May We Be Forgiven

York and pick it out.” He pauses. “So—you think I’ve got enough for the train?”
    “Yeah, Cy, I think you’ve got it covered.”
    Together we fill in the holes and make a plan to come back and repair the damage to the lawn. “Before they notice,” Cy says—which is of course impossible, because for several hours the Gaos have been staring out their back windows, wondering what the hell we’re doing as we dig up the heavy green metal cans.
    “I should have asked you before we started,” Cy says, “but I’m assuming that you can keep what happened here tonight just between us.”
    “Not a peep,” I say.

    A letter arrives with no stamp, no return address. It’s neatly typed on fine blue stationery.
    Franklin Furness shared your manuscript with me—he wanted my opinion as an off-the-record fact-checker. I put two and two together and wanted to drop you a line, a note of congratulations. I was pleasantly surprised to see that your belief in the dream survives along with your hope that the hearts of men are not as dark as their behavior might lead one to believe. The smog of history never really clears, there’s an enormous amount we’ll never know, suffice to say it hasn’t been a government by the people for a very long time. It’s a company, a multinational—the land of the free and home of the brave as brought to you by the People’s Republic of China. Historical forces are underestimated—just like physicists describe gravity as a weak force—the shape of history is surprisingly easily recast. And here we, you and me, once again front and center of the Zeitgeist, the fragrant and foul, mix fact and what you hope is fiction that is bubbling up like an ancient tar pit. And while we might revel in the accuracy of our conspiratorial musings—and, yes, we were right all along; our youthful doppelgängers are at it again. Do you realize that there are now more than eight hundred and fifty thousand people employed with Top Secret security clearances? No one knows who is doing what, and even those authorized to know it all can’t possibly keep up. A plan or ten could be hatched, threaded through in such a way that it would take years to unfold with no one person in the lead. This is the new terrorism, buttons pushed made by people just doing their jobs with no idea of the cause and effect, the relation of any one action to another. The drone, just look at the definition—a stingless male bee—aka a powerless man—the most dangerous kind. A strange buzzing by your ear—nolonger a humble bee but a fake bug that can be flown into your house, land on your dining room table, or fly right up into your ear and on command, with a computer keystroke, blow you and your house the fuck up and you’d never know why. They are among us and we will never know who they are or what is happening. It is all bigger than any of us could ever imagine. Forty-nine years since the big event—the implosion of American politics, the inauguration of our dark age—and this is where we got to. As you can imagine I am working on a book of my own—seems there are still a few of us thinking along the same lines—carrying baggage, something we need to get off our chests before it’s too late. Anyway, all this to say: Congratulations. Good work. The world needs more men like you, Silver.

    I read the letter several times. I can’t help but be pleased. It’s what I’ve wanted to hear—it confirms my feelings, my suspicions, my hope that it’s not all for naught. I assume it’s from my “friend” at the law firm, the guy in the elevator—but who is he? Is he someone I should know—a familiar name? I pocket the letter, thinking that I’ll do more digging later—maybe there’s something in it, a phrase, a way of speaking, that will ring a bell.

    W alter Penny calls to say that George has been moved again. “He was having tummy trouble, so we sent him to a place with better medical care. I can give you the address and visiting info—it’s been a while since you saw him.”
    “The incident is still fresh in my memory,” I say.
    “Did you get the check?” Penny asks, like that should have fixed it.
    “I did, thank you.”
    Walter gives me the prison information. “It’s about an hour from where you are, overlooking the Hudson.”

    I drive up the following day. On the outside it’s bucolic, set in the landscape like an old castle or fortress. The parking lot has an employee-of-the-month parking spot