May We Be Forgiven

bigger cities.
    “A bus is a way out,” Nate says. “Let’s think of ways in—things that make life better in the village.”
    “Cable television and a really big TV?” one of the South Africans suggests.
    “I’m thinking more along the lines of having a well dug,” Nate says, his voice becoming increasingly tense, sad.
    “That would be very expensive,” Sakhile says.
    “Exactly,” Nate says, “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
    The conversation continues, with the South Africans talking about all the things they might buy, from electric guitars to Vespas and refrigerators.
    “Enough,” Nate says. “You are becoming just like us: you aren’t thinking of your village, of your parents, your children, your future; you’re thinking that you want a fancy car and a gigantic TV.”
    We are all silent.
    “The child is pointing the way,” Londisizwe says.
    “We are not going to resolve this tonight,” I say. “Let’s give it some thought and talk again soon.”
    “I feel terrible,” Nate says when we are off the computer. “I created a monster.”
    “You didn’t create it,” I say.
    “Well, then, I fed it,” Nate says, disgusted with himself.
    “No one is immune. It is human nature to want, for each generation to aspire to more. People confuse things with achievement, with other kinds of progress. It’s the measure of success.”
    “Whoever has the most toys wins?” Ricardo says.
    “You don’t have to give them the money,” I suggest.
    “It’s their money,” Nate says. “It was given to me for them. Whatever we do with it has to be for the village, for the future—food, housing, ensuring the quality of the water supply.”
    “I’m impressed that you don’t just walk away,” I say.
    “I can’t walk away,” Nate says. “I started this.”
    “And you can’t blame them. They’re from another country, but they live in the same world as we do.”

    L abor Day weekend is spent packing and shopping for school supplies.
    Come Tuesday, we all make the pilgrimage with Nate back to the academy. Nate seems to enjoy giving Cy and Ricardo a tour, and Ricardo asks if one day he might get to go to a school like this. “Yes,” I say. “If you want to.”
    We get Nate set in his dorm room, Cy gives him twenty bucks “mad money,” and we head home. The next day, Ashley and Ricardo start at the public school down the road, and by the end of the week Madeline and Cy are signed up for three days a week at a program for seniors.
    Even my mother places herself in the autumn mix, informing me that she and her husband are going back to school. They’ve signed up with OLLI, an organization devoted to Lifelong Learning, and are taking classes in political science and radio theater.
    Nobody seems to notice that I am the only one who has not gone back to school. I am now officially unemployed; the feeling is disconcerting—I manage the stress by organizing everyone else.
    The house is filled with life. There are people coming and going constantly. Ricardo gets a pet frog and a turtle and begins taking drum lessons. Ashley resumes her piano lessons. On weekends there are activities such as leaf raking; Cy and Ricardo enjoy creating enormous piles and then either jumping in them or simply walking straight through, and having to do it all over again. We borrow the Gaos’ minivan and go on group excursions to see the foliage, or go pick apples and pumpkins. It is all good and mostly uncomplicated—except for the twenty minutes during which Cy goes missing in a corn maze.

    I meet with Hiram P. Moody, to discuss the cash flow—he seems to think it’s not a problem. “Families are like little countries,” he says. “It’s an ecosystem, an ebb and flow. Between the money coming in for rent for Cy and Madeline’s house, their Social Security checks, and income from investments—they’re fine. With regard to Ashley and Ricardo, you function like a human cash machine, but between Jane’s life-insurance coverage, George’s severance from the network, their previous investments, and the settlement from Ashley’s school—you’re more than fortunate.”
    I try to live within my means; they’re limited, but I have the benefit of George’s full wardrobe, and when my insurance runs out, I pick up a freelancers’ health policy, and beyond that my wants and needs are few.
    I keep track of all the money in dedicated notebooks—one for each child, one for Cy and Madeline, and another for the