May We Be Forgiven

period.”
    “How did you know she goes to Faustus?”
    She rolls her eyes. “Because that’s where everyone goes,” she says, and then asks me to go get her a nonfat frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles. “Bet you wonder why I can’t get it for myself?”
    I wasn’t going to ask.
    “The girl behind the register was my son Brad’s first girlfriend. I made him dump her. I think she puts Visine in the yogurt when I order from her.”
    “Why Visine?’
    “It gives you diarrhea—they say stewardesses put a few drops of it in the drinks of assholes on the airplane.”
    “That’s a total urban legend.”
    “So you say,” she says, urging me to get up and get her the yogurt.
    “You probably get diarrhea because you’re lactose-intolerant.”
    She pauses. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will you please just go get it for me?”
    “Of course.”
    I return with a heavily sprinkled yogurt and a spoon. “Aren’t you having one?” she asks.
    “I was going to, but the girl behind the counter was a total bitch.”
    “I told you—that’s why I made Brad break up with her. Do you want some?” She offers me a spoonful of yogurt; I open my mouth and let her feed me.
    “Don’t you worry about someone seeing us?”
    She shakes her head.
    “Why not?”
    “I’ll just tell them you’re a stroke patient and I’m doing volunteer work.” She feeds me another spoonful of yogurt.
    “So—about the missing girl,” Cheryl says.
    I wipe yogurt from my face—her aim sucks.
    “I think they know who did it,” Cheryl says.
    “Could you be more specific?”
    “They—i. e., the police—know more than they’re telling the public—i. e., us.”
    “Is that based on fact or your own independent conclusion?”
    “I’m just saying. … We all know how these things work. I watch a lot of TV, reality and otherwise, and I’m telling you—they’re waiting for the guy to come to them, for him to make a little screw-up, to give himself away.”
    “So you’re thinking they’ve already got him pegged and are watching him?”
    “I’m sure of it. Nothing is as random as it seems.”
    “Except that which is totally random, such as this …” I say.
    “What’s this?”
    “This—whatever this is between us,” I say. I can’t help but notice that I’ve become close to Cheryl, that I share things with her, that I’m starting to think of her as a friend, a confidante.
    “Honey, if you were doing the math, it’s not all that random—it’s common as hell,” she says.
    There’s something brash about her voice that prompts me to ask, “Have you been drinking?”
    “I had a Bloody Mary this morning—kind of a little celee-bration.”
    “On a weekday?”
    “Yes,” she says. “They all got out early, and I spotted the tomato juice and some celery in the fridge and thought, Why the hell not.”
    “You scare me,” I say.
    “No, I don’t,” she says.
    “Yes, you do,” I say.
    I debate telling her about the A& P woman. I don’t like feeling sneaky, but what is my obligation to this married woman? I can’t exactly ask for help and then say, “Oh, by the way, I’m seeing someone. …” All the same, it slips out:
    “I’m seeing someone.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You’re seeing someone and you don’t know her name?”
    “Yes.”
    “Since when?”
    “A few weeks.”
    “Where’d you meet her? Is she from online?”
    “We met at the A& P.”
    “How often have you seen her?”
    “I’ve seen her twice,” I say, and she seems relieved.
    “And what have you done on those occasions?” she asks, like she’s trying to get to the bottom of it.
    “I’m not sure it’s fair for you to ask me to elaborate—it’s kind of private.”
    “Since when is life fair, mister? If you’re going to put your poker into someone else’s pookie, I think I have a right to know—minimally, for security purposes, so I can make an informed decision.”
    “And vice versa?” I ask.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, if you should know what I’m doing, should your husband know what you’re doing?”
    She looks down for a moment as if contemplating her next move—as if.
    “I told him,” she says.
    “Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
    “Really,” she says.
    “When?”
    “After the night at Friendly’s.”
    “Why?”
    “I panicked.”
    “About what?”
    “I thought maybe someone he knew was there and had seen me.”
    “Wouldn’t they be outing themselves if they