May We Be Forgiven

top of the hill a valet takes the car, and I walk in holding the duffel for George.
    There’s a large reception desk—more like a hotel than a mental hospital.
    “I’m here to see my brother?”
    “What’s his name?”
    “George Silver.”
    “No visitors.”
    I hold up the duffel bag. “I was told to bring his things.”
    She takes the duffel and unpacks it, sloppily piling clothing and underwear on the reception counter.
    “Hey, I folded all that.”
    “We’re a mental hospital, not a fashion show,” she says, handing me his electric toothbrush, his deodorant, his toothpaste. “Unopened products only, and no electronics.”
    “When can I see him?”
    “New admissions, five days no visitors.”
    She puts the rejected products back into the bag. “Do you want to take them, or shall I throw them away?”
    “I’ll take them. So—what happens next? Is there a Coke machine, or a place I could get a cup of coffee?”
    “In town you’ll find a full selection of places to eat.”
    “Look,” I say. “His wife died, and we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.” The woman nods. “I’m finding this foray into mental health is anything but. I drive for three hours to—what—drop off clean underwear?”
    “Enough,” the woman barks. And then she settles down again. “I can give you a copy of our promotional film.” She reaches under the counter and slips me a flat package. “It has all our information, a description of the program. We can’t take you on an actual tour: we’re very protective of our clients’ privacy. I’ll make a note that you’d like the doctor to call you. Family visits are scheduled in advance. We don’t do drop-ins—too disruptive.”
    “I drove a very long way.”
    “Yes, you did,” the woman says. “Would you like to write the note yourself?”
    “Fuck the note,” I mutter, turning to leave.

    F rom a pay phone at Burger King, I call the lawyer; the cell is useless up here—no signal. I pour coins into the pay phone. “You’re getting me out of court to complain that they didn’t accept your toothpaste and that your feelings are hurt?”
    “That’s correct. I drove all the way the hell up here to see him. I could have FedExed his clothing. They didn’t even accept his toothbrush, which he’s not going to be happy about.”
    “I’m sure they’ll tell him that you were there. Showing up counts for something,” the lawyer says. “I gotta go.” He hangs up without further explanation.

    A t the thruway gas station, the cell phone once again has a signal, but my bank card stops working.
    “Yes,” the bank representative says, talking to me from India and not Paterson, New Jersey. “It’s been cut off.”
    “By who?”
    “Fraud Protection. Do you know your password?”
    “Jesus is coming,” I shout. Everyone in the gas station stares at me.
    “No abusive language,” the man on the phone says.
    “I’m not swearing, that’s the password.”
    There is silence except for the clack of computer keys. “Fifteen dollars in a hospital cafeteria; a purchase from a garden store?”
    “I made those charges. Who canceled the card?”
    “I wouldn’t be able to tell you that, but new cards are being mailed out; you should have them in seven to ten days.”
    “Can you send the card to where I’m staying, since I’m not in the city?”
    “Unfortunately, we can only send them to the address on file.”
    “No cell phones,” someone is yelling at me.
    “Are you trying to kill us all?” another guy says.
    “Step away from your car, fuckwad.”
    One hand on the gas nozzle, the other on the phone, I look at them all indignantly.
    “Can’t you fucking read, moron?” one of the guys yells, and points to a sign on the pumps—“Sparks from cell phones and other handheld electronics can ignite gas fumes. Do not pump and text or talk.”
    I take my hand off the pump; the nozzle slips out of the tank, and gas splashes on my shoes. I step away from the car and scream louder. “I’m at a gas station hundreds of miles from my branch,” I say, shouting into the phone. “And I’d ask you your name, but you’ll tell me it’s John or Tom or some made-up name that ‘sounds’ American but really it’s something like Abimanyu .”
    “Would you like to speak to a supervisor?”
    “Please.”
    I get back in my car and start the engine, bracing myself for an explosion, which doesn’t happen. The supervisor comes on the line, and I repeat the story,