May We Be Forgiven

primary relationship?”
    “No,” I say, wondering how much he knows about the events that have brought us to this moment.
    “Prostitutes?”
    “Is this about me or George?” I ask. “Feel free to write down ‘defensive’ there, in that box. I want to help my brother, but, that said, I do feel I am entitled to have a private life.”
    “Yes, we all have a private life,” Gerwin says, echoing my sentiment. “Prostitutes?” he asks again.
    “No prostitutes. A private life—by that I mean one not discussed with you.”
    “From our perspective, given the circumstances, it would be useful to discuss certain things.”
    “Better for you than for me,” I say.
    “How do you describe your emotional life?”
    “I don’t have one,” I say honestly. In this arena I am actually jealous of Nixon—he was a good crier, you might even call him a crybaby. He often wept, or more like sobbed, openly. “I avoid emotion.”
    “We all have our strategies,” he says. “If something happens that you don’t like, if someone treats you poorly, what do you do?”
    “I pretend it never happened,” I say.

    W e find George on the tennis court, with the ball machine firing balls at him and a coach shouting at him to swing, flatten out, follow through.
    “He’s got a strong backhand,” the doctor says, watching through a window.
    “Always did,” I say.
    At the end of George’s lesson, I’m invited to meet him in the locker room. Gerwin takes Tessie, and I go in to find George naked in the shower, talking to me through the soap and water.
    “Is Tessie with you?” he asks.
    “Just outside. I didn’t bring her in; she doesn’t like tile. Your backhand looks good,” I say, trying to make conversation. I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to talk about.
    “They say I’m making progress.”
    “That’s great,” I say, and I’m half wondering if he thinks he’s on some sort of executive retreat and not an inpatient in a lunatic asylum.
    “Almost time for dinner,” he says. “You staying?”
    “Yes,” I say. “I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow.” It’s all a bit strange, out of body. I’ve been sent by his doctors into the locker room to reunite with him while he’s naked and floating in what would appear to be a heavily medicated, post-game high.

    “ I ’ll let you get dressed,” I say, preparing to leave. I exit and find Gerwin, who hands me the leash, with Rosenblatt and the tennis coach, all standing around talking about how good it is that George is “back in the game.”
    When George comes out of the locker room, Tessie sees him and pulls hard on the leash. George gets down on his knees, in front of her, butt in the air, arms extended—play position. The dog is excited but suspicious. George rolls onto his back, puts his hands and feet in the air. The dog acts like she’s pleased to see him but knows he’s nuts. I feel the same way myself—cautiously optimistic.
    “Smart girl,” I say.
    As we go into the dining room, one of the staff takes Tessie, leading her off “while you have dinner.”
    George turns to me and says, “You look old.”
    “I had a little incident,” I say.
    “Didn’t we all,” he says.
    “I had another one,” I say. “After that one.”
    Rosenblatt, Gerwin, and the tennis coach follow us into the dining room.
    We sit. I tuck the accordion file of papers I brought from home and have been carrying everywhere under my thighs. A waiter asks how many of us would like a “berry blast.” They all raise their hands.
    “Are you in or out?” the coach says, looking at me.
    “What’s a berry blast?”
    “A green-and-red smoothie, antioxidant-rich, with added omega-3,” he says, as though it’s obvious.
    “Fine,” I say, “I’m in.”
    “What’s the candy bar?” George asks.
    “A Toffee-Mocha Musketeer.”
    I’m wishing I knew what language they were speaking. “I’ll have the steak,” I say.
    “We’re vegetarian,” the waiter says. “I can bring you seitan piccata. It’s a mock meat; people say it tastes like veal.”
    “Can’t wait.”
    The waiter takes the rest of the orders and lets us know that the salad bar is open. I look at the other guests. It’s hard to tell who’s on staff and who’s a patient; everyone looks like they’re dressed to play golf. On the other side of the salad bar, there’s a door leading to what looks like a private dining room. Suddenly there’s a burst of commotion as an entourage sweeps across