May We Be Forgiven Part 43

Ashley Sarah Silver.

Why didn't anyone think this might someday look odd when they named her-a.s.s?

"Thank you for the trip to Williamsburg, it was really fun, I learned a lot. Thank you for the dress, the shoes, the quill pens, the powdered ink, the writing paper, the sealing wax and seal, the book about Pocahontas, and anything else I forgot to write here. Your friend-Ashley Silver. P.S. I know you're not really my 'friend' but I didn't know what else to write-it seemed queer to write 'Love.'..."

Also in the mail is a letter from The Lodge.

Dear Family Member, At a recent meeting The Board of Directors voted to approve the proposal to transition THE LODGE INC. from an inpatient mental health center to an executive conferencing and seminar site. This vote represents a change in direction for the organization from therapeutic environment to motivational and organizational meeting facility.

As you know, The Lodge Inc. has served its patients, their families, and our surrounding community for almost fifty years. This change in focus represents a significant s.h.i.+ft in the direction of mental health and a.s.sociated health care services, not just at this facility but across the country, as the therapeutic model moves from inpatient to more outpatient, community-based services.

We will work closely with all of our patients and their families to facilitate a smooth transition either back to the home community or to an appropriate facility for your family member. We hope to complete the transition process by the end of August and we will be in touch with you on an individual basis as to how best to proceed. We realize that receiving a letter such as this can prompt a spectrum of emotions and questions and would like you to feel free to call the director of our medical staff or our communications office with any questions you might have.

As this news was somewhat unexpected, we apologize for the ma.s.s mailing-but wanted to be in touch with you before the news breaks in the media.

Our deepest thanks for allowing us into your hearts, homes, and minds.

Sincerely, John Trevertani CEO, The Lodge Inc.

I call.

"We tried to reach you about ten days ago," Rosenblatt says-clearly he's the designated 'responder'-"but someone else answered the phone and said you'd gone colonial, and then said he needed to get off the line-something about helping the kittens 'go.' He suggested I call back and leave a detailed message on the machine, but in the interest of privacy I thought I'd just give it a week or so and try you again."

"It was the pet minder-I was out of town, and the cat had kittens."

"Ahhh," he says. "Well, anyway, I see you've received the letter. We've already been in touch with George's lawyer as well as some folks from the state prosecutor's office to talk about what the appropriate setting for George might be. Given that the first set of charges was dismissed and that he remains pretrial on the murder charge, you could move him to another 'hospital'-type setting. My sense from his lawyer is that they'd like to keep him out of a traditional prison setting as long as possible-perhaps try something 'nontraditional.' But I must also add that I've spoken with George and I think, quite honestly, he's bored with the inpatient setting, and I worry that his resistance to partic.i.p.ating in activities like group therapy, occupational therapy, crafting, and so on could end up reflected as noncompliance in the reports-and that won't fare well when the case goes to trial."

"You mean he's going to flunk pot-holder weaving?"

"Something like that-he doesn't play well with others."

"Never did. You mentioned a nontraditional program."

"Yes," he says, "I'm talking with some people at the state level about whether they might consider him for a pilot program they're running-it's rather unusual, and I'm hesitant to say more until I have a better sense of things. Perhaps we can talk again soon."

"I'm here," I say.

"As am I, until August," the man says. "Then all bets are off."

All bets are off-an understatement.

I find myself craving the normal, the repet.i.tious, the everyday, the ba.n.a.l. I crave the comfort of what might seem to others to be exceedingly boring. For years, every Monday through Friday, I ate the same thing for breakfast-two slices of rye toast, one with b.u.t.ter, the other with orange marmalade; the same brand of bread, the same jam, the same b.u.t.ter. On Sat.u.r.days I had an egg along with the bread, and on Sundays either pancakes or French toast.

Dutiful regularity was something Claire and I actually found exciting. We took pleasure in going out to dinner on Friday, staying home on Sat.u.r.day, making a habit of a matinee movie and Chinese carry-out on Sunday. If we added something new or different, it was discussed, regarding what it meant to the routine, the schedule.

But now it's like I'm in an endless free fall, the plummeting slowed only by the interruption of being summoned to do something for someone else. If it weren't for the children, the dog, the cat, the kittens, the plants, I would come completely undone.

Out of curiosity, I call the County Department of Social Services and ask what's involved in being a foster parent. Among my questions: Do you have to take whatever kid they give you, or can you pick?

"We're very careful where we place all the children," the woman says.

"Of course you are...." That's why the coverage on TV about foster parents is so uplifting. "I guess what I'm asking is, what if the relative of a child needs a break and wants me to take the child for a while-is there a way to officially do that, to get certified or whatever it would be?"

"To accept what we call a directed placement, you would need to be an approved foster parent."

"And what does that entail?"

"A letter of intent, an application, a legal clearance, letters of recommendation, a home study, a medical form, proof of immunization, a letter from a lawyer, financials that would make clear you're not doing this for personal gain."

"All the foster parents in your system have pa.s.sed these requirements?"

"Yes, sir, they have."

I go on to describe myself as a retired professor and author who does consulting work for the family of former President Nixon.

She cuts me off. "Do you have children?"

"I am the guardian for my brother's two children-my brother is disabled."

"You should see a psychiatrist," she says.

"Pardon?"

"Fancy people like you, that's what they do. Part of the application is a mental-health evaluation. It will move more quickly if you don't resist."

I am tempted to ask if the lousy foster parents I see on the evening news all have psychiatrists; but I restrain myself. "It's certainly something to think on," I say. "Can you send me more information?"

"Oh, we don't send anything anymore-always a budget crunch around here. It's all online."

"Right," I say. "I'll look online. Thank you."

f.u.c.k it.

I call Ricardo's aunt and ask if she'd like me to take the boy out on Sunday.

"Can you pick him up early?" she asks.

"Is eight-thirty too early?"

"Eight-thirty is good," she says.

Part of building my relations.h.i.+p with the kids is talking with them more often and more honestly, as though they're real people.

Nate has been distant since the Williamsburg trip, I'm not sure why, but it seems smarter not to draw attention to it and simply to wait it out. I ask for his advice about what to do with Ricardo on Sunday.

"Well, there's an indoor rock-climbing place, or bowling, or the video arcade." Nate pauses. "You could just take him out and play catch. I didn't get the sense that anyone plays with him. My glove is in my bedroom closet. And if you want to give it to him, that's okay-it's my old glove, I've got a newer one."

"Very generous of you, Nate."

"What made you call him?"

"The truth, I missed the kid, and I miss you and Ash even more. I had a really good time on our trip." There's an awkward silence, but I don't mind, I'm glad I said what I did. "What about you, how's it going there?"

"Going," Nate says, and then goes quiet. "I wrote memoirs in our English cla.s.s."

"I can imagine that would be difficult."

"I wrote about Dad-about something I remembered."

A long pause. "Maybe I could read it sometime?"

"I don't know," he says. It's as though what happened with George and Jane is just beginning to dawn on Nate; the initial trauma has now quieted, and he's beginning to put it all together. "I've been having trouble sleeping, and so I went to the school counselor, who suggested I join some kind of meditation group two nights a week."

"Might just give it a try," I say. "It's been a pretty difficult few months."

"We'll see," he says.

After talking with Nate, I call Ashley. "I just want to thank you for your note," I say.

"Did you get it?" she asks "I did," I say. "And I was very impressed."

"When I was younger, I had a teacher who made us practice writing thank-you notes for everything. Like 'Dear G.o.d, Much thanks for the sunrise this morning. It was very beautiful and I look forward to seeing it again tomorrow. Your Friend, Ashley Silver.'"

"Amazing."

"She said if we had nothing else at least we'd have manners."

"She may have been right. What else is going on up there?"

"Science," she says. "We're doing a lot of cooking. There's a new teacher who is trying to use household chemistry as the basis for a cookbook, and the chemistry lab is functioning as a kind of test kitchen."

"Sounds flavorful," I say.

"Not really. I think it may actually be dangerous."

In preparation for my return to the New York law firm to begin working with the stories, I replay my Nixon tapes-videotaped interviews he did with Frank Gannon in which he talks about Pat, about his family. I think of it as "the official version." In all families we have the official version, the tacitly agreed-upon narrative that we tell about who we are and where we come from. I listen carefully, wanting to get Nixon's cadence, his phrasing into my head, so that tomorrow, when I'm looking at the stories, I can hear his voice.

The next morning, Wanda introduces me to Ching Lan, who will do the transcribing.

Tall and thin, like a hand-pulled noodle, she shakes my hand vigorously. "Pleased to be working with you," she says. "Just so you know, I read okay, I speak not so good."

"Where are you from?"

"Downstairs," she says. "I am the daughter of the deli owner."

"I know your mother from a long time ago," I say, laughing.

The woman nods. "She told me you are Mr. Cookie. I am so lucky," she says. "They discover me; I type really fast; I can read Chinese, so any bad handwriting looks good to me; I can read like the wind-so I read and I type for them. I have no idea what I type, but they don't care. It's good I see my parents at lunch. We go to work together. And if I no know something, I ask," she says happily.

"Where were you born?"

"Lenox Hill," she says. "I am twenty-one years old. I play professional volleyball part-time."

"You are a lucky woman," I say. "Transcendent."

Before we jump in, I explain a bit about my interest in Nixon to Ching Lan. "No worry. I study," she says. "Wanda told me what you are doing and I go on Wikipedia and learn so much."

I nod. "I am most interested in his personality and the ways in which his actions and reactions were of a particular era and culture-the era that built and defined the American Dream. I'm not sure how familiar you are with the subject; the phrase 'American Dream' was coined in 1931 by James Truslow Adams, who wrote, 'Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement regardless of social cla.s.s or circ.u.mstances of birth.' In 1931, Richard Nixon was eighteen years old, just coming into himself and when he resigned he was sixty years old, signaling the end of an era and perhaps the unacknowledged death of the dream, though some people feel it has just gone underground."

Something about Ching Lan inspires me to talk, to digress, to keep elucidating. It feels liberating, inspiring. And she seems to follow what I'm saying.

We work side by side. I explain how I want the doc.u.ments transcribed and let her know that if she comes across anything that doesn't make sense she should bring it to my attention.

Every hour, Ching Lan takes a brief exercise break; as she stands, she encourages me to do the same. "Do what I do," she says, and I echo her movements, flowing like an ancient dance brought forward.

"What is it called?" I ask.

"Qigong," she says. "I do it every day-it brings blood to mind, awakens the true nature."

I follow along until she breaks away-leaning backwards so far that her hands are on the ground behind her. She then lifts one leg, and then the other into the air. Ching Lan is standing on her head-holding the position. "So good," she says. "So right." And then she is upright and back in her chair, and we carry on.

Sunday at 8:30 a.m. I pick up the boy. His aunt has packed a large grocery bag full of food, Tupperware containers, metal forks, knives, spoons, napkins, and a change of clothes.

"He spills all the time," she says.

Ricardo shrugs.

"How many meals did you pack?"

"Not so much," she says. "He's got a good appet.i.te."

"Okay, then," I say. "I'll plan to have him back by six-I know it's a school night. And here's my cell number if you need to reach us, and if you want me to we'll check in during the day."

"My husband is taking me on a day trip," she says. "You go have fun."

On the way to the car, I ask Ricardo if he's had breakfast. "Yes," he says, "but I could have more."

"How about we wait a couple of hours; meantime, we can go to the park and play a little ball."

At the park, Ricardo spots a group of boys kicking a soccer ball. I can tell he wants to join in, so I encourage him to go.

"I don't know them," he says sadly.

I walk with him, inject myself into the group of fathers on the side, and ask if Ricardo can join in-one of the men blows a whistle and yells, "New man comin' in." I give Ricardo a shove and he's in the game. The fathers stand around talking about their hot-water heaters, their zoned heat, and other manly things like gutter cleaning. I nod along as part of the chorus. I also watch Ricardo. He's not very coordinated-tripping over the ball, falling on his a.s.s after he kicks it-but the other boys seem to tolerate having him in the game.

When the game dissolves, Ricardo and I sit on the benches; I suggest that perhaps he and I could do some practicing with a ball-I think there's one in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Ricardo breathes deeply, red-faced, trying to catch his breath while digging through his grocery bag.