May We Be Forgiven Part 24

"Root beer, actually," Nate says.

"I like your sporran," I say, unable to help myself. "Is it sealskin?" And I'm wondering, where the h.e.l.l did I pull the word "sporran" from?

"It is sealskin," he says. "You've got a good eye. It was my grandfather's," he says, affecting a full Scottish accent.

"And so it was," I say.

He nods. "Have a good dinner, and congratulations on your climb. I'm glad to finally see where Nathaniel's prowess comes from."

The Headmaster saunters off to another table.

"What were you talking about-sp.a.w.ning salmon?" Nate asks.

"Sporran. His purse. I complimented him on his purse. That's what that chain-belted thingy is-no pockets with a kilt."

Nate is, for a moment, impressed.

I pull out my packet of pills (and the page of directions) and line up the dinner series, before, during, and after.

"So what else about you, Nate, should I know?"

"I have a school in South Africa," Nate says. "I'm pretty proud of that."

"You mean you raised money to help build a school?-I think your mom mentioned something about that."

"I built it," he says, flatly.

"With your hands?"

"Yes, with my hands, and with the villagers who live there, and some wood and nails and sheets of metal-all the things you build a school with. And I set up a water-filtration system for the town. It's named for me. It used to have another name, but everyone who lives there calls it Nateville."

Is he telling the truth? "How were you able to do this all by yourself?"

"It's not as hard as you think," Nate says. "It's kind of like a big Lego. I had these Sunset books of plans for small structures that I was going to use to build myself something in the backyard, and we used those for inspiration. The real question is, if a kid can do it, why can't others? There's no reason the world is in as bad shape as it is, except that people are so f.u.c.king pa.s.sive and immobile and focused on what can't happen instead of what can."

Nate goes on. Everything he says is not only true, it is logical, well considered, articulate, persuasive. He's explaining himself and the world around him, and all I can think is that it's shocking that George didn't kill him too.

I am falling in love with Nate; he's the boy I wish I had been, the boy I wish I was even now. I'm in awe of him and terrified. He's more capable than any of the rest of us and yet he's still a kid.

"Does your dad know you can do all this?"

"I doubt it," he says.

"Did you ever tell him?"

"I don't know how to say this politely, but when Dad came up here, he was basically shaking a lot of hands and didn't exactly notice anything. And I'd like to keep it that way. He never noticed me, thought I was some lump of a loser sucking up air and resources-that's what he called it, resources."

"He's a pretty tough customer," I say.

"I don't want to talk about it," Nate says.

"Not a problem," I say. "What can we talk about?"

"Why didn't you and Claire have kids?"

I take the beer from Nate and drink too much, too quickly; it tickles my nose and I choke, spitting Guinness across the table.

"Pretty," Nate says as I wipe it up.

"We almost had a baby. Claire got pregnant once and something happened."

"She lost the baby?" Nate presses for clarity.

I nod. That's the polite version of it. The truth is, the baby was stillborn and got stuck and actually came apart as they were pulling it out. I saw the whole thing. I'd been on Claire's side of the drape, and then, when they were pulling the baby out, the doctor made a painful sound, and so I stood up and looked over and saw pieces. It must have been dead for a while. Claire lifted her head. "Can I see the baby?" she asked. "No," I said, too abruptly. And I never told her the rest.

"The baby has pa.s.sed," the doctor said, and I was never sure if he was trying to tell her that it was all out or that it was born dead.

"Claire was depressed for a long time. 'It's hard to say goodbye to someone you never met,' she'd say. And I didn't know what to say. We didn't talk about trying again, it was too painful, too traumatic."

"Did you like my mother?" Nate asks, pulling me back into the present.

The waitress puts my plate down in front of me; steam rises from the potato, and the meat, like smelling salts, revives me.

"Did you?" he asks again.

"Yes," I say easily.

"Did you love her?"

"It's all a bit complicated," I say.

"Do you miss her?"

"Enormously," I say.

"I like to think she died for a reason," Nate says. "To die for love is a reason."

"Has anyone asked if you want to see your dad?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "And no." He pauses.

"How often do you talk to Ashley?"

He looks surprised. "I call her every day."

"Did you always?"

"No," he says, and then pauses again. "You grow up thinking your family is normal enough, and then, all of a sudden, something happens and it's so not normal, and you have no idea how it got that way, and there's really nowhere to go from here-it will never be anywhere near normal again. It's not even like an accident when someone is killed because a tree falls on their head, it's not like you can be mad at someone else, some stranger..." He trails off. "What ever happened to the boy?"

"What boy?"

"The boy who survived the car accident?"

"He's living with his family-an aunt, I think."

"We should do something for him," Nate says.

"Maybe we could set up a fund to make sure he has what he needs," I suggest.

"We could take him with us on vacation," Nate says. "I really love amus.e.m.e.nt parks; I bet he does too."

"I can certainly look into it. Is that what you'd like to do, take the boy somewhere on a vacation?"

"It's the least we can do," he says, and he's right.

We eat. There is truly nothing better than an iceberg-lettuce wedge with blue-cheese dressing, steak, and a baked potato. I heap cold sour cream into the steaming potato jacket, reminding myself that sour cream is not on my doctor's list of recommended foods. f.u.c.k it. I grind salt and pepper across the top-it's sublime.

After dinner I take Nate back to school, slowly snaking up the driveway as part of a long line of parental vehicles returning the boys for safekeeping.

One can imagine how and why humans, young men in particular, form special clubs, develop rituals, habits that are repeated and pa.s.sed on. There is great comfort in these things, refuge in being one of many, part of a group, a pack-apart from the family.

"Do adults ever sneak in and stay over?" I ask, longing for an intimate view of dormitory life.

"No," he says.

I take my foot off the brake, and the car gently coasts up the hill. One by one, in front of the main building, the boys are welcomed back, checked in for the night. "Church begins promptly at nine a.m., coffee and continental breakfast at eight a.m.," the Headmaster says, and I'm sent on my way.

"Thanks for climbing the wall," Nate says. "It was awesome."

As he's closing the car door I blurt, "I love you." The slamming door crunches my words. Nate opens the door again.

"Sorry, did you say something?"

"See you in the morning."

"Will do," he says, slamming the door a second time.

I head over to the bed and breakfast. It is as though I am the child and I left the grown-up-Nate-in the big house on the hill. My room at the B&B is tiny-it's what would commonly be known as a maid's room-and has a pleasant cedar smell. When I arrive, the lady of the house asks if I mind the resident child's hamster remaining in my room overnight. She explains that they can relocate him if need be, but if at all possible it's better he stay put. "He gets confused if we move the cage. I think he has Alzheimer's, although I'm not sure what the symptoms are in a hamster."

I look at the hamster, the hamster looks at me. I don't think he has Alzheimer's-he seems far too "conscious." I turn away and undress, an alien among the white fauxQueen Anne furniture decorated with h.e.l.lo Kitty stickers. Who is this h.e.l.lo Kitty? From what I gather, she's no Janis Joplin or Grace Slick. I pick up the small pile of rough towels off the bed, throw one over my shoulder, and go down the hall to the bathroom.

I ablute (my word for it), and finish with the filling of a plastic water gla.s.s, which I spill half of on the carpet en route back to my room. I close the door, put the chair in front of it-there's no lock-and lay out my nighttime pills. I never thought I'd be using a day-of-the-week pill minder with compartments for morning, afternoon, and evening. It's like a big book of pills that I carry with me with rubber bands wrapped around it to keep it from an impromptu opening.

I take my pills, sit on the bed. It's ten-thirty.

I decide to call Jason, Aunt Lillian's son. He's been on my mind since the visit. I dig out my cell phone, flip it open-good signal here in the bedroom-and find the sc.r.a.p of paper with Jason's number. I dial.

"h.e.l.lo," a man answers.

"Jason, this is your cousin Harry calling."

A silence.

"I visited your mom."

Still silence.

"We had a good talk."

Through the wall, I hear the wife, the co-owner of the B&B, say, "What?"

"Nothing," the husband says.

"You called my name."

"I didn't," he says. "The guy in Laurie's room is talking to someone."

"Someone in the room?" the wife asks.

"On the phone," the husband says.

"Does he seem weird to you?" she asks.

"No," the husband says, "he doesn't seem weird. You're the one who's weird-every day you ask me, does someone seem weird. You're so suspicious, I can't imagine why you ever wanted to open a B&B."

"Jason?" I say. "I'm calling from my cell phone, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Jason says. And again there is silence.

What does Jason think the call is about? Did his mother tell him I came to visit? Does he think I'm calling to tell him his mom has too many outdated jars in the fridge, that the famous cookie tin is near empty and there's great concern about its ever being refilled?

"Jason, I'm calling to apologize on behalf of my family. Whatever happened to you in the bas.e.m.e.nt, I'm really sorry."

"I don't remember it," he says.

"How could you not remember it? Your mother says it made you gay."

"She needs to think something 'happened' to make me gay, that life with her wasn't enough. The family is filled with gays."

"Who's gay?"

"Aunt Florence," he says.

"No!"

"Yes. And Great-Uncle Henry and his friend Thomas. And, in our generation, Warren and Christian, who wants to become Christina."

"Who names a Jew Christian?" I ask, and then pause. I'm getting swept up in the revelations. "Jason, did he harm you?"