May We Be Forgiven

for Ricardo, lactose-free for Cy, soy for Ashley, and Maxwell House International Instant Peppermint Mocha Latte for Madeline, who described it as her “addiction.” As I go up and down the aisles, grabbing bread, crackers, paper towels, Amanda continues to give me details about things like getting the chimney at the house swept, making sure the storm windows go up. She’s downloading information, letting each bit go like an autumn leaf, riding the breeze as it makes its way down to the ground. After a few more minutes, I say, “Amanda, let it go, you don’t have to worry about this stuff anymore. It doesn’t matter—none of this matters, this is all just stuff.”
    “The stuff of life,” she says. “I’ve been writing it all down so I can pass it on.”
    “These are operating instructions—not what you need to pass on. I’ve got to go,” I say, preparing to hang up. “Take care.”
    In the car on the way home, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of dread—was I out of line? Will she retaliate? I imagine Amanda sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and leading her parents down the stairs, reclaiming them. I imagine myself being proactive—packing everyone up and going underground, like in some kind of witness-protection program. Cy and Madeline are mine now. I’m using them—the children are using them. I can’t afford to lose them.

    C y tells me he needs my help. “We have to go on a little trip—back to the old house. I left something there.”
    “Not a problem,” I say. “Whatever it is, Mrs. Gao can bring it over.”
    “No, we need to go, just you and me, tonight, with a shovel,” he says.
    “Really?” I ask.
    “Yes.”
    I phone Mr. and Mrs. Gao and let them know we’ll be making a surprise visit and ask them to pretend not to see us. As soon as it’s dark, we head over there with two shovels and a couple of head-mounted flashlights I have picked up at the hardware store.
    Cy marches ten paces out from the basement door and three to the left and starts to dig. “It’s about eighteen inches down,” he says.
    “Here, let me, my back is stronger.” He watches me dig for a couple of minutes and then starts digging another hole, about a foot away.
    “There’s more than one?” I ask.
    “Seven or eight,” he says.
    I keep digging until I hear the sound of the shovel hitting metal.
    “Bingo,” Cy calls out.
    We get down on our hands and knees, and I dust off the top of what turns out to be a . 50-caliber military-issue ammunition can, and suddenly I’m terrified.
    “You have ammunition buried in the yard—explosives? This could be dangerous. We could blow ourselves up.”
    “It’s not explosives—it’s cash. I put it in the ammo cans because they’re waterproof. Why do you think I never went along with the idea for an in-ground sprinkler system? It would have wrecked my retirement plan.” He chortles.
    “Cy, are you telling me that you have seven or eight cans of cash buried back here?”
    He nods gleefully. “Yes, I never trusted the markets, so I socked away whatever I could, a little here and there over the years.”
    “And this isn’t the money you stole?”
    “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I gave that back; this is mine.”
    “Are you sure about this, Cy?”
    “Positive,” he says. “Keep digging.”
    And so I do. I dig for hours; we find six cans.
    “That’s odd,” Cy says. “I could have sworn there were more.”
    I shrug. I’m nearly crippled, my head is throbbing, I’m thinking I could have another stroke any minute now. “It’s enough, Cy. Whatever it is, it’s enough.”
    He nods. “There’s ten thousand in each can,” he says.
    “Sixty thousand dollars?”
    “I sold insurance, son, and I was damned good at it. Insurance was big back then, late 1950s, early 1960s. Everyone thought we’d be blown to kingdom come. … I was very careful: every bonus, every little extra bit, I squirreled away. Look,” Cy says as we’re finishing up. “I know it costs a pretty penny to take care of Madeline and me. And Christmas is coming, and I want to do something for the kids—maybe buy them some United States Savings Bonds. And, well, here’s the truth, I’ve always wanted a Lionel train set. Every Christmas, despite my age, I still come downstairs hoping it’s going to be there. And you know what, this year it will be, because I’m going to get it for myself. You’ll come with me,” he says. “We’ll go into New