May We Be Forgiven

hers?”
    “In the kitchen cabinet, the big jar.”
    “I thought they were yours,” I say. “I’ve been taking them daily.”
    “You’re a moron,” George declares.
    I pull the accordion file out from under my ass. “There are some things I have to ask you. I’ll start with the small stuff: How does the outdoor light for the front yard work? Also, I met Hiram P. Moody, he came to the funeral—does he pay all the bills? Is there anything I need to know or keep an eye on, about the accounts or how Moody gets paid? What’s your PIN number? Also, I tried to use one credit card but it was password-protected; they asked for your mother’s maiden name, I typed in Greenberg, but it didn’t work.”
    “Dandridge,” George says.
    “Whose name is that?”
    “It’s Martha Washington’s maiden name,” he says, like I should know.
    “Funny enough, that had never occurred to me; I thought they meant your mother’s maiden name, not like the mother of America.”
    “Sometimes I forget the actual family, but I never forget Martha,” George says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, you call yourself a historian.”
    “Speaking of history, I tried to enter your place of birth as New York, but again I was wrong.”
    “I use Washington, D. C.,” George says. “It’s really a question of what I can keep in mind.”
    “Exactly,” I say. “And before I forget,” I say, triggered because the word “mind” rhymes with the word “online,” “I met a friend of yours.”
    “Oh,” he says, surprised.
    “She says your dick tastes like cookie dough and says you know her better from the back than the front.”
    The face George makes is priceless. “I’m not sure what this is all about,” he says, flustered. “You said you wanted to ask me about some things in the house, and now this bombshell. Are you sure you’re not working for the enemy?”
    “How would I know? Who is the enemy, and do they identify themselves? And while we’re sailing down the slippery slope, does your lawyer visit you? Are they preparing any kind of a defense? Do you receive any calls or letters?”
    “Nothing,” George says. “I have been forsaken, like Christ on the cross.”
    I am amused by the grandiosity of George’s comparison of his situation to Christ on the cross. “Are you making friends here?”
    “No,” he says, getting up from the table, “they’re all wack jobs.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “I have to take a leak,” he says.
    “Are you allowed to go by yourself?” I ask, genuinely concerned.
    “I may be insane, but I’m not an infant, you asshole,” he says, and exits the dining room.
    Rosenblatt, sitting up front writing in his charts, shoots me a look—all okay?
    I give him the thumbs-up.
    The dining room is empty except for one guy setting tables for tomorrow and another working the carpet sweeper.
    When George comes back, it’s as though we start fresh. He smells like rubbing alcohol. “I Purelled,” he says. “I did my hands and face; it felt so good, I took my shirt off and did my pits too. I love the smell, very refreshing. Gerwin’s got me hooked on the stuff. All day long I see him washing himself—can’t help but wonder what’s going on there, what makes him feel so dirty.” George winks at me.
    I ignore the wink and tell him about the trip to school for Field Day. “I stayed in a B& B for a hundred eighty a night—everything was sold out, the woman rented me her kid’s room. I had a Hello Kitty mobile spinning over my head all fucking night.”
    “I have a room at the Sheraton; it’s booked and paid in full for the next five years.”
    “How would I know?” I ask.
    “You wouldn’t,” he says.
    “So that’s why I’m here: there are things I need to know. Do you think the children should see you, should they come for a weekend?”
    “I don’t think children are popular here,” he says. “I’ve never seen any.” George looks wistful, lost in time. “Do you remember the day—a long time ago, we might have been eight or nine—when I punched a random stranger, some guy who was walking down the street?”
    I nod: who could forget?
    “It was fantastic,” George says, clearly still getting pleasure, if that’s the word for it, from the incident. “I saw him double down and wonder what the hell, and I felt fantastic—high.” He shakes his head, as if clearing the memory and coming back into the present time. “We were lucky little shits who got what we