May We Be Forgiven

the community in which we live. Mental health begins with each individual, but mental illness unchecked spreads exponentially.” As he speaks his enthusiasm swells, as though the idea of an entire mentally ill country is amazing, a perfect storm of challenge. He takes a calming breath and shifts back to a more modulated voice. “We’ve run a battery of tests on your brother—blood, brain scan, standardized intelligence panels—and are wondering if you’d consent to have the same tests done, for comparative purposes.”
    “I’m not so sure I want my head examined.”
    “You don’t have to decide tonight.” He pauses. “Let me ask you another question: beyond your mother are there any relatives of your parents’ generation still with us?”
    “My father’s sister.”
    “Would you be willing to pay a visit and ask some questions?”
    “Perhaps,” I say, unwilling to admit my own curiosity about why no one in the family has spoken of Aunt Lillian in years—was there a falling out?

    W hile the doctor is talking, I’m on George’s computer. Like a reflex, I automatically start Googling. First I check the ten-day forecast on the Weather Underground and then without thinking I type in “Sex+Suburbs+NYC,” and a thousand sites pop up, as though the computer itself goes into hyperdrive. I put in the ZIP code, and am filling out the quick search. I am a MAN looking for a WOMAN between 35 and 55.
    What’s my e-mail? the computer wants to know. My e-mail address, Mihous13@aol. com, feels like something left behind, like it belongs to another person in another time. I craft a new one, AtGeodesHouse@gmail. com, certify that I am over eighteen, and voilà . It’s surprising how fast you can find naked women online.
    The doctor is asking about food allergies: peanuts, wheat, gluten … “Was George a picky eater? Did he have issues with his clothing, finding tags irritating? Did he rock or spin?”
    “He threw rocks,” I say, “right at people’s heads.”
    “Again,” the doctor says, “that’s your opinion.”
    “He frequently threw rocks that hit people in the head,” I rephrase.
    “Bad aim,” the doctor says. “And what about food?”
    “He didn’t throw food.”
    “Did he eat it happily?”
    “In our generation there wasn’t an option not to like something, you either ate it or you didn’t. You wore the clothes your parents bought you—or you wore the ones your cousin wore before you—there wasn’t a lot of choice.”
    “Did he have trouble in school?”
    “He liked school. He was big for his age, and there were a lot of people he could pick on. At home, funny enough, my father thought of himself as the boss, which didn’t go over so well with George.”
    I’m seeing breasts, lots of breasts. Apparently, women photograph their breasts and post them online and, depending on how far you’re willing to drive, you can date a woman who is large, small, ginormous, subtle or not.
    I’m filling out forms, describing myself, my hobbies, my income, eye color, hair pattern, all in haste to locate a woman who might want to meet me, who might want to do more than meet me.
    “So—it was only the two of you growing up?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And George and his former wife had two children?”
    “She wasn’t his former wife, she was his wife.”
    “They had two children?”
    “Correct.”
    “And the children, where are they now?”
    “Away at school. Nate is doing okay, and Ashley is in the infirmary with strep throat.”

    M y mind wanders to what’s on-screen; I am glad to be doing this under professional supervision, able to devote only a portion of my attention to what’s before me, and equally glad that my “professional supervisor”—aka George’s shrink—has no idea. If I were left alone with these sites, I would be overwhelmed. It’s all more than I’d ever imagined. Why have I never done this before?
    The doctor senses my distraction. “How do the children deal with their father?”
    “Well, since he killed their mother, I think that changes things. I don’t think it’s clear yet to what degree. The last time they saw him was at the cemetery when they were burying their mother.”
    I am going through photo after photo, a veritable fleshy catalogue of human anatomy. Who knew that people would advertise themselves so explicitly, by showing their bare bits, it’s so … animal kingdom.
    The doctor is still speaking: “We’d like to encourage you to come up. Could