May We Be Forgiven

variations on the same suit—basically, a men’s version and a women’s. All together, they look like a geriatric circus act.
    “Big sale,” one of the aides says. “Buy one at full price, get as many more as you want for half off—we bought them all.”
    “Geronimo,” a man says, jumping in.
    “Don’t forget,” the lifeguard calls out. “No pushing, no splashing, no pooping in the pool.”
    “So how are you?” I ask my mother.
    “Good,” she says. “We went on a field trip to a lobster place and had the early bird, all you can eat. I myself don’t eat so much, but Bobby thought it was well worth it. And you, where have you been?”
    “South Africa,” I say.
    She looks at me strangely.
    “Nate had been there on a school trip and wanted to go back, so we decided to have his bar mitzvah over there.”
    “And you didn’t invite your mother?”
    “I did,” I say. “You sent back the RSVP card with some nasty remark about shvartzes written on it.”
    “I’m entitled to my opinion,” she says.
    “If you can call it an opinion,” I say. “We have another word for it. …”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Racist?”
    “Shhh,” she says. “Not so loud, someone will hear you.” We’re quiet for a moment. “I don’t get it,” she says.
    “What?”
    “Why are you so competitive? Why do you feel like you have to outdo everyone? The wedding at the Pierre”—that was George, not me—“holiday party at the Four Seasons”—George again—“isn’t it enough to have a regular bar mitzvah and a nice Sisterhood Luncheon, like we did for you?”
    “Actually,” I say, not even taking on the George of it all, “my bar mitzvah was a shared event with Solomon Bernstein.”
    “It was good for your father’s business—he got several new clients.”
    “And several people got food poisoning.”
    “No one died,” she says.
    We say nothing for a few minutes. I see Bob in the pool, wearing floaties and talking with another woman.
    “So,” I say, nodding towards Bob, “is the honeymoon over?”
    “It’s only just begun,” my mother says.

    S ofia calls to say she wants me to meet her for coffee. “We need to talk.”
    “In person?” I ask nervously, thinking our last encounter was a close call.
    “I’m not going to pressure you,” she says. “I’d like to review the event and expenses, plus update you on what funds have been received. Also, we never discussed my fee.”
    “Fine,” I say. We make a plan to meet in a local diner.
    “I hope you’re not mad,” she says. “I made a Web page about you and the kids and your trip. I set it up so strangers who read about you and Nate can donate. Sakhile once said something to me, there are strangers, people we don’t know, who care about us. I found that interesting.”
    I nod.
    “It’s amazing—more than a hundred people have sent in contributions, everything from ten dollars to five hundred dollars, people who want nothing in return.”
    “How much is in the BM account?” I ask.
    “As of yesterday, gifts total twenty-seven thousand, three hundred eighty-nine dollars, and eighty-six cents. I think Nate is going to have to pay taxes. I had no idea it would be this much—otherwise we could have set up some kind of nonprofit. Do you want to deduct expenses from the gross?” she asks.
    “No,” I say, “I am paying for the bar mitzvah separately; whatever gifts were received should be absent of a processing fee.”
    “It’s an enormous amount—I wonder if we should give it all at once—I wonder what should happen?”
    “I’ll ask Nate when he’s home from camp.”
    “Okay,” she says. “So about my fee …”
    I’m thinking she’s coming in for the kill, this is how she’s going to get me. … I wouldn’t capitulate, so now she’s going to sting me. I brace myself.
    “Usually I charge between thirty-five hundred and five thousand, but in this case, I want to donate a portion of my usual fee. Fifteen hundred would be fine, if that works for you?”
    I’m flush with surprise. “That’s so nice of you—really generous,” I say, embarrassed by what I’d been thinking.
    “I wasn’t kidding when I said I enjoyed working with you—it meant a lot to me,” she says.
    “Thank you,” I say.
    And now she’s giving me the look.
    “Please,” I beg, “you promised.”
    “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she says, smiling.

    E very Friday night, I take Madeline and Cy out for Chinese food. Mr. and Mrs.