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May We Be Forgiven

May We Be Forgiven

Titel: May We Be Forgiven Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: A. M. Homes
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look at Nate—tall, tousled. The other boys are a range of shapes and sizes and pimple patterns. Nate is among the better-looking, attractive in a way that the others are not. In sport he is neither the best nor the worst; what is clear is that he is the one they all want on their team. He’s a reliable performer, steady, true, with no need to sacrifice the team for personal gratification. I feel an unfamiliar sensation of pride, a rising in the chest, a pleasant reflux as I watch Nate butterfly-stroke across the pool. I cringe, during the fencing exhibition, when the other boy lunges forward, “stabbing” Nate, and the “assault” is called to an end.
    At lunch, various boys and their mothers stop by our table. “If you ever need a place to go during the holidays, you can always come ski with us,” one mom says. Another squeezes his shoulder and asks, “Are you holding up?”
    “I’m doing well,” Nate says.
    “Of course you are,” she says.
    I’m eating my second piece of cake, simply because it is there, because there were four kinds of cake to choose from and two seemed reasonable. I am eating cake when Nate fills me in about the father/ son rock climbing.
    “It’s right after lunch,” he says, clearly looking forward to it.
    “It’s a tradition,” I say sarcastically as I’m pushing my plate away. Too late, one whole piece of cheesecake is gone and half of the chocolate layer.
    “Yes,” Nate says. “It’s on a man-made indoor wall three stories tall. The fathers aren’t expected to go all the way up, but some will—even if it kills them, some will always exceed expectations.”
    “I’m not that man,” I say bluntly. “How about I stand at the bottom and watch you.”
    “Can’t,” Nate says. “It’s a hundred percent participation.”
    “I recently had a minor stroke and am supposed to avoid overexertion,” I say.
    Nate looks at me, worried, suddenly fragile.
    “I’m fine,” I say. “I just have to be a little careful.”
    “You’re pretty much just managing your own weight,” he says. “Would that be okay? There’s a harness and a lock, so you can’t really fall.”
    “I never was much of an athlete,” I say.
    “Trust me, these guys aren’t either—they’re blowhards.”
    It’s turning into a standoff—my dread of sports, of having to show off or, worse, failing to show off, in front of all these children and their parents, is making me cranky. “Dad would never do it either,” Nate says, annoyed.
    “Why not?” I ask; I’m surprised.
    “No real reason. Every year I signed up for it, it always happened that he didn’t have to do it—a call he had to take, a pulled this, sprained that.”
    “I’ll do it,” I say, finding inspiration in the fact that George never would.

    T he climbing teacher fits each of us with a harness. We’re given a lesson on how the ropes work. He makes it sound simple, effortless—I’m sweating. The other men look no more or less capable; a last-minute addition is a chunky guy wearing dark sunglasses and dressed like he’s left the house in his black long underwear—or someone else’s long underwear, because it’s way too tight. He’s wearing nothing beneath it—his cock and balls are pancaked, all too explicitly. I can’t help but stare, and then wonder, is this kind of full-on peacock display standard around here?
    By the time I get four feet off the ground, I’m praying that Nate, who’s holding my line, is stronger than he looks, and that when I plummet, he doesn’t go flying through the air like some seesaw gone wrong. I’m both defying gravity and entirely aware of gravity’s pull.
    “Use your feet,” Nate says, coaching from below.
    I feel around for the lumps of faux rock to use for leverage; they’re like doorstops. Pushing off, I rise a few feet and then grab at the holds just above my head.
    “Push,” he says, “push yourself up, don’t pull. It’s easier.”
    For sixty-five thousand dollars a year in tuition, according to the school’s Web site, I’m glad he’s learning something about physics.
    I push up and belch; acrid coffee and cake fill my mouth. I swallow, get my footing, and push again. There are other men above and below me; the air is filled with a gamy scent of men under pressure. I go higher, determined, really fucking determined.
    While I’m on the wall, the Headmaster comes around, working the crowd on the ground, shaking hands. I’m two stories up and hoping that Nate

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