May We Be Forgiven

needed.”
    I shrug. “Speaking of oddities,” I say, “there’s a particular memory that keeps coming back to me.” I pause. “Did we screw Mrs. Johannson?”
    “What do you mean, we?” George asks.
    “I have a memory of the two of us screwing the neighbor lady: you giving it to her on the king-sized bed, me cheering you on, bursting with pride—go, go, go. Then, when you were done, she still wanted more, and I gave it to her.”
    “I screwed her and maybe I told you about it,” George says. “I used to mow their lawn, and then sometimes she’d invite me in for lemonade, and then she started inviting me upstairs.”
    Is that what happened, did George screw her, tell me about it, and I came up with a fantasy that put me right there in the room? My mental footage is so vivid, I can see George’s purple prick, sliding in and out of her, her dress hiked up, her dark mother-cave gaping open, like a raw wound.
    I am quiet for a moment, suddenly drained.
    “You asshole,” George says, as I’m packing up the accordion file, getting ready to go. “The one thing you haven’t told me about is Mom. How is Mom? Does she ask about me?”
    I remind George of my own recent incident and tell him that I’ve not seen Mom lately, but that the home says she’s doing well. I tell him about the crawling, and he looks disturbed.
    “She’s crawling like a roach along the floor?”
    “That’s what they say. They have photos, if you want to see them.”
    “You need to go see her,” George says. “The minute you get out of here, you go see her and find out for yourself.”
    “It’s on my list,” I say. “Is there anything else I should know?”
    “Take care of my roses,” he says. “Feed them frequently, spray them, don’t let them get aphids or thrips, black spot, canker, or any other plague. My favorite is the pink Gertrude Jekyll near the front door.”
    “I’ll do my best,” I say. “Do you have any kind of a list of who fixes things, your plumber, electrician, grass cutter, et cetera?”
    “No idea; ask Jane,” he says briskly, and then we are silent.

    “ T ime for bed,” Rosenblatt says, coming to claim us. He’s got Tessie with him, and George reaches for the leash at the same time I do.
    “She’s coming with me,” George says.
    “George wants her,” Rosenblatt says.
    “She’s my dog,” George says.
    “I’ve been taking care of her,” I say. “We’re bonded.”
    “I could be the punishing parent and say Tessie sleeps with neither of you, but I won’t. George gets the dog tonight, because you have the dog all the other nights.”
    “I win,” George says, yanking the leash from Rosenblatt’s hand.

    I am escorted through a back door, out into the cold night, and taken on a shortcut back to my room. I am buzzed through doors, led through double-bolted locked areas, wondering what happens if, God forbid, I need to get out in the night. “I know what you’re thinking,” Rosenblatt says. “Don’t worry, they’re only locked in one direction, you can exit from your side.”
    At the door to my room Rosenblatt says, “We’re very glad you’re here. It’s a good thing.” And I have the feeling he’s going to hug me.
    “All right, then, see you tomorrow,” I say, and quickly dart into the room and close the door. I prop the chair under the doorknob; not only can I not get out, but no one can come in.
    The sight of Tessie’s bag on the luggage rack next to mine makes me aware of how alone I am. Can I fall asleep without the dog, without TV, with nothing to distract me from this nightmare? I unlock the safe, take out my medication, read the directions, realizing that I forgot to take the dinner pills with dinner and hoping it’s all right if I take them now, along with the night pills. I swallow eight various capsules and tablets, put on my pajamas, get into bed, and wait.
    The room makes the Hello Kitty room at the B& B look like a fucking Four Seasons. I find myself actually missing the hamster, craving the black beady eyes, the unrelenting squeak of his wheel. All I’ve got is cinderblock silence.
    To quiet my thoughts, I think of Nixon, his love of bowling, his favorite candy, Skittles, his approach to life: “A man is not finished when he is defeated. He is finished when he quits.” And, “I don’t think that a leader can control, to any great extent, his destiny. Very seldom can he step in and change the situation if the forces of history are running in