May We Be Forgiven

went well, and he has no further comment.
    “You’re like an operative—cool, very cool,” the trooper says, hanging up. “I’m going to have a hard time not telling the brother-in-law.”
    “I’m really just a former professor who sometimes gets dragged in over my head.”

    “ A re you coming to the wedding?” my mother asks, near the end of my visit.
    “When are you getting married?”
    “Soon,” she says. “And why are you just standing there?” she asks. “You’ve been standing there for more than an hour with an awful expression on your face.”
    “I have an injury,” I say. “Sitting is difficult at the moment.”
    “Hemorrhoids?” she asks.
    “No,” I say. “Is the wedding definite?”
    “What kind of a question is that?”
    “Are you really going to marry him?”
    “Isn’t that why I asked you?”
    “I think so,” I say. “But what do you two have in common?”
    “We’re old,” she says. “And we both have a love of motion. We like to play catch—they give us these Nerf balls. We love to throw them back and forth. And bingo,” she says. “I help him with his cards. He doesn’t see so well—he lost an eye playing golf years ago—and he has a ringing sound in his head that he’s had for years.”
    “That’s what you like about him?”
    “We want to move in together,” she says.
    “I have no problem with that. And, so you know, you and your friend are always welcome to come and live at home.”
    “With you?” she says. “You’re a slob. I was so happy when you moved out of my house. Why should I leave my condo to come to you and have to cook and clean? I’m happy here.”
    “Marriage is something to take seriously.”
    “It’s not such a big deal,” my mother says nonchalantly. “I’ve done it before.
    So,” she says, “I’ll put you down as a yes?”

    I say goodbye and hurry down the hall, hoping to catch someone from the nursing-home administration before they leave for the day. “Excuse me, who do I talk to about your policy on inter-patient marriage?” I get an old-fashioned runaround, lots of hemming and hawing, and finally someone comes out and says it: “We don’t like unmarried couples to room together.”
    “That’s the least of my worries,” I say, wondering if my mother and her husband-to-be are in their right minds. “There are estate issues to be concerned about. Should there be a prenup? At their age, shouldn’t this be more of a family decision?”
    “Do you have power of attorney?” someone from the home asks. “Are you prepared to have her declared incompetent?”
    “Look, I’ve only met the man in question twice, and he’s already calling me ‘son.’ I’m not sure what I’m prepared to do.”
    “On occasion,” the social worker chimes in, “we have facilitated commitment ceremonies complete with real flowers, cake, dress-up, and someone who does a little ceremony. That seems to do the trick. We tell the couple that the person performing the ceremony is not recognized by the state but that it costs less than an official wedding. I have the couple and their families sign a release stating that the ceremony is not binding and that, should the couple break up or either or both members die, there is no right of survivorship, no community property, and so on. The paralegal who does the DNR paperwork can help you with that.”
    “That sounds good,” I say. “And then do you let them room together?”
    “For as long as they are willing and able,” the social worker says. “Meanwhile, your mother is up and walking. She’s been dancing. She may not be the woman you remember, but whoever she is now—she’s doing very well.”

    O n the way home, I pull into the drive-thru at the Chick-Inn and order a whole bird to go. The woman shoves an enormous piping-hot roasted bird through a window that I think was built only for doughnuts and coffee. A second bag follows with sides of biscuits and potatoes.
    As I’m coming in the door, I hear Walter Penny’s voice on the answering machine: “I received your claim form: thirty-eight hundred dollars for damages to the car. We should be able to get this processed pretty quickly.
    I put the bags down and let him go on for a while.
    “Don’t forget you’ve still got the halvah in the trunk; I think it worked for you as ballast when that nutcase was driving you out. No worries about bringing it back—once it’s out of our hands, we can’t take it back anyway. I wanted