May We Be Forgiven

is third,” Nate says.
    I go up to bat. Ashley pounds her fist into her glove. “Sock it to me,” she says.
    I am 0 for 2 trying to read Cy’s wobbly pitch when I connect—the hollow thwack of plastic on plastic sends the ball careening to the right, bouncing off the lamppost by the front door, skittering under the boxwood, and rolling down the hill inches ahead of Ashley, who pounces after it. I make it safely to third base. Madeline is up next; she bunts, and I slide into home (and gracefully excuse myself to ice what’s left of my knees).

    T he next afternoon, the car for the airport comes early. Ricardo has never flown before and is baffled by the security process—taking off his shoes (and socks), his belt, emptying his pockets, which contain an inordinate amount of junk. On the other side the kids go to buy some gum; Ricardo’s hunger for all things is immense—he wants comic books, soda, chocolate, pistachio nuts. His enthusiasm is so genuine that it’s hard to say no. “Pick one,” I say. “One of each?” he asks. “Just one,” I say.
    On board, he sits between Nate and me, with Ashley on my right—we are four in a row across the middle, holding hands for what Ricardo calls “blastoff.” Whatever has been forgotten will remain forgotten until we are long gone. During the night, I wake up with his head resting on my chest like a bowling ball.
    In Johannesburg, Cecily has arranged for a people minder, like an airport babysitter. She shuttles us around in a golf cart, letting the kids take turns beeping the horn, and off we go on a smaller plane to Durban.
    The plane empties, we get off, we claim our bags, watch people come and go. Various people approach, asking if we need transportation.
    “No,” I say. “Someone is coming.”
    After twenty minutes, I call Sakhile.
    “No one is there?” he asks. “You are kidding me? I’ll call you back,” he says. Minutes later, my phone rings. “Car trouble. We are making another plan. I will call you back with details.”
    We sit on our suitcases—conspicuously white in a sea that is everything but. I don’t think I’ve been in a place that is so entirely other.
    Thirty minutes later, a man arrives. “I am Manelisi, the cousin of Nobuhle. Please come.” Manelisi leads us to his bakkie, a small pickup truck with an extra seating area. The children sit behind me; I share the front with Manelisi. “I am a gardener,” he says. “That is why the truck smells like dung—I did a big job today.”
    The truck doesn’t smell like dung so much as earth. We ride with the windows open; I ask the children if it is too much air.
    “No,” they say, glad to be out of the plane and out of the airport, “it’s good.”
    “Right now,” Manelisi says, “we are going to pick up some packages.” He looks at a map, and in about ten minutes we pull up in front of a place called Esther’s Kitchen. Manelisi runs in, then returns with two helpers and numerous boxes, which they load into the back of the truck. Only later do I realize this is food for tomorrow’s lunch, packed in dry ice. The helpers speak a language that is unfamiliar but sounds rhythmic and joyous.
    “Okay,” Manelisi says. “Now we get on a good road.”
    The radio is on—a contemporary blend of rock and hip-hop; I am comforted by the disc jockey’s speaking in English.
    “Did you grow up in the village?” I don’t know what it was called before “Nateville.”
    “No,” he says. “We are from pineapple farmers in Hluhluwe.”
    As we are leaving Durban, we pass what look like slums—shacks with tin roofs, homes made of random scraps of wood, metal, and brick. Boys walk barefoot along the edge of the road.
    “What direction are we traveling?” I ask.
    “North,” Manelisi says.
    “And what time does it get dark?”
    “In winter, between five and six.”
    Outside of Durban, the expanse of land seems infinite and undiscovered. The tires of the bakkie hum as they roll along the highway. In the distance, electric lines rise like giant twenty-first-century figures. Small bunkerlike houses dot the landscape.
    “What is that?” Ricardo asks, pointing to an animal at the edge of the road.
    “Baboon,” Manelisi says, as he changes the radio station to one where the DJ speaks what I assume is Zulu.
    The landscape is richly green and hilly in the late-afternoon light. I put down the sun visor and look at the children behind me in the small mirror. Ashley and Ricardo have been