May We Be Forgiven

to engage in a ‘he said, she said.’ It has to stop.”
    I say nothing.
    “Okay, then,” Larry says. “There’s one other thing—the clock. She says you took the clock from her side of the bed. It was a four-by-four-inch square black Braun travel clock.”
    “I’ll buy her a new clock,” I say.
    “She doesn’t want a new clock,” Larry says. “She wants her clock.” A long silence passes. “She’s not asking for anything else, no alimony, no support of any kind. I’m authorized to offer you two hundred thousand dollars to never speak to her again.”
    “That hurts,” I say.
    “I could push it to two fifty,” Larry says.
    “It’s not the money, it’s that Claire never wants to speak to me again, with the added insult that, in order to accomplish that, she thinks she’s got to pay me off.”
    “So, you’ll take the two hundred?”
    “Two fifty,” I say.
    “And you’ll send her the clock.”
    “Fine,” I say. And we are done.

    I need air. I clip on Tessie’s leash. She is hesitant to leave the yard, and as we get closer to the sidewalk, I have to really pull on her.
    “Come on, Tessie,” I say. “I know you like your house, but dogs need to go for walks. I need to go for a walk; once around the block and we can call it a night?” The dog sits down at the edge of the grass and won’t budge. “Well, I can’t very well go without you,” I say. “A man walking on his own is suspicious. A man walking with a dog is someone doing his duty.” I give the leash a strong yank, and Tessie yelps as she comes across the sidewalk.
    “Are you okay? Did I pull too hard?”
    I’ve never walked these streets at night. It’s kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying. There’s a sense of false calm, long driveways, houses at the end—lights on, emanating a pleasant kind of melancholy—the distant sounds of children playing, dogs barking.
    Along the way, Tessie stops to eat strange things, dark lumps. I use my cell phone to get a better look. I’m thinking horseshit, but it seems odd, you don’t see many horses around here.

    T he next morning, George’s lawyer’s secretary calls. “Do you have a pen?” she asks.
    “Yes.”
    “I have information for you. Your brother has been moved to The Lodge, Mohonk Pavilion, Room B. They want a list of medications in the home medicine cabinet: date, dose, pharmacy, doctor. And any info regarding personal physician and psychiatrist would be helpful. Go through his credit-card receipts; anything unusual in the last six months, we want to hear about it. Meanwhile, charges have been filed.” At first I’m thinking she’s saying that George’s credit card has been used to charge something, like when they suddenly cancel you because someone tries to buy a tractor online with your card number. But she goes on: “The district attorney is saying he left the hospital with the intent to do harm.”
    “Oh, I really don’t think so,” I say, surprised.
    Something out the window catches my attention: a woman in full riding gear, crop in hand, strolls by atop a gigantic and very expensive-looking horse. It’s cold out, and as the horse goes by I see steamy breath billowing out of its enormous nostrils.
    “They’re looking at murder or voluntary manslaughter, the bottom line being that, in their view, it wasn’t an accident.”
    “Maybe he came home because he missed the dog. He’s very close to the dog.”
    “Like he just needed to leave the hospital in the middle of the night and give her a cookie?” the secretary says.
    “Yes, like that,” I say.
    “Lots of luck, mister,” she says. “I’ll fax you directions to The Lodge.”
    While waiting for the fax, I find a duffel in the closet and fill it with polo shirts, sweatpants, khakis. I grab socks, underwear, his toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit, sneakers, and bathing trunks—you never know. The dog barks—the mail slot clinks—a handwritten note slides across the floor. “We have something for you.” I open the door—
    The street is empty.

    I t’s a beautiful day for a car ride. That said, I’m still surprised at how far The Lodge is upstate, deep in the hills, a rustic Adirondack mansion with a gatehouse .
    A man comes out and asks me to pop the trunk. He uses a mirror to look under the car, waves a metal detector over me and the bag. “Mind if I hold this?” He’s got the tire jack in his hand. “We won’t let you leave without it. We’re very careful,” he says.
    At the