May We Be Forgiven

his aunt.”
    “Where does he sleep?” the social worker wants to know.
    I take her to Nate’s room and show her the bunk bed—Ricardo’s is the bottom bunk, with all the stuffed animals. “He likes animals,” I say, showing her his frog and the turtle.
    “How does he get to school?”
    “He and Ashley, my niece, walk to and from school together.”
    “Have you completed your advocacy training?”
    “Not yet. I’m signed up to start in a few weeks—the classes were all full.”
    “And have you thought about the impact of a foster child on the family?”
    “Yes,” I say. “The family is thrilled; in fact, it was the children’s idea.”
    “Your approach to discipline?”
    “Firm but flexible.”
    “I see you have your parents living with you,” she says.
    I nod and say no more.
    “And the small outbuilding in the yard?”
    “It’s a temporary structure,” I say. “A celebration of the autumn.”
    “The boy cannot sleep there,” she says, firmly.
    I nod. “Of course not.”
    “Your application mentions one cat?” The social worker says, as the two cats run by.
    “She had kittens,” I say, leading the social worker the rest of the way around the house.
    “How many children live in the home?” the social worker asks.
    “Three,” I say.
    “Don’t forget our brown babies,” Madeline calls out, “that’s five in all.”
    The social worker visibly bristles at the phrase “brown babies.”
    “They’re twins,” Cy yells, over the narration of the golf tournament.
    “The babies are dolls from South Africa,” I explain. “Dolls are very good for older people, they think of them as real.”
    The social worker nods without interest. “If you are approved, you will be paid for board and care; you will receive a clothing allowance; money can be requested for special things, such as after-school programs, tutoring, a winter coat, and clothing for religious occasions. But, given budget constraints—don’t ask. To avoid the appearance of servitude, please don’t have the child do any cooking, cleaning, anything that might be construed as work for hire.” She hands me some papers to sign and is gone.
    “I hope you’re not going to hire that woman to work here,” Madeline says. “Tessie and I thought she had an attitude.”

    I am in the A& P when Amanda calls. I look around, thinking perhaps she is here, watching me through the loaves of bread, peering over the mountain of navel oranges. I am here often, because we use more groceries than ever before: numerous appetites to cater to, young and old.
    “Where are you?” I ask.
    She doesn’t want to say.
    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine. You?”
    The randomness of her call has caught me off guard. I feel intruded upon. “Good,” I say. “Funny enough, I’m in the A& P right now; they changed the layout, they put in a new pathway, like a winding country road, it’s supposed to make shopping more relaxing, more natural.”
    There’s a long pause. “What else?” she asks.
    “I finished my book.” I offer myself up, leaving out the part about the lightning strike. “Your parents are doing well; the kids are at school. What have you been doing?”
    “It’s hard to say,” she says.
    I find my frustration growing: her opacity, the thing that used to make her seem compelling, the impossibility of knowing what she was really thinking, is now an irritant.
    “Can I ask you a question?” I pause. “When ‘something’ happens, do you want to know?”
    “No,” she says, definitively, “I really don’t. I like not knowing, just imagining. Knowing might change something; I might end up doing something differently. I don’t want to be burdened.”
    “Okay,” I say. “Do me a favor. …”
    “What?” she asks.
    “Don’t call this number again.” I pause. “It’s not all about you, Amanda, it’s not like you get to leave your parents with a total stranger, like it’s a coat check, and then just check back whenever you want, to make sure everything is right where you left it.”
    I hear the sound of rustling paper in the background. “A couple of things,” she says, ignoring everything I said. “Every year, my parents go to West Point for the Army-Navy game—they have season tickets. Have they mentioned it?”
    “No,” I say. “Not a peep.”
    “And it’s their anniversary on the twenty-fifth of September. Forty-five years.”
    As she talks, I’m in the dairy section, filling the cart: low-fat milk