May We Be Forgiven

Sofia.”

    C ecily has prepared a PowerPoint presentation featuring three scenarios, from least to most expensive. “I’ve done a little legwork; we’re talking approximately nine thousand per person for airfare.”
    “No need to fly business—coach is fine,” I say.
    “That is coach. I may be able to get it down to about sixty-five hundred if there’s a little leeway with your dates and flight times.”
    “Plenty of leeway.”
    “Don’t forget,” Sofia says as she’s leaving, “the date is set—July 9 at noon.”
    “Right,” the travel agent says. “So—how many days in the village?”
    “Two? Maybe three?”
    “Let’s do two nights, three days. And then what, big-five game safari? You know—lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard, and rhino. And from the safari we go to a hot-air balloon ride, bungee jumping, ride over a waterfall?”
    “Let’s stick to nature and history—no bungee, no balloon, no ride over the waterfall,” I say. “Did you always want to be a travel agent?”
    “I was a stewardess,” she says. “I met my husband on the plane—he was a frequent flier, married. The other girls said, ‘They never leave their wives,’ but he did. He came back and said, ‘You gotta make an honest man out of me.’” She pauses. “So I guess the big question is, how luxe do you want to go?”
    “I want it to be nice but not excessive. I care more about safety than luxury.”
    “You don’t want to impress them?”
    “I don’t want to look like a jerk, going to some remote poor village for a couple of days and then saying ‘ Hasta la vista, baby,’ and heading off on a luxury safari. It would seem dissonant with the core idea—celebrating a rite of passage from boy to man.”

    C heryl is beaming, pleased with herself and her resources.
    “Who do they think I am to you?” I ask when Cecily is in the bathroom.
    She laughs. “They know all about you,” she says. “They call you my other husband. I think everyone should have one—even my husband thinks so. We are such a backward culture, too literal to survive.”
    “What about tutors for Ashley and Ricardo? Do you know any?”
    “Of course,” she says. “Between us we have an annotated list of who is good for what kind of kid and in what subject matter.”
    “Electrician?”
    She looks at me. “I’ll e-mail you the list.”

    O n Sunday at noon, my mother marries Bob Gold. Ashley starts shooting video as the sliding glass doors to the home open with a sucking sound, like a pop, and the air lock is breached. She pans to the left. “Silver marries Gold at noon” is written on the dry-erase activity board by the front door of the home. The air conditioning in the home is on the blink—and the place stinks like old diapers. My mother is in her room, being tended to by her bridesmaids. Two large ladies block the door. “No boys,” they say, allowing Ashley and her camera to slip between them. Ricardo and I wait in the dining room, which has been transformed into a chapel of sorts, with a three-storied wedding cake and flowers.
    “Will you be giving your mother away?” someone asks, and I’m not sure what she means. “Down the aisle?” she says.
    “Yes, of course, no problem.”
    A middle-aged man introduces himself as Bob Gold’s son, Eli. “Apologies with regard to my sisters.”
    “I understand.”
    “He is still married to our mother, even though she’s in a coma.” I nod. “It’s difficult for my sisters to see him move on. When Dad told us that he felt capable of loving more than one woman at a time, my sisters weren’t ready to hear it.” He pauses. “We have a mutual acquaintance,” he says. “Your aunt Lillian’s son, Jason. I used to date him—small world.”
    “Tiny,” I say.
    The dining room has begun to fill with old people dressed in their Sunday best, arriving in varying stages of mobility: some on their own, some with canes or walkers, others being pushed in wheelchairs. A caravan of three wheelchairs pushed by an aide makes its way into the room.
    “Cake before dinner,” one of the residents says, excitedly.
    Ricardo is wearing a blazer of Nate’s; his stocky build absorbs the excess.
    “You look good, Ma,” I say, kissing her cheek as she comes into the room.
    “You’re very tan,” my mother says to Ricardo. “And you’re shorter and fatter than you used to be.”
    “This is Ricardo, Grandma, not Nate. Ricardo is new,” Ashley says, coming to his rescue.
    “Oh,” she