May We Be Forgiven

the bathroom.
    I ablute (my word for it), and finish with the filling of a plastic water glass, which I spill half of on the carpet en route back to my room. I close the door, put the chair in front of it—there’s no lock—and lay out my nighttime pills. I never thought I’d be using a day-of-the-week pill minder with compartments for morning, afternoon, and evening. It’s like a big book of pills that I carry with me with rubber bands wrapped around it to keep it from an impromptu opening.
    I take my pills, sit on the bed. It’s ten-thirty.
    I decide to call Jason, Aunt Lillian’s son. He’s been on my mind since the visit. I dig out my cell phone, flip it open—good signal here in the bedroom—and find the scrap of paper with Jason’s number. I dial.
    “Hello,” a man answers.
    “Jason, this is your cousin Harry calling.”
    A silence.
    “I visited your mom.”
    Still silence.
    “We had a good talk.”
    Through the wall, I hear the wife, the co-owner of the B& B, say, “What?”
    “Nothing,” the husband says.
    “You called my name.”
    “I didn’t,” he says. “The guy in Laurie’s room is talking to someone.”
    “Someone in the room?” the wife asks.
    “On the phone,” the husband says.
    “Does he seem weird to you?” she asks.
    “No,” the husband says, “he doesn’t seem weird. You’re the one who’s weird—every day you ask me, does someone seem weird. You’re so suspicious, I can’t imagine why you ever wanted to open a B& B.”
    “Jason?” I say. “I’m calling from my cell phone, can you hear me?”
    “Yes,” Jason says. And again there is silence.
    What does Jason think the call is about? Did his mother tell him I came to visit? Does he think I’m calling to tell him his mom has too many outdated jars in the fridge, that the famous cookie tin is near empty and there’s great concern about its ever being refilled?
    “Jason, I’m calling to apologize on behalf of my family. Whatever happened to you in the basement, I’m really sorry.”
    “I don’t remember it,” he says.
    “How could you not remember it? Your mother says it made you gay.”
    “She needs to think something ‘happened’ to make me gay, that life with her wasn’t enough. The family is filled with gays.”
    “Who’s gay?”
    “Aunt Florence,” he says.
    “No!”
    “Yes. And Great-Uncle Henry and his friend Thomas. And, in our generation, Warren and Christian, who wants to become Christina.”
    “Who names a Jew Christian?” I ask, and then pause. I’m getting swept up in the revelations. “Jason, did he harm you?”
    “I don’t know,” he says.
    “Would you be willing to tell someone?” I ask, putting the phone on speaker, sparing myself the burned-ear effect.
    “Like who?” Jason asks.
    “I’m not sure. I don’t know if you heard. …”
    “Of course I heard. The whole world heard; it was the front page of the New York Post . What’s the point of this?” he demands, now fully annoyed.
    “Who’s yelling?” the wife and co-owner of the B& B asks her husband. “Is he sitting in Laurie’s room yelling at someone?”
    “He’s being yelled at,” the husband says.
    “Why did you call?” Jason says.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “George’s doctor asked me to gather information about the family. I went to visit your mother, to understand what the falling out was about. …”
    “Matzoh balls,” Jason says, as though it was a well-known fact.
    “Yes, I know that now. And while I was visiting, your mother told me about what happened in the basement.”
    “You were there when it happened,” he says. “Were you totally oblivious?”
    “Apparently,” I say. “Anyway, I want to apologize for my family.” I take a deep breath and start again, speaking more softly. “Can I ask you a question?”
    There’s a long pause. “You may,” Jason finally says.
    “Is your father dead? Your mother mentioned your father being ‘gone’?”
    “My father left.”
    “What do you mean, ‘left’?”
    “He left for a business trip and never came back, never called, never wrote.”
    “Did she report it to the police?”
    “No, she just let it go.”
    “Did you search for him?”
    “Many years later.”
    “And?”
    “He was hiding. He said he needed to get away. He said Mother wanted more from him than he had to give. He didn’t seem to notice that it affected me as well.”
    “Jason,” I say, repeating myself, “I’m really sorry. If you ever want to