May We Be Forgiven

to remind you. It shouldn’t stay in the trunk, probably too hot in there. And, by the way, you left your cookies up at the camp—they’re very good. What’s the trick?”
    I can’t resist any longer. I pick up the phone. “Tablespoon of warm water,” I say.
    “Just one tablespoon?” Penny asks.
    I cut to the chase. “Where’s George?”
    “George complained of an injury, so we brought him in just after you left—didn’t seem like we could leave him out there after what happened. As soon as he’s feeling better, they’ll transfer him to a more traditional facility.”
    “What about the agreement?” I ask.
    “What agreement?” Walter says.
    “The agreement we signed in the director’s office at The Lodge that said George would never go to a regular jail?”
    “Do you happen to have a copy? I don’t think I have a copy.”
    I’m not sure what kind of game Walter is playing with me, but I make an excuse to get off the phone and immediately call George’s lawyer.
    “We never got a copy,” he says.
    I call Walter back in the afternoon. “So, if no one has a copy, I guess there is no agreement?” Walter says.
    “How long is he in for?” I ask.
    “Five to fifteen,” Walter Penny says. “We compromised.”
    “No trial?”
    “Trust me, it’s better this way.”
    “When’s the soonest he’ll be out?”
    “Figure three years. We had to give him some credit; the Israeli was a good catch.”

    L ate one night, I drive to the temple and unload the halvah on the back steps. I leave a note: “This is good halvah—I am leaving it here for the community to enjoy as it’s more than one man can manage.”
    As I’m unloading, the rabbi appears, sneaking out of a side door. He’s clearly frightened when he sees me, as though I’m a religious terrorist—unpacking C-4 plastique explosives.
    “It’s just halvah,” I call out.
    “What?” he says, his tone the familiar annoyance of an old deaf Jew.
    “Halvah,” I shout as loudly as possible.
    He comes closer, and I introduce myself as George’s brother, and lie: “I was recently doing a job and received the halvah as partial payment,” I say. “I thought perhaps the temple had a soup kitchen.”
    “We have a preschool, and a day camp for the elderly,” the rabbi says.
    Now is the moment. I have the rabbi’s attention; this is the meeting that I called months ago to arrange. It’s my chance to get good counsel.
    “So,” I say, “what do you think? Was Nixon really an anti-Semite?” I ask, surprising myself.
    “Nixon?” the rabbi intones.
    I nod.
    “You want to know about Nixon?”
    “I do.”
    “He was a son of a bitch, hated everyone but himself. The one who makes me nervous is Kissinger, who never stood up for himself—he sold us down the river.”
    A police car pulls into the parking lot. “You okay, Padre?” the cop asks.
    “Fine, thank you,” the rabbi says.
    The cop looks at me like he knows me from somewhere. “Why don’t you go home now, mister,” he says. “Let the padre get a good night’s sleep.” He hovers until I say goodbye and then follows my car most of the way home.

    A s part of my quest to become a foster parent, I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Tuttle, a psychiatrist. Strange though it may seem, I’ve never been to a psychiatrist before, and so it is with some trepidation that I approach his office on the ground floor of a small strip mall. To the right of his “suite” is Smoothie King, to the left a dry cleaner’s, and next to that a cell-phone store. The office windows are covered in wide metal vertical blinds circa 1977; the waiting room is dark, with a low acoustical-tile ceiling and oatmeal-colored wall-to-wall. Six chairs with caned seats that are starting to sag dot the room in pairs like couples. There’s a little glass table with a precarious pile of magazines and a trash can so small it seems to say, Don’t use me. Sitting down, I spot a lone Cheerio in the corner, and then more—a series of Cheerios tucked up against the molding, likely pushed there by a vacuum cleaner. There are numerous signs, handwritten and poorly laminated with Scotch tape.
    If you need a bathroom, go to Smoothie King and ask for the key.

If you need your parking validated, please ask, 1 hour free.

    T he psychiatrist opens the door and calls me in. “Tuttle,” he says, shaking my hand. His hand is wet, smelling of perfume and rubbing alcohol. I immediately spot a bottle of hand sanitizer on his