May We Be Forgiven

my cart for theirs.” I take out a box of Midol and leave it on the counter.
    She texts again: “I’m not the only one laughing.”
    “How do you confuse your cart when you’ve got diapers and a large milk of magnesia?” someone mumbles.
    “He’s just embarrassed,” someone else says.
    “I’m not embarrassed,” I say. “I was buying travel sizes for a family trip.”
    The security guard comes towards me. “What’s the problem?”
    “These people keep saying that I’m embarrassed by what’s in my basket—but my point is, someone put these items in my cart and no one believes me.”
    “Do you want to buy the things or not?”
    “No,” I say, putting my hands up, as though surrendering. “Forget it, I’ll do it some other time.”
    “Look, mister, get what you need. Don’t let people intimidate you.”
    “I’m not intimidated,” I say, my pocket vibrating again.
    “Sore loser,” Cheryl texts.
    I pay for my items, and the security guard follows me to the door. I buzz loudly as I leave, and I just stand there—knowing Cheryl is watching from somewhere laughing.
    “Go,” the guy says.
    “But I’m making noise,” I say.
    “Did you steal anything?” he asks.
    “Of course not.”
    “Then just go.”
    “I’ve got a falsie glued onto my nipple and no idea how to get it off—I wasn’t thinking about how much more sensitive nipples are when I put it on,” Cheryl says when I catch up with her.
    “Try nail-polish remover,” I say.
    “I already did, on aisle three; that’s why I was late.”
    “Well, then, you’re going to have to keep it on until it falls off,” I say, unmoved.
    She sticks her hand into my back pocket and pulls out a bunch of metallic bar-code sensors. “You’re free,” she says.
    “You’re getting too weird,” I say.
    “I admit it,” she says. “I’m jealous.”
    “Of what?”
    “Of you and what’s-her-name.”
    “Amanda,” I say.
    “Exactly,” she says.

    O n Sunday, when I take Ricardo to Aunt Christina’s house, I tell Christina and the uncle that I’ve been planning a South Africa bar mitzvah for Nate. I describe the trip, explaining that, as part of the celebration, we might slaughter and cook a goat, there will be dancing and people wearing traditional beaded costumes, old-fashioned drums, and feathers. I can tell they think it’s weird.
    Christina shakes her head. “I don’t know why you want to go into the past when the future is right here in front of you.”
    “He is a historian,” Ricardo explains. “He lives in the past. All day he reads books about things that already happened.”
    The uncle revs Ricardo’s remote-control car and sends it speeding across the floor backwards and forwards—popping wheelies.
    “Does Ricardo have a passport?” I ask.
    “I don’t think so,” the aunt says.
    “Is it okay with you if I find out what we need to do in order to get one?”
    She nods.
    Ricardo dances around the room. “I’m goin’ on safari,” he says. “On safari, I’m gonna catch an ele-phant, an ele-phant.”
    The uncle crashes his car into Ricardo’s foot—on purpose.
    “Have a good time,” he says.

    T he invites arrive. They are beautiful, substantive, serious. The envelope looks elegant with its blue tissue lining. I FedEx one to Nate.
    “I got the invitation,” he says—it sounds like he’s crying.
    “You don’t like it?” I ask, heart sinking.
    “No,” he says. “I mean yes. It looks totally real.”
    “It is real,” I say.
    His crying sniffles to a stop. “I’m kind of amazed. Since everything went weird with Mom and Dad, I gave up on the normal stuff—it just didn’t seem possible.”
    “So you think it’s okay?”
    “It’s great,” he says.
    “All right, then, what kind of cake do you like?” I ask, figuring I should take care of a few things on my checklist while I’ve got him on the phone.
    “Chocolate,” he says.
    “And what about the Torah—have you decided what you want to do in terms of a reading?”
    “You know,” he says, “I’m not really so into Hebrew as a language. I kind of want to write my own thing. …”
    “Consisting of what?”
    “Have you ever been to Burning Man?”

    S ofia sends out the invites, each addressed in her beautiful calligraphic script. She gives me a computer spreadsheet to track the RSVPs. I know the invitations have landed when Cousin Jason starts e-mailing me bad press about South Africa, articles saying that car crashes are the