May We Be Forgiven

ridden on one.
    “It’s so gross down there,” she says.
    “I’ll stay on the phone with you,” I say. “Where are you now?”
    “In my room.”
    “Do you have phones in the room?”
    “No, I talked someone into loaning me her secret cell, we’re not allowed to have them.”
    “Turn on the radio so no one can overhear you,” I suggest.
    She turns on some music in the background.
    “Okay, now take a look with the mirror and tell me what you see,” I say, thinking I could get arrested for this.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Can you put your finger in the place where you think you put the Tampax in—can you feel it in there?”
    “I can feel it, but I can’t reach it.”
    “Which hole is it in?”
    “The back hole,” she says.
    “The farthest-back hole?”
    “Yes,” she says, exasperated and embarrassed.
    “It’s okay, I’m sure it’s happened to lots of other people. You can’t be the only person who’s made this mistake. Are you sitting or standing?”
    “I’m just standing here.”
    “Okay, well, squat down. Can you feel it now?”
    “Yes, but I still can’t grab it,” she says, her frustration evident.
    “We’re going to get it,” I say. “Don’t worry. So, while you’re squatting down, I want you to push, like you’re trying really hard to go to the bathroom, and see if you can get it out at the same time as you’re pushing.”
    “Oh my God, that’s so gross,” she says. And the phone drops.
    “What happened? Did you get it?”
    “I pooped on the floor,” she says. “It’s disgusting.”
    “Did you get the Tampax?”
    “Yes,” she says. “Oh God, how am I going to clean this up?”
    “Pretend it’s a Tessie poop; use a plastic bag and carry it down the hall to the bathroom.”
    “I gotta go,” she says, hanging up.
    I am left shaken, but, oddly, I feel like a rock star, like I am a NASA engineer having given the directions that saved the space lab from an uncertain end.
    In the evening, when the phone rings again, I answer ahead of the machine.
    “It’s Julie,” she says, reminding me of another Julie, Amtrak Julie: “Hi, I’m Julie, Amtrak’s automated agent. Let’s see if I can help you. Are you calling about a reservation? I think you said that you’d like to speak with someone; one moment and I’ll connect you.”
    “Are you there?” she asks. “Can you hear me okay? I’m on a mobile.”
    “Loud and clear,” I say.
    “Good. I’ve arranged for you to view the materials. Thursday at ten a.m. at the firm of Herzog, Henderson and March.” She gives me the address and closes by saying, “Ask for Wanda, she’ll take care of you.”
    “Is there anything in particular you want me to be looking at or looking for?”
    “I’m sure you have questions, but at this point the less said the better. Take a good look, and then we’ll talk further. And just so we’re clear, this is not an invitation for ongoing access, it’s a first step; if it goes well, we’ll take it from there.” She pauses. “By the way, do you know anyone at Random House?”
    “No one comes to mind,” I say.
    “At one point an editor named Joe Fox asked my father if he had an interest in writing fiction. Does that name ring a bell?”
    “He’s gone on,” I say.
    “To another company?”
    “Dead, collapsed at his desk,” I say, wondering how it is I know this. “He was Truman Capote’s editor.”
    “That explains it,” she says. “My father kept the letter but jotted ‘Never in a million’ in the margin. He hated Capote, loathed him, said he was among the worst of them.”
    “Them?”
    “Homosexuals. Daddy did not like homosexuals.” She pauses. “Thursday at ten, Wanda will show you the way.”
    “Thank you,” I say. “I am intrigued.”
    “As it should be,” she says.

    A t 6 a.m. on Thursday morning, I am showered, wearing one of George’s suits fresh from the dry-cleaning bag, and online looking up “cheapparking . com” to find an inexpensive garage near the law office. I pack one of George’s old briefcases with legal pads and pens and set off.
    I park half a block from Claire’s office; did I not know that, or did I know and choose to forget? The streets are teeming with well-dressed men and women. I feel like an out-of-towner, like everything about me is all wrong. Overcome with déjà vu, I know that I have been here before, under other circumstances; it is as though I now live in an alternate reality and I can’t help but worry there