May We Be Forgiven Part 68

"Come for dinner on Friday," I say as I'm leaving. "Bring your parents."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "Six-thirty. I'll make fish sticks and Tater Tots."

"I'll bring a pound cake," she says.

Friday night, the children help set the table. We lay out a beautiful tablecloth and use the good silver, the good dishes, all the things that have not been out of the closet since Jane died. I have bought fresh flowers and teach Ashley and Ricardo how to cut the stems and arrange them. Ashley makes the salad, Ricardo helps me prep the fish sticks and Tater Tots. When Amanda and her parents arrive, the children are fixed like little amba.s.sadors at the front door.

"May I take your coat?" Ricardo asks, even though they have no coats.

"Would you like a drink?" Ashley says while they're still in the front hall.

"That would be lovely," Amanda's mother, Madeline, says.

I'm wildly proud.

"What a treat," Amanda's mother says, shaking Ricardo's hand.

"Your hands are very soft," Ricardo says. "Like velvet."

"Thank you," Madeline says.

As I'm finis.h.i.+ng the preparations for dinner, I peek into the living room and see Madeline on the floor playing a game of jacks with Ashley, and Cy trying to explain the finer points of backgammon to Ricardo.

Amanda sits on the sofa, alone, arms crossed in front of her chest-looking pouty.

I call everyone to the table. The fish sticks and Tater Tots are a big hit. Waxing poetic during the meal, Madeline and Cy drift back in time and talk about great trips they went on, walking from vineyard to vineyard in France, adventures in Italy, how they found themselves. .h.i.tchhiking through the mountains near Turin.

Amanda recalls being left at home with her sister and an unmarried neighbor woman who knew nothing about children.

Ricardo and Ashley share stories of the trip to Williamsburg, including some of the more "colorful" details-which cause Cy to laugh out loud.

"He's always loved scatological humor," Madeline whispers to me.

As dinner comes to an end, I find myself liking Amanda's parents better than Amanda herself.

After pound cake and berries with fresh whipped cream, Ashley, Ricardo, Amanda, and I are clearing, and when we come out of the kitchen, Amanda's parents are gone. I catch a glimpse of her father's back as he's heading up the stairs.

"Christ," Amanda says.

"I'll go," I say.

Her parents are standing in the master bedroom. "Could I trouble you for some tea?" her mother asks. "And I fear our luggage has not yet arrived."

"How do you take your tea?" I ask.

"Not too dark," she says.

"Two lumps," he says.

"Would you like some as well?"

"None for me-but she always complains that it's too dark and not sweet enough. Have you got a finger of Scotch?"

"I can certainly check," I say, and go back downstairs. "They seem to be settling in for the night," I say, putting on the kettle for tea.

"Are they having a sleepover?" Ashley asks.

"Not sure," I say.

Amanda marches up the steps and returns a few minutes later. "They said they're happy that I joined them on their trip and are so glad to be traveling again and that all of this reminds them of how much they like trying new places. And then they said I could have the rest of the night off and that they would see me again sometime soon."

I make tea for Amanda, for her mother, for Ashley, pour the Scotch, and go back upstairs.

"Well?" Amanda asks when I come down.

"Your parents are in bed-they're each wearing a pair of George's pajamas. Your mother is sitting up, reading the book I left by the side of the bed-wearing my reading gla.s.ses. 'I couldn't find my nightgown,' she said, smiling as I handed her the tea, 'so I put on one of his.' And your father was in the bathroom, brus.h.i.+ng his teeth with what I a.s.sume is my toothbrush."

"Tell them to get dressed and come back down here right now; it's time to go home," Amanda says, stressed.

"They looked very comfortable," I say.

"Let them stay," Ashley begs.

"Fine with me," I say.

"As long as I don't have to share with the lady," Ricardo says.

Amanda looks at us like we're nuts.

"I can tell them that checkout time is noon tomorrow, or you can just leave them here...."

"What do you mean, leave them?" Amanda asks.

"They said they were so happy to have their old room back, one big bed rather than separate rooms."

"Don't they know that they chose to have separate rooms?" she asks, agitated, as though she's being blamed.

"What I'm saying is that your parents are welcome to stay the night. You can have a few hours to yourself-go do an errand or two."

"There's not much I can do in one night," Amanda says grumpily.

"We can make breakfast for them," Ashley says. "Pancakes and eggs."

"With bacon," Ricardo says.

"You're welcome to join us," I say to Amanda.

"I'm going," she says, hastily picking up her purse. "A whole night off. I have no idea what I'll do."

The next day, around noon, Amanda calls to see how they're doing. I tell her that they're fine-we had breakfast, and now they're sitting in the living room, reading.

The more I tell her how much I like her parents, the less she talks to me.

"They're falling apart," she says.

"No more than any of the rest of us," I say. "They're spirited."

"Fine," she says. "Since you're all so comfortable together, maybe I should take the weekend and go somewhere?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know, go see my sister in Philly? Visit old friends in Boston? I can pack up their medications and some clean clothes and drop them off with you."

"Should I be sad that you don't want to go away with me?"

"It's not about you," she says, with a childish bitterness to her tone. "It's about me. There's almost nothing left of me-I have to preserve what I can."

It's not like you can call someone who has been caring for his or her aging parents selfish. "Okay," I say, "enjoy yourself."

She goes for the weekend and comes back. I know she's returned because while I'm out she leaves giant plastic bags filled with more clothing and refilled prescriptions hanging off the doork.n.o.b. She leaves me a message on the home phone saying she's off to run errands-bank, dry cleaner's. Her voice is charged with renewed enthusiasm.

She goes and comes back, and then, stopping by to visit, she leaves me with a bank card, house keys, and a list of names and numbers-all of their doctors, etc. She's here and gone, here and gone-and then gone.

Ashley is the one who tells me Amanda's not coming back. "Hit the road, Jack," Ashley says.

"Did she say that?"

Ashley shakes her head no. "Not in so many words."

I call Amanda's sister in Philadelphia. "I have your parents here and want you to know they're fine."

"Who is this?"

"Harold, I'm a friend of your sister's. How was your weekend?"

"In what respect?" she asks.

"Your weekend with Amanda?"

"I haven't seen Amanda in years. Is this some kind of a crank call? Are you trying to get something from me-because I'll tell you right now, buster..."

"Never mind," I say, hanging up and realizing that chances are high that Ashley is right-Amanda is gone.

I text Cheryl, who is less than sympathetic. "I told you it would come to no good end."

"Do I call the police? What if she's injured or dead?"

"She's gone," Ashley says, "you have to let go...."

In a panic, I dial Amanda's cell phone. It goes right to voice mail. And then I notice she's left a message on mine: "I made you trustee of my parents' accounts. You have power of attorney; there are a few papers that have all been signed by me that require a counter-signature-they are in a folder on your desk. I know you have questions.... I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you were capable. This voice mail will be disconnected on the first of the month. I can't be who any of you or anyone else wants me to be. I need out from under. P.S. Don't bother calling my sister-she's useless. If you don't want them, just send them home. They'll figure it out-they always have."

"I thought she would stay because she liked me," I text Cheryl later that day. "I thought she would stay because I was nice to her parents, because I'm reliable-a good guy."

"That's why she left them with you," she says.

"Do I have to cancel the trip?" I ask Cheryl.

"Absolutely not," she says, and because she is so definitive I believe her.

"It's late to buy more plane tickets, and I'm not sure I can manage two adults and three children-much less wondering if they're up for the rigors of the trip."

Cheryl thinks I'm nuts. "They're not going anywhere," she says, firmly. "They've been here for a long time, and they'll be here when you get back."

"Good point."

I arrange for the pet minder to bring his sister, a practical nurse, and the two of them will take care of the animals and the old folks.

The school year is winding down. Ashley shows me the draft of her extended meditation on the death of the soap opera-interwoven with her thoughts on staging Romeo and Juliet at the puppet theater. In her paper, Ashley writes about seeing herself in the characters, how she gets involved in their lives and thinks about them between episodes. I'm surprised at Ashley's ability to find common ground between soap opera, Shakespeare, and the fine art of puppet theater. She's got good ideas, but my professorial self kicks in: has anyone ever discussed structure with her? Multiple revisions are required. I share my thoughts, prompting hissy fits that blow through like severe thunderstorms. She storms off, and then ultimately the paper is revised, sometimes slipped under my door in the middle of the night. She wants to do well, and that is a good sign. I pretend I can manage the hysterics-but make a note to myself that, if/when I see Dr. Tuttle again, I need to ask him about the care and management of female adolescents.

Meanwhile, Ricardo is often staying late at school, rehearsing for his cla.s.s play, in which he's featured as a young Benjamin Franklin, a busy man with something always up his sleeve-his almanac, his various inventions and proclamations. As part of his embrace of the character, Ricardo asks permission to take apart an old typewriter and attempt to make his own printing press; I say yes and am secretly pleased. His incentive chart is filled with check marks and gold stars-he's working his way towards tickets to a Yankees game.

And Nate-school ends the second week of June, but he's elected to stay a couple of weeks longer for what's called a mini-camp; this year's focus is math, more specifically micro-finance.

The truth is, despite how stressful it all is-not to mention the uncanny sensation that the minute you start to think it's all going well something is bound to fall apart-despite it all, I am pleased with how well the children are doing.

As we get closer to departure, my conversations with the village become more frequent, the list of things I need to bring grows longer. I take sweaters and s.h.i.+rts out of my bag to make room for instant Jell-O pudding, a twelve-inch wok, rechargeable batteries, acetaminophen, surgical cement, chocolate chips, Fleischmann's yeast, and effervescent vitamin C.

The expediter I hired to get Ricardo's pa.s.sport asks for an extra two hundred and fifty dollars, because it too has required more explaining than usual.

Sofia has sent Sakhile, the South African village leader, a moment-by-moment breakdown of what should be happening while we're there. "I like to be organized," she says defensively, when I suggest we leave s.p.a.ce for things to unfold naturally. "I realize that it can be difficult for others to see the value of this level of detail, but," she says, "I want it to go well, and I am aware that there may be cultural differences related not just to the bar-mitzvah event but to a sense of time and occasion, and so I wanted to make my expectations clear." Sakhile's face appears on the computer screen. "Do you have everything you need?" she asks Sakhile. "Any last-minute items you need me to slip into a suitcase?"

"We are good to go," Sakhile says. "I have your instructions in hand." Sakhile holds up a clipboard with many pages attached.

"We are very excited," Sofia tells Sakhile. "Harold will bring you a copy of the printed invitation."

"You have a very powerful wife," Sakhile says later, when Sofia is not there.

"Not my wife," I say, "a party planner."

"Like Colin Cowie?" he says. "He made a big event for Oprah."

"Exactly," I say. "Sakhile, I'm curious-how did Nate come to your village?"

"We built the school to save our village, and from that good things come," he says. "My generation had to leave to find work-most didn't return. We were shrinking smaller and smaller, and then I had an idea. With democracy comes money-we can apply and get money for a school which can support our village. So first I build a small school, and then I say we need money to build a bigger school where the children from villages nearby can come. Most of the children who come have only grandparents who cannot take care of them, and all the more important is that they have an education."

"Where did you go to school?"