May We Be Forgiven

smartphone—you can program auto-responses to anything. Watch,” she says, texting back. “Do you want chicken or steak for dinner?” And again, “Use your best judgment” comes back. “See what I mean?” she says. “He’s probably having an affair.”
    “Why do you always say that?” the daughter asks.
    “I’m no dummy,” she says. “I went to Yale.” She turns to me. “We’ll take two. There’s no point in having one of anything anymore.”
    “Can we go into the pet store and buy them a carrier like his?” the girl asks.
    “Yes,” the mother says.
    “And some food and some toys?” the boy asks.
    “And maybe some clothing, so I can dress them up?” the girl asks.
    “We’ll be right back,” the mother says. “If you could just put those two on hold for us …”
    She is true to her word: about ten minutes later, bearing shopping bags of cat products and fancy carrying cases, they return. I put both kittens in one case.
    “Enjoy,” I say.
    “We already are,” the boy says.

    S omething is happening; the mood is shifting, like a sea change, like the quickening of the breeze before a spring storm. I begin to hear snippets, bits and pieces of conversations, as everyone anxiously comes and goes a little faster. “I know the mother. …” “She went to camp with my kids.” “Regular people—just like us.” “You never know what’s on someone’s mind.” Apparently, a girl has gone missing.
    An old man and his wife stop at my table; their stooped shoulders and curved spines fit together like a pair of salt and pepper shakers.
    “This might be the day,” the man says to his wife.
    They smile. Their faces are open and cheerful, good-natured despite the effects of time.
    “That would be nice,” she says.
    “Ours died,” she tells me. “She was nineteen years old.”
    I nod, half thinking we’re talking cat, half thinking about the missing girl.
    “Do you have one who is mature for its age?” the man asks.
    “Playful, independent, and wise,” the wife adds.
    I look into the carrier and take out the one I would describe as thoughtful.
    “He’s beautiful,” the wife says, stroking him as I put him into the box.
    “I can give you some samples of the food and litter they’ve been getting—they’re very healthy, been to the vet, and have their first shots.”
    “We got the last one from a little girl who had a stand like this—she was selling Girl Scout cookies and giving away kittens.”
    “An entrepreneur. We gave her twenty bucks,” the husband says.
    “I think you’ll like the kitten,” I say.
    “I think so,” the husband says, excusing himself to go back into the store to get a cardboard box. “Just something we can put him in for the ride home.”
    Across the parking lot, a woman is putting up posters on light posts, on the cement parking stanchions—“MISSING PERSON.”
    “It’s worrisome,” I say to the woman.
    “Where do you think she’s gone?” the old woman asks.
    The husband comes back with an empty banana box, and we slip the kitten in. I give them food, litter samples, and my phone number, and then, remembering my promise to Ashley, I ask, “Could I trouble you for your name, address, and phone, just in case we need to be in touch?”
    “What a good idea,” the old woman says, and she writes her name and information in glorious script.
    Brad comes out of the pet store and walks towards me. “On my break,” he says, as though that means “truce.”
    “How many do you have left?”
    “Two.”
    “Can I see?”
    I take the kittens out.
    “I know we had a little altercation,” Brad says. “But if you can get over it—I’d like to adopt these two.”
    “But you sell kittens,” I say. “And I’m sure you get a discount.”
    “The kittens we sell are from animal mills, but this is a real kitten, raised with love.” He extends his hand as though we’ve not met before. “I’m Brad,” he says. And I’m compelled to shake his hand. “What do you think? Is there room for second chances?”
    “I hope so,” I say.
    “I’ve always loved animals.”
    “Why else would you be working in a pet store?”
    “When we lived in Arizona, I worked in my uncle’s pet store—mostly lizard sales. I myself have a bearded dragon,” he says, “but I don’t think it contradicts a cat. The dragon lives in a large heated tank. Very sensitive, dragons.”
    “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a domesticated dragon,” I