May We Be Forgiven

truth?”
    “Yes.”
    “My mom’s in the city. She and my dad are having lunch to see if they can work it out.”
    “Okay, then,” I say, backing up, preparing to go.
    “And so”—she pauses for effect—“my brother and I decided to play our version of that TV show Predator . My dad says it’s amazing how dumb people can be. And we knew my mom was up to something, but didn’t know what.”
    And with that the little brother comes out of the powder room, where he’s been hiding, and gets my hands behind my back—slapping the cuffs on.
    “Look,” I say, “first off, you’re doing it wrong, I’ve committed no crime. And, secondly, you’ve got the handcuffs on incorrectly—if you cut off my circulation, you’ve got nothing. You’ve got to make them looser.” The kid doesn’t blink.
    I wiggle my hands. “The cuffs are too tight, they hurt.”
    “I think that’s a good thing,” the kid says. “They should hurt.”
    “Looser, please,” I say. And the kid shakes his head. “Looser.”
    He doesn’t budge.
    I consider falling to my knees, pretending to foam at the mouth, or simulating a heart attack. I wonder how much it would be dramatic play and how much would be real, because I’m actually having a panic attack. I consider falling, but look down at the hard slate floor and calculate the possibility of broken kneecaps as too great a risk.
    “How old are you?” I ask, attempting to distract myself.
    “Thirteen,” the girl says. “And he’s almost eleven.”
    “Didn’t your parents tell you not to let strangers in—how do you know I’m not some monstrous, dangerous person?”
    “My mom wouldn’t have lunch with a dangerous person,” the boy says.
    “I don’t know your mom very well.”
    “Look at you,” the girl says. “You’re not exactly scary.”
    “Do we need more restraints?” the boy asks his sister. “Should I tie up his legs? I have bungee cords.”
    “No,” she says. “He’s not going anywhere.”
    The boy yanks my arm, hard. “Sit down,” he says, pushing me, and I’m surprised by his strength.
    “Hey,” I say. “Go easy.”
    Once I’m seated on the living-room couch, if you can call it seated with your arms locked behind your body, the two kids stand in front of me, as if expecting me to say something. I take the cue.
    “Okay,” I say, “so how’s this gonna work? Is there, like, a hidden camera?”
    “We have a camera,” the boy says. “But no battery.”
    The living room is all white—white sofa, white walls, the only color two bright-red womb chairs. “So—what’s the story?” I ask.
    “Basically, our life sucks,” the boy says. “Our parents pay no attention to us, Dad works all the time, Mom’s entirely electronic, and I can’t remember when we last did anything fun with them.”
    “We think he’s having an affair,” the girl says.
    “What’s an affair again?” the boy asks his sister. She whispers in his ear, and he makes a disgusted face.
    “What makes you think he’s having an affair?” I ask.
    “Whenever his cell phone rings, he runs out of the room. And my mom yells at him, ‘If it’s work, how come you can’t answer it in here?’”
    “We logged into Mom’s computer. She’s also doing weird stuff, and we think our father knows, but aren’t sure.”
    “How many times have you done it with her?” the boy asks, cutting his sister off.
    “Done it?” I say. And then I realize what he’s asking and blush. “Never,” I say. “I’ve never met your mother. We chatted online and she invited me to lunch.”
    “That simple?” the girl asks.
    “Yes.”
    “Do you have a wife?” the girl asks.
    “I’m divorced.”
    “Kids?” the boy wants to know.
    “No.”
    “Okay, but she does,” the girl says.
    “Yeah,” the boy says.
    “I understand,” I say. “Have you tried talking to your mother, asking her what it’s all about?”
    “You can’t talk to her,” the boy says. “She doesn’t talk. All she does is this.” He makes weird repeating motions with his thumbs.
    “My mother only talks to her BlackBerry. All day, all night. In the middle of the night she wakes up to BlackBerry people around the world. I hear her in the bathroom, typing and typing,” the girl says. “My father once got so mad he flushed it down the toilet. It got stuck in the pipe, and the plumber had to come.”
    “Not a good idea,” the boy says.
    “ Very expensive,” the girl says.
    We sit for a while. The kids make