May We Be Forgiven Part 78

"Bingo," Cy calls out.

We get down on our hands and knees, and I dust off the top of what turns out to be a .50-caliber military-issue ammunition can, and suddenly I'm terrified.

"You have ammunition buried in the yard-explosives? This could be dangerous. We could blow ourselves up."

"It's not explosives-it's cash. I put it in the ammo cans because they're waterproof. Why do you think I never went along with the idea for an in-ground sprinkler system? It would have wrecked my retirement plan." He chortles.

"Cy, are you telling me that you have seven or eight cans of cash buried back here?"

He nods gleefully. "Yes, I never trusted the markets, so I socked away whatever I could, a little here and there over the years."

"And this isn't the money you stole?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I gave that back; this is mine."

"Are you sure about this, Cy?"

"Positive," he says. "Keep digging."

And so I do. I dig for hours; we find six cans.

"That's odd," Cy says. "I could have sworn there were more."

I shrug. I'm nearly crippled, my head is throbbing, I'm thinking I could have another stroke any minute now. "It's enough, Cy. Whatever it is, it's enough."

He nods. "There's ten thousand in each can," he says.

"Sixty thousand dollars?"

"I sold insurance, son, and I was d.a.m.ned good at it. Insurance was big back then, late 1950s, early 1960s. Everyone thought we'd be blown to kingdom come.... I was very careful: every bonus, every little extra bit, I squirreled away. Look," Cy says as we're finis.h.i.+ng up. "I know it costs a pretty penny to take care of Madeline and me. And Christmas is coming, and I want to do something for the kids-maybe buy them some United States Savings Bonds. And, well, here's the truth, I've always wanted a Lionel train set. Every Christmas, despite my age, I still come downstairs hoping it's going to be there. And you know what, this year it will be, because I'm going to get it for myself. You'll come with me," he says. "We'll go into New York and pick it out." He pauses. "So-you think I've got enough for the train?"

"Yeah, Cy, I think you've got it covered."

Together we fill in the holes and make a plan to come back and repair the damage to the lawn. "Before they notice," Cy says-which is of course impossible, because for several hours the Gaos have been staring out their back windows, wondering what the h.e.l.l we're doing as we dig up the heavy green metal cans.

"I should have asked you before we started," Cy says, "but I'm a.s.suming that you can keep what happened here tonight just between us."

"Not a peep," I say.

A letter arrives with no stamp, no return address. It's neatly typed on fine blue stationery.

Franklin Furness shared your ma.n.u.script with me-he wanted my opinion as an off-the-record fact-checker. I put two and two together and wanted to drop you a line, a note of congratulations. I was pleasantly surprised to see that your belief in the dream survives along with your hope that the hearts of men are not as dark as their behavior might lead one to believe. The smog of history never really clears, there's an enormous amount we'll never know, suffice to say it hasn't been a government by the people for a very long time. It's a company, a multinational-the land of the free and home of the brave as brought to you by the People's Republic of China. Historical forces are underestimated-just like physicists describe gravity as a weak force-the shape of history is surprisingly easily recast. And here we, you and me, once again front and center of the Zeitgeist, the fragrant and foul, mix fact and what you hope is fiction that is bubbling up like an ancient tar pit. And while we might revel in the accuracy of our conspiratorial musings-and, yes, we were right all along; our youthful doppelgangers are at it again. Do you realize that there are now more than eight hundred and fifty thousand people employed with Top Secret security clearances? No one knows who is doing what, and even those authorized to know it all can't possibly keep up. A plan or ten could be hatched, threaded through in such a way that it would take years to unfold with no one person in the lead. This is the new terrorism, b.u.t.tons pushed made by people just doing their jobs with no idea of the cause and effect, the relation of any one action to another. The drone, just look at the definition-a stingless male bee-aka a powerless man-the most dangerous kind. A strange buzzing by your ear-no longer a humble bee but a fake bug that can be flown into your house, land on your dining room table, or fly right up into your ear and on command, with a computer keystroke, blow you and your house the f.u.c.k up and you'd never know why. They are among us and we will never know who they are or what is happening. It is all bigger than any of us could ever imagine. Forty-nine years since the big event-the implosion of American politics, the inauguration of our dark age-and this is where we got to. As you can imagine I am working on a book of my own-seems there are still a few of us thinking along the same lines-carrying baggage, something we need to get off our chests before it's too late. Anyway, all this to say: Congratulations. Good work. The world needs more men like you, Silver.

I read the letter several times. I can't help but be pleased. It's what I've wanted to hear-it confirms my feelings, my suspicions, my hope that it's not all for naught. I a.s.sume it's from my "friend" at the law firm, the guy in the elevator-but who is he? Is he someone I should know-a familiar name? I pocket the letter, thinking that I'll do more digging later-maybe there's something in it, a phrase, a way of speaking, that will ring a bell.

Walter Penny calls to say that George has been moved again. "He was having tummy trouble, so we sent him to a place with better medical care. I can give you the address and visiting info-it's been a while since you saw him."

"The incident is still fresh in my memory," I say.

"Did you get the check?" Penny asks, like that should have fixed it.

"I did, thank you."

Walter gives me the prison information. "It's about an hour from where you are, overlooking the Hudson."

I drive up the following day. On the outside it's bucolic, set in the landscape like an old castle or fortress. The parking lot has an employee-of-the-month parking spot with the person's name written in red marker in a white rectangle. As I'm pulling in, I happen to glance at an old house off to the right, and, like witnessing an apparition, I see a dapper fellow wearing an old tan corduroy jacket come out the front door and head towards an ancient station wagon, and I'm thinking it's the ghost of John Cheever going out for a ride.

Bucolic on the outside, but like a furnace inside, sweaty, sticky, with a gamy smell. I pa.s.s through the metal detector and into the waiting area. The guards bring George to the visiting area in shackles; we speak through holes drilled in thick Plexiglas-holes filled with the spittle of every criminal's family that has come before us.

"How are you?" I ask.

"How could I be?"

"It was an accident," I say.

"I am not asking for your opinion," George says.

"You look horrible. Walter mentioned that you'd been in the hospital."

"I had proct.i.tis and gonorrhea."

"What is going on in there?"

"I've had to make my own way," he says, shaking his head bitterly. "There's nothing good about this place. My teeth are rotting. I used to get them cleaned four times a year, now my breath smells like s.h.i.+t all day. You sold me out. You gave me up, and for what-Lillian's chocolate-chip cookie recipe?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You took advantage of my sweet tooth; you used the cookies to f.u.c.k me over."

"They already had you, George," I say. "I'm the one they used, like a human s.h.i.+eld. I gave of myself to protect you. I had no option to turn them down," I say. "They had me by the b.a.l.l.s."

"You have no b.a.l.l.s," George says.

"Nice, George."

The inmate in the visiting booth next to ours falls to the floor and has a seizure.

"How are my roses?" George asks as the guards move to clear the room so they can attend to the sick prisoner.

"They have black spot. I'll spray again tonight if it doesn't rain," I say as I'm exiting.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Nate comes home from school with a friend named Josh. The next day, we borrow the Gaos' minivan and drive into New York City. Cy, Ricardo, Nate, Josh, and I head for the Lionel Store while Ashley and Madeline have a plan to get their hair done and go for lunch. The city is crazy with people, I feel like a tourist-jostled by everything.

At the Lionel Store, it takes a while before the sales guy realizes exactly who the train is for, but once he does, he gets into it, and seven hundred dollars and lots of accessories later, we leave the store-each of the boys carrying a heavy bag. I take the boys out for ice cream. It turns out Nate has never had a banana split. I order two for the table, and Cy scowls at me. "It's my big day," he says. "Let us each have our own."

And we do.

When we are done, we rendezvous with Ashley and Madeline, who have had not only their hair done but their toes and nails as well.

"One more stop," Cy says, as we cram back into the minivan. He directs me to the Eighty-first Street side of the Museum of Natural History.

"I'm not sure how close I can get-they close a lot of the streets ahead of the parade."

"Your best is all I ask," Cy says.

I park in a lot a couple of blocks from the museum and, like a line of ducks, we follow Cy, b.u.mping into people as we go, echoing a chorus of "Sorry, sorry, sorry." At the barricade on the corner of Eighty-first and Central Park West, Cy whispers something to the cop and pulls his old driver's license from his wallet. I glance at Madeline, who seems to know exactly what Cy is doing. She smiles.

"Of course," the cop says, opening the barricade and ushering us all through.

Cy smiles, pleased with himself. We are now among the select few pedestrians on the block where the Macy's parade floats have been laid out in the middle of the street and are being inflated. "There's a hose going right up Betty Boop's a.s.s," Cy points out.

"Betty p.o.o.p," Ricardo exclaims.

"How did we get here?" Nate asks.

"I've still got a card or two up my sleeve," Cy says.

"We used to live right here on this block," Madeline says. "For many, many years. Our girls grew up playing in Central Park if it was sunny, or among the dioramas in the Natural History Museum if it was cold or raining."

"Cool," Nate says.

"This parade is the stuff of my childhood," Cy says. "I was here when Mickey Mouse first flew, and when Ethel Merman sang."

"I had no idea," I say as we walk up and down. The children are in awe of the giant floats, Betty Boop, Kermit the Frog, Shrek, Superman all swelling to life. Under bright, nearly forensic white lights tended to by workers in Tyvek suits, the giant balloons are held down by netting, sandbags, and ropes. I can't help but notice that on the other side of the museum there are also floats-and an enormously long line that snakes for blocks-public viewing.

"This is the coolest thing ever," Ricardo says. "Thank you."

It is magical, almost fantastical, and what I'd call the good kind of melancholy-as sweet as it is, it's also sad. We linger until it is dark and cold and our bones have begun to ache.

As we are driving home, they all fall asleep in the car. I am alone and awake. Driving up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Saw Mill, I see the glowing eyes of a racc.o.o.n staring me down at the edge of the road. It begins to snow-first small white flakes, and then fat ones, the size of the doilies under the lamps in Aunt Lillian's house. I open the window; the snow blows into the car, dusting everyone as if with a kind of magical powder.

Thanksgiving. It has been a year-and a lifetime. The table has been set. Ashley and Madeline have handcrafted a cornucopia centerpiece that spills autumnal bounty across the freshly pressed tablecloth: gourds, squash, pumpkins, and, if you look carefully, the silver-buckled Pilgrim shoes Ashley and I bought in Williamsburg overflowing with plump red and green grapes.

Thanksgiving morning, I am up early, laying piecrust in tins. Glancing out the kitchen window-past the stump from the maple tree, which has been chopped, chipped, spit out as mulch, and sprinkled around everything in the garden, like funeral ashes scattered in remembrance-I spot four deer soundlessly tiptoeing through the yard, a father followed by two fawns and the mother. Their tails twitch as they bend to taste the garden. I have to smile. The only deer I've seen near here have been b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.ses on the side of the road. Madeline shuffles in, sees that I'm staring at something, and comes to look. She leans over the sink and raps heavily on the gla.s.s. "This isn't a grocery store," she yells. The father deer's ears twitch, his tail goes up, and they take off, having gotten word that they are no longer welcome.

Madeline asks if I've noticed Cy sitting on the floor of the living room, in his pajamas, hooking up his train set.

"He looks happy," I say.

"He is," Madeline says, confessing that she's glad he got the train now-she doesn't think he's going to make it until Christmas.

"The doctor said he was doing well," I say.

"He's going," she says, "bits and pieces are flaking off. But he's not suffering. We should all be so lucky."

The children are in their pajamas, watching the parade on TV and helping Cy set up the train. Nate's friend Josh is dyslexic. He calls Nate "Ante." Nate explains that whenever Josh texts, he types "Ante" instead of "Nate" and the nickname stuck. My suspicion that they are more than friends is quashed when Nate comes in for breakfast and tells me that Josh is not the average academy student: next year, after Josh becomes Jenny, he'll transfer to a coed school so that the academy doesn't have to address the gender-bender issue.

"How did you become friends?" I ask.

"We're both knitters," Nate says. And then Nate helps me slide the twenty-eight-pound trussed, stuffed bird into the oven. "I wrote to my father," Nate says. "Well, I started to write a letter, but it got really long-eighty pages. I gave it to my adviser, who said it's not a letter, it's a memoir, and he wants me to keep going. Am I too young to write a memoir?" he asks.

There is no right answer.

Between making "holiday punch" and looking for a platter big enough for the bird, I'm texting back and forth with Cheryl-I invited her and her family, but Thanksgiving is big in Ed's world. His sister cooks, and Cheryl and Ed double up on their Plavix and Lipitor the week before. "Be sure to shove a lemon into the bird's hole before you put it into the oven," Cheryl texts.

"Too late."

"Never too late," she writes. "And before it starts to get brown make an aluminum foil tent-save the browning for the last 30 min-helps the skin stay crisp."

"Does anyone use an actual pumpkin to make pumpkin pie?" I ask.

"No," she writes.

Mr. and Mrs. Gao arrive, carrying a hot t.u.r.ducken, which they deep-fried at the restaurant and brought directly to us.

"I have no idea what a t.u.r.ducken is, but I like the way it smells," Madeline says, welcoming them.

"We don't know either," Mrs. Gao says. "We saw it on TV and they said it was very American. We ordered it online."

Ricardo's aunt and uncle come in with a gigantic sweet-potato-and-marshmallow ca.s.serole and an enormous gla.s.s bowl of ambrosia. As a way of saying h.e.l.lo, Ricardo gives us a long demonstration of what he's learned on the drums.

Ching Lan and her parents have taken the train from New York, carrying big bouquets of flowers and Lucky Break Wishbones for the children. "You know how turkey have only one," her mother says. "Well, now you can have as many as you want, spread lots of good luck. We sell them all week in the deli-very popular."

With each new guest, introductions are made all around. In the middle of it all, Ashley descends the stairs wearing her dress from Colonial Williamsburg along with the shawl and head covering that Sofia got her for the bar mitzvah. She has become increasingly religious, defining herself lately as "Orthodox." I accept the notion as a phase, a heartfelt adolescent identification offering her comfort, and, I hope, part of the progression towards a healthy sense of self.

"I want to light the Thursday-night candles and pray," she says.

"There are no Thursday-night candles," I say.

"But Aunt Lillian and Jason have never seen me do the prayers."

"I hear you, but today is Thanksgiving; the day belongs to our Christian brethren. Would you like to say grace?"

"Let Cy or Ricardo say grace, but I want to speak at the table."

"About what?"

"I'll prepare something," she says, going back upstairs.

"Okay," I say.

Jason and Lillian arrive with the famous cookie tin, laden with product.

"I taught Jason how to make them," Lillian says proudly.

"We did it together last night," Jason says. "Now we can have cookies anytime, as many as we want."

"Are you saying you don't need me anymore, that you only wanted me for my cookies?"