google “little blue pill,” but all I get is ads for Viagra, which is not round but diamond-shaped.
    As I put the kittens in the carrier, they start making noise, the mama cat is pacing, and Tessie looks up at me from the floor as if to say, God help you now.
    I head for the A& P where I met the woman, both on the off chance she might show up again and because I feel self-conscious setting up outside my regular grocery, the one that was Jane and George’s. More than once people have given me strange looks; I’m never sure if they know it’s me or think I’m him, but either way I’m a sitting duck.
    I set up just outside the pet store. I have brought the carrier, my pictures, some tape, the samples, and a large cardboard box where someone can put a kitten to play with it—that way, there’s no danger of its scampering off into the street. Open for business. My first customer comes out of the pet store, wearing a tag that reads “Brad—Assistant Manager.”
    “What are you doing?” Brad asks.
    “Giving away kittens,” I say, even though it’s obvious.
    “We sell kittens,” he says.
    I say nothing.
    “You’re going to have to move your pop-up shop,” Brad says.
    “Sorry.”
    “You’re competing with our interests.”
    “But the ASPCA has a pet adoption stand right here every weekend.”
    “Are you a nonprofit?” Brad wants to know.
    “I’m giving them away.”
    “You’re small potatoes,” Brad says.
    “I beg to differ,” I say. “Whoever takes these kittens is going to need supplies. How about just thinking of these five as a loss leader?”
    “Loss leader?”
    “The things a store is willing to lose money on in order