May We Be Forgiven

idea that was going to happen.”
    She smiles proudly. “The bars and the bats, that’s what I do,” she says. “The jerseys looked great, didn’t they?”
    “Fantastic,” I say, “and the whole thing with ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’—amazing.”
    Sofia blushes and then reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine, which is at that moment squeezed into a fist holding the spray nozzle. I lose my grip, the nozzle slips out of my hand, and water shoots in a wild circle, abruptly stopping when the hose hits the ground.
    “You know,” she says, not noticing what happened with the hose, “ours is a much deeper relationship than the usual client-planner.”
    I say nothing.
    “I’m really interested in you,” she says.
    “I can’t.”
    “Are you not interested?” she says.
    “I’m involved,” I say, literally taking a step back.
    “I thought she ran away.”
    I say nothing.
    “Are you counting an affair with a married woman as involved?” she asks.
    “It works.”
    She contemplates for a moment. “What about a three-way?”
    I shake my head no.
    “Not even tempted?”
    “Can’t.”
    We are in the backyard doing a strange dance: she takes one step towards, I take two steps back; she goes right, I go left.
    “I don’t believe you,” she says. And, impulsively, she is on me, knocking me back into a lounge chair.
    I see Madeline glance out the kitchen window into the backyard. “Cy,” she screams, ear-piercingly loud. “Man down.”
    Like the college linebacker he once was, Cy is out the door and down the steps, charging towards Sofia, like a wrecking ball swinging in from the left. He hits hard, knocking her sideways.
    A moment passes; Sofia stands up, dusts herself off, and looks at Cy. “Thank you,” she says, “I must have tripped over a root.” Turning to me she says, “Be in touch,” and then she’s gone.
    I text Cheryl and tell her she was right about Sofia. She writes back asking if Sofia suggested a three-way. “Yes, how did you know?”
    “She asked me first,” Cheryl types back. “I said it was up to you but that she had to ask.” There’s a pause. “You know me,” she writes. “I’m interested in all kinds of things. …”
    Cheryl invites Madeline, Cy, and me to come for dinner later in the week—before heading off for a month in Maine. “A yar-becue,” she types, “yard barbecue, just Ed and the boys.”
    Cy and Madeline are excited. “It’s been a long time since we were invited to a dinner party,” Madeline says, and then whispers loudly that after Cy’s fall from grace they were dropped socially by pretty much everyone they knew.
    “I didn’t fall from anywhere,” Cy mutters. “I stole some money. It’s more common than you realize.”
    Madeline and I make a Jell-O mold—with pineapple chunks suspended in green, mandarine oranges in yellow, and green grapes in red. I’ve never made Jell-O before—it’s magical.
    We arrive at Cheryl’s to find the yard thick with smoke and the dense perfume of hot meat.
    The three boys, Tad, Brad, and Lad, are helping their father, who is hovering near something that looks like a cross between a fire pit and an antiquarian outhouse.
    “We built our own smoker,” Ed says, welcoming us.
    “Is that backyard legal?” I ask.
    He nods. “Homeowners have rights,” he says.
    “I hope your neighbors aren’t vegetarian.”
    “I grew up smoking meat,” Ed says. “My father and I would hunt and would dress whatever we killed—fowl, venison, and so on.” Ed claps me on the back. “I miss having a hunting buddy,” he says. “My boys never got into it—maybe that’s something you and I could do?”
    “Maybe,” I say, sure that hunting with my sex-tress’s husband is a bad idea.
    We sit down to dinner. I’ve got Madeline and Cy one on each side of me; Tad, Brad, and Lad take the other side of the picnic table, their swelling frames threatening to tip the balance entirely. The boys pass bowls of potato salad, coleslaw, and corn bread while Ed opens the smoker, nearly asphyxiating us all.
    “You made all of this?”
    Ed and Cheryl both nod. “We like to do it ourselves.”
    Everything is delicious, beyond pleasant, nearly heavenly. “I don’t know how you do it,” I say to Ed, when Cheryl is away from the table clearing plates. “I’m a lucky man, Har,” he says, having coined a new nickname for me—Har. “Cheryl and me, we get each other—the good and the bad. Life is long, what’s the point