May We Be Forgiven

it make me more attractive? That’s my big secret, what’s yours?”
    I try to get a careful look at her. What color are her eyes? Why does nothing about her stay in my mind? I think of taking a picture with my phone—her and the kitten, something to hold on to, to analyze, and submit as evidence if need be. She is wearing casual clothing, which makes her look young. Her hair is neither blond nor brown, neither thick nor thin; it frames a face that is like so many faces. She looks like everyone and like no one. Her hands are the only giveaway: the skin is a little loose on the fingers, which are thin and nimble, almost monkeylike. There are a few light-tan freckled pigment spots on the tops of her hands—age. I return to her face. She is and is not similar to the missing girl, whose photo I have printed out and placed in the center of George’s desk.
    “Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask.
    “Can you stop?” she says. “You’re freaking me out.” She takes a breath. “Why did you ask people if they had other pets, and if the cat would live indoors or out, and if the new owner would be so kind as to e-mail photos of the kitty to you?”
    “How close did you get?”
    “You’re in a bad mood. Maybe I should go,” she says, but makes no move to leave. “I saw the part where you got into an argument with the guy from the pet store and had to move your stand.”
    “And you saw that we made up and I gave him the last two kittens?”
    She shakes her head no. “I guess I left before that happened.”
    “I need to know something about you,” I say.
    “I play the flute,” she says.
    “More,” I say.
    “I majored in French literature, with a minor in library science.”
    I nod.
    “I wanted to grow up and be a spy,” she offers.
    “What side would you spy for—us or them?”
    “Them,” she says, without a pause. “I never felt like one of us.”
    “What prompted you to come here now?”
    “Last time I saw you, you had one of those really cool rain showers, and I thought maybe I could try it, and I brought you a little gift.”
    “What?” I ask.
    “I ate it,” she says. “There was a bake sale; I bought two seven-layer bars, and then I stopped at McDonald’s and got a coffee, and on my way over here I just powered right through both of them.”
    “Maybe you didn’t need to tell me that you brought me a present.”
    “I was just being honest. So I’m here all sugared up and ready to go—almost a little hyper.”
    “Okay, the shower is yours. I’ll get you a clean towel.”
    I sit on the bed watching as she undresses—that seems to be part of it, she wants me to watch. “We don’t have to have sex,” I say. “I don’t need you to use your body to get a shower.”
    “What if I want to have sex?” she asks.
    “I’m not sure I want to. I’ve had a lot on my mind—I don’t even know if I could.”
    She makes a face. “I’ve never heard a guy say that ahead of time—usually it’s after the fact, usually it’s after a lot of hemming and hawing and it turns out they’ve got a wife.”
    “I’m divorced,” I say, getting up off the bed, leaving her to shower alone.
    I take advantage of the moment to rummage through her bag—looking for clues. I find an enormous old wallet with almost nothing in it, and in the bottom of her bag, a driver’s license. I panic at the sight of the name, immediately put it back, and close the bag. Heather Ann Ryan. Is that the name of the missing girl? I’m confused.
    When she comes out of the shower I ask, “Do you have any sports injuries?”
    “I’m not very athletic,” she says.
    She comes towards me, still damp from the shower.
    Is it her? Is she the missing person? Is she having some kind of psychotic break and amnesic state? All of her answers are so vague, so nonspecific.
    “Who are you?” I ask.
    “Who would you like me to be?” she asks, dropping the towel.
    And she is upon me.

    T here is a lot of noise, labored breathing, the dog begins to bark, the cat jumps onto the nightstand, looks at us, arches, pounces onto my back, claws out, I scream.
    “I better go,” she says when we are done.
    “You sure you don’t want another shower?”
    “No, I’m okay,” she says, “but it was nice, I like the rain shower.”
    “So how about a number?” I ask while she’s dressing.
    She shakes her head no.
    “How am I going to know you’re okay? It was very uncomfortable worrying that something happened to