May We Be Forgiven

the main dining room and into that small dining room. In the middle of it all, surrounded, I see the back of the head of an older man with thick white hair—the former hopeful.
    “You’re a historian?” Gerwin asks, attempting polite conversation.
    “Professor and author; I’m working on a book at the moment.”
    “My kid brother thinks he knows a thing or two about Nixon,” George adds.
    “I’m older, actually, by eleven months. I’m older,” I repeat.
    “What is it about Nixon that interests you?” Gerwin asks.
    “What isn’t interesting? He’s fascinating, the story is still unfolding,” I say.
    “The fact is, my brother is in love with Nixon, he finds him compelling despite his flaws. Kind of like me, a regular laugh riot,” George says.
    “Speaking of you, will George go to jail for the rest of his life?”
    “We’re not the ones who make those decisions,” Gerwin says, as if protecting George.
    “We’re not legal types,” the coach says.
    “Nothing like cutting to the chase,” George says.
    “George, have you told these guys the story of how Dad once knocked you out and how you saw stars for a week?”
    “Remind me,” George says. “How does that one go?”
    “You were giving the old man a hard time about something and he asked you to come closer and you did and then he said, ‘I don’t ever want you to be confused about who’s the boss,’ and he popped you one. Pop was like a Mafia man, always bullying and berating, a very primitive man.”
    “You’re saying bad things about him because he liked me better,” George says.
    “I’m okay with how much he liked me or not,” I say. “When I look back at you, George, I think we should have read the writing on the wall: the coffee cup smashed against the kitchen cabinet, the body-sized dent in the Sheetrock, the trash-can lid bent.”
    “Outbursts against inanimate objects don’t always signal that you’re going to kill your wife,” Rosenblatt says.
    “You’re right. George, do you remember the time a psychiatrist asked you, ‘Have you ever hit a woman,’ and you said, ‘Only on the ass’?”
    George laughs heartily. “I do, I do,” he says.
    “What about target games?” I ask George’s team. “What about when you’re playing carnival games on a boardwalk, shooting a straw of pellets at Mr. Magoo, only you turn your rifle away from Mr. Magoo and aim right at your brother?”
    “Out of context, it’s hard to evaluate,” Rosenblatt says.
    “Did he tell you about how he ran me down with the car?”
    “There you go, dragging out that old chestnut, your favorite of them all. And I didn’t run you down, I bumped you.”
    “On purpose.”
    George shrugs. “I won’t deny it.”
    “His nickname in high school was Vanquisher.”
    “Enough,” Gerwin says. “The point of this dinner was to talk about mindless things, and simply get along.”
    “Yeah,” George says. “Put a cork in it.”
    I dig into my seitan piccata, which tastes like breaded cardboard with a kind of gummy lemon-caper-cornstarch gravy. During the meal, I ask Rosenblatt about when I might have a few minutes with George alone to go over some private family business, house repairs, the children, pets, financials.
    “It’s not on the schedule?” he asks, perplexed.
    I shake my head. “It’s why I’m here; I need to speak with him. How about tonight, after dinner?” I suggest.
    Rosenblatt looks at me like the thought never occurred to him. “Could do,” he says, taking out a pen and scribbling it in on the schedule.
    And so, after Tofutti with fake hot fudge and pots of green tea that taste like fish water, Gerwin, the coach, and Rosenblatt stand. “We bid you adieu,” Gerwin says, “for tonight.”
    The coach slaps George on the back. “Proud of you,” he says. “You’re really working hard.”
    They are so fucking encouraging that it’s nauseating. “Are all the patients treated like this?”
    “Yes,” Gerwin says. “We’re about creating a safe environment—much difficulty comes from fear.”
    “I’ll be over there”—Rosenblatt points to a table near the door—“if you need me.”
    “Fuckin’ freak show,” George says when they’re all gone.
    “And you’re the star,” I say.
    “How’s my dog and kitty?”
    “Fine,” I say. “It would have been nice to know about the invisible fence, but we figured it out.”
    “Are you giving Tessie the vitamins and the anti-inflammatory?”
    “Which ones are