May We Be Forgiven

out on. He sold insurance. He worked the congregation temple. Then, later, he went into investments. If you ever questioned something your father did he’d explode—he managed to do things his way by making everyone afraid.”
    I nod. What she’s saying fits with my own, dimmer recollection.
    She goes on: “Now, my husband, he didn’t like the family, felt they were too judgmental and undereducated. And he was right. Your father would argue with Morty and wouldn’t give up until Morty crumbled—didn’t matter if he was right or wrong.”
    I shake my head.
    “And then Morty was gone. I never said it, but to a large degree I blame your father for that,” she says with a sound of disgust, a kind of sputtering spit, as though she’s revealed a deeply held secret. “Your father was like that, always needed all of the attention and acted like a child if he didn’t get it. That’s why he and your brother never got along—they were the same. And you,” she says, wagging a gnarled finger at me, “you stood there like a little retard.”
    I say nothing—as far as I can remember, no one’s ever referred to me as a “little retard.”
    “Was there something specific that happened, a reason that we stopped seeing your family?” I ask, jotting down the comment about my being a retard in the margin of the legal pad I’m using to write notes on.
    “I had a falling out with your mother.”
    “My mother?”
    “I know what you’re thinking—she was the one who was easy to get along with—but she picked up a trick or two from your father.”
    “What was the falling out about?”
    “Matzoh balls.”
    I glance up to see if she’s kidding. Lillian looks at me as if to say, Isn’t it obvious?
    “A matzoh-ball war,” she says. “Do you make them in the soup or separately? What is the ideal consistency, fluffy or chewy?”
    I look at her, waiting for more, waiting for the answer. “Your mother seemed to think whatever her answer was had to be the right answer and also meant she was a better Jew. And, frankly, between that and your father, I couldn’t be bothered to stay in touch. Just because we don’t talk to you doesn’t mean we don’t talk amongst ourselves.”
    I’m about to ask who from the family is still alive when she abruptly cuts me off.
    “And then there was the incident with you kids in the recreation room.” Again she gives me the look. “Are you playing dumb or are you actually dumb?”
    Not knowing what she’s talking about, I decline to answer.
    “Your brother performed surgery on my son,” she says, as though offering me a clue, a little something to jog my memory.
    “What kind of surgery?”
    “He recircumcised him, using a compass and a protractor and Elmer’s glue.”
    I vaguely remember something. It was one of the Jewish holidays, and all of the children were downstairs playing. I have a thirty-watt memory of being down on the floor, on the rug with the cousins, and there being an intense Monopoly game going on with some off-site buying and selling of property and hotels, and while we were playing, my brother and my cousin Jason were doing something at my father’s desk that seemed strange. I remember thinking how like George it was, getting someone to do something they shouldn’t for his pleasure. The recreation room was part playroom, part office, with the office area blocked off by file cabinets and white shag carpeting, so it wasn’t like I could actually see what he was doing, but I knew it was weird.
    “Was Jason all right?”
    “Yes, there was very little physical damage—a small cut, a lot of blood, and a visit to a plastic surgeon—but now he’s gay.”
    “Are you saying that George made Jason gay?”
    “Something did—I don’t think you’re born gay, do you? Something happens, a trauma that turns you that way.”
    “Aunt Lillian, there are lots of gay people who would say that’s the way they came, and in fact some theories about intrauterine hormonal levels …” I go on, wondering how I even know this; must have been an article I read. Whatever I’m saying is clearly irrelevant to what Lillian believes. “What did my parents say about the incident?”
    “I never told them. Jason swore me to secrecy; he was so humiliated,” she says. “George only stopped because someone went downstairs to check on you kids.”
    “Who came down?”
    “Aunt Florence.”
    “And what did she see?”
    “She saw nothing, but it frightened George and he