May We Be Forgiven

to be ruined? Please, you seem like a nice slob.”
    Nice slob—does she mean “slob” or “SOB”?
    “You can’t just give me Ricardo,” I say.
    “Why not?”
    “I am not approved by the state.”
    “But he is a U. S. citizen,” she says. “He was born here.”
    Rather than try and explain the social-service system, I say, “Let me see what I can do. Meanwhile, I can take him this weekend. We can have a sleepover.”
    “He was Mommy’s baby,” she says, and she’s crying.
    “Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” I say, almost crying along with her. She sniffles to a stop. “What do you have to cry about? You are a big white guy with a big house,” she says.

    O ut of the blue, a postcard arrives from George. The image on the front is of a hotel in Miami; the card itself is well worn, like it has been going around the globe at the bottom of a suitcase for years.
    This place is everything I thought it might be. Around the fire at night the other guys teach me lock-picking and in arts and crafts I’m learning to make cement shoes from grass and dung. Don’t forget to deadhead my perennials.

    T he card, with no return address, prompts me to realize that I have no contact information for George—no address, no phone for emergencies. I put in a call to the director’s office at The Lodge.
    “Good morning and thank you for calling The Lodge, the new executive conference center in the heart of the Adirondacks.”
    I explain that I’m trying to reach the medical director.
    “One moment, please.”
    My call is transferred.
    “Human Resources—are you seeking employment?”
    “No,” I say crankily, and then repeat my story. “The medical director said he’d be staying on until August. And does anyone know where my brother, George, is?”
    The head of HR comes on the line. “Sometimes things change faster than expected—a combo of a buyout, and vacation, and we booked a big conference for the end of July—but you didn’t hear it from me. Let’s see if someone can access that info and we’ll give you a call back.”
    I phone George’s lawyer, Rutkowsky, who, surprisingly, picks up on the first ring. “Do you know where George is?”
    “Now that you mention it,” the lawyer says, “no clue. Hang on.” He makes noises like he’s going through some files. “Apparently, we’re still waiting on the paperwork; he may be lost in the system.”
    “Have you got an address? A way to send letters or packages? His birthday is coming up.”
    “I have a card for Walter Penny and there’s an address on there. I’m sure you could put something in the mail addressed to George care of that address and it’ll get to him.”
    I jot down the address he gives me. “When I called The Lodge, they said the medical director was gone. Isn’t he part of your family?”
    “Separated,” Rutkowsky says. “We’re not speaking to him at the moment. And in fact, I’m representing my sister against him, so, for conflict-of-interest reasons, I’m going to be passing George’s file over to Ordy, another attorney at the firm.”

    I am at the mall with Cheryl; we are going from store to store. We’ve made progress. We’re not meeting at one of the cheap motels where, fearing bedbugs, Cheryl pulls down the old chenille bedspread, puts a layer of green Hefty yard bags on the bed, and covers them with an old white sheet, and we fuck like drunk drivers sliding all over the place. Instead we’re wandering aimlessly, fully clothed, in a skylight-topped faux-tropical paradise.
    “Are we here for exercise, or is there something particular we’re looking for?”
    “A sofa and a nonstick pan,” she says, giving equal value to both.
    This time her hair is in short blond braided pigtails—something like what an eight-year-old might wear. I’m slightly embarrassed for her but say nothing.
    “Are you still seeing her?” Cheryl asks.
    Apparently. But I feel uncomfortable having two sexual relationships at the same time.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s confusing.”
    “In what way? I mean, that one’s like a mercy fuck, right?” she asks.
    “I’m not sure. What’s a mercy fuck?”
    “Like you feel bad for her—so
    you do her.”
    “I don’t feel bad for her,” I say.
    “Do you care about her?” she asks. “Does she know about me?”
    “I think she knows,” I suggest.
    “Did you tell her?”
    “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want anything from me—zero involvement. She just wants me when she