May We Be Forgiven Part 47

"Branding is everything these days," Walter says. "We had a couple of really nice grants to get us going-but now we're on our own."

"Just to review," Manny jumps in, cutting off what I think is a fascinating conversation about who gave them a grant to come up with the wood-grained/green logo. "The terms of the placement are as follows: We accept the placement in The Woodsman as a one-time-only offer; the offer and acceptance are not precedential, and any further placement following the first forty-eight hours at The Woodsman facility is to be considered under the umbrella of this agreement and is not subject to revocation. It is understood that time spent in The Woodsman program is covered by the laws of the state in which the facility is based and the laws of the United States and subject to due process, et cetera. Further, the costs of the move from the private facility, The Lodge, to a public facility, The Woodsman, will be borne by The Lodge as a 'give' due to the closure of the facility."

"When would this happen?" I ask.

"Sooner rather than later," Walter Penny says.

"I'd also like to note that I presented this package to the parents of Jane, George's now deceased wife. Their response was 'Good riddance'-they were more than happy to send him deep into the woods."

"When?" I ask again.

"By the end of the week," the medical director says. "In case something backfires or we have to rethink-we want to be there as backup."

"Is that the forty-eight-hour clause that I heard a moment ago?"

"The first forty-eight hours are the most telling," Walter Penny says. "If a man makes it through two days, chances are he'll do well. We've only had to pull one man out."

"Does George know about all of this?"

"Yes," the medical director says. "We've talked it through."

"I showed him the photos," Walter Penny says.

"We met privately and discussed the legal ramifications earlier this morning."

"What does he think?" I ask.

"To be fair," the medical director says, "there are some mixed emotions."

"Which would seem reasonable," Manny adds.

"Does he know that I'm here now?"

"Yes," the medical director says. "Would you like to see him, or are you afraid?"

I say nothing and just stare at the man.

"It's a question, isn't it?" he says.

The meeting ends with Walter Penny once again shaking hands, and, oddly, I congratulate him on his innovative project, his spirit, and his drive.

"We get the job done," he says.

I couldn't be more different from Walter Penny, but, inexplicably, I like him; he's the kind of guy you want to have on your team when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, when your plane crashes into a snowy mountain....

George is in his room, alone. "I'm f.u.c.ked, aren't I?"

I sit at the edge of his bed.

"I'm f.u.c.ked," he says again, loudly. "And I'm not medicated. Over the last month, they've been cutting me back, taking me down, so now it's just me, au naturel. I'm f.u.c.ked," he repeats.

"Maybe there's another way to look at it?"

He glares at me.

"Kind of like a Get Out of Jail Free card?" I suggest.

"You're an idiot," George says.

"Well, it's not jail and it's not a nuthouse."

"They're f.u.c.king feeding me to the wolves," George says.

"I'm not sure now's the moment to say it, but I never trusted your lawyer. He's in bed with the medical director of this place."

"They're not in bed-they're related, you idiot," George says.

"I'm just not sure they have your best interests in mind."

"So now, at the eleventh hour, I should get a new lawyer."

"It would buy you some time."

"I'm f.u.c.ked," he says, panicking. "They're sending me out into the wilderness, into the cold night, to live among men worse than animals."

"It's spring, George. Every day it's going to be warmer and warmer, and every night it'll be warmer too-it's getting on to summer, George. Think of how you always wanted to go camping. Remember you loved Yogi Bear and all that-and hated that we didn't have a real backyard."

"This isn't f.u.c.king Jellystone Park we're talking about. They shot a chip into the back of my neck and gave me a teta.n.u.s shot-my arm is hot like a baseball-tomorrow I get a rabies vaccine."

"Well, George, your options are limited. Try it-if you don't like it, we'll see what else there is."

"Were you always this stupid?" George says, looking me in the eye. "I remember you as dim-witted, but not so moronic."

"I don't know what to say. Do you want to hear a bit about my life, about the kids, Tessie, and the kittens?"

"Who the f.u.c.k is Tessie?"

"Your dog."

"Oh," he says-like now it makes sense.

"She's doing well."

George nods.

"And the children seem to be finding their way." Again he nods. "Look, George, I know this isn't easy. It's an odd situation, with this place closing and the idea of this nontraditional program, but, seriously, maybe you can make something of it. You have done things that none of these guys have ever done. Okay, so maybe they stole stuff, you've certainly done that; they've murdered, so have you. But how many of them held a job for years, how many of them ever ran a television network?"

It's like I'm giving him a pep talk, convincing him that he can get back in the ring, he can go another round-it's not all over yet. "You're as big and bad as any of the men out there-remember when you bit me?"

"By accident," he says.

"It wasn't an accident, you tore off flesh."

George shrugs.

"My point is, you can do this. Remember when we used to wear Dad's old army uniforms and play in the bas.e.m.e.nt? You are Colonel Robert E. Hogan."

George quotes a line from Hogan's Heroes.

"That's it."

George quotes another line.

"That's the spirit. You can do this. Don't think long-term-think about it like an Outward Bound summer camp. And we'll take it from there. Okay?"

He nods and speaks in German.

As I'm getting ready to go, I stand, and George hugs me hard-almost too hard. I reach into my pocket.

"I brought you something," I say, handing him a Hershey bar with almonds.

Tears well up in his eyes. Our grandmother always used to give us each a Hershey bar with almonds-she'd open her enormous purse, reach in, and extract one for each.

"Thank you," he says. And then hugs me again.

"We can write to each other, and I'll come visit you in a couple of months-you'll be okay."

He sniffles and pushes me away. "You are such a f.u.c.king a.s.shole," he says.

I nod. "Okay, then, George, we'll be in touch." And I am gone. "Such a f.u.c.king a.s.shole"-what did he mean by that, and do I even want to know? I am such a f.u.c.king a.s.shole that I come when called, I mop up after him, I take care of his wife-a bit too well-I water his flowers, feed his dog, care for his children-I am such a f.u.c.king a.s.shole.

The kittens are ready. Ashley and I have agreed that we'll keep one for ourselves. I e-mail photos of the kittens to her, but the school computer system doesn't allow her to open them, and so I print them out and FedEx the pictures before we confer-deciding on "Romeo," small; black, white, and gray; deeply mischievous; and clearly one the mama thinks she needs to keep an eye on.

"How are you going to find homes for the others?" Ashley wants to know.

"The good old-fas.h.i.+oned way," I say. "I'm going to set myself up somewhere with a big box marked 'Free Kittens.'"

The truth is, I feel like a giant bully taking the kittens from the mother cat. For a couple days, I practice separating the mother and her kittens by taking the kittens away and then bringing them back a few hours later-thinking it's somehow less stressful than a sudden and permanent absence.

When the day comes, I bring the plastic cat-crate up from the bas.e.m.e.nt and line it with old towels. I find an old card table in the bas.e.m.e.nt, which still has a sign on it from a lemonade stand Ashley must have had. I flip the poster board over and write "Free Kittenz" in large artful letters. I've prepared paperwork-eight-by-ten photos of each kitten, information on the mother, the date of birth, and what vaccinations they've had so far. I also prepare starter kits for each cat, with samples of their current food and litter.

If you're wondering what this newfound energy is all about, all I can say is that I've gotten particularly attached to a bottle of small round blue pills I found in George's bathroom, the bottle marked "12 daily upon awakening." I take a couple, and for about five hours I'm amazingly organized. In an effort to identify what it is I'm taking, I repeatedly Google "little blue pill," but all I get is ads for v.i.a.g.r.a, which is not round but diamond-shaped.

As I put the kittens in the carrier, they start making noise, the mama cat is pacing, and Tessie looks up at me from the floor as if to say, G.o.d help you now.

I head for the A&P where I met the woman, both on the off chance she might show up again and because I feel self-conscious setting up outside my regular grocery, the one that was Jane and George's. More than once people have given me strange looks; I'm never sure if they know it's me or think I'm him, but either way I'm a sitting duck.

I set up just outside the pet store. I have brought the carrier, my pictures, some tape, the samples, and a large cardboard box where someone can put a kitten to play with it-that way, there's no danger of its scampering off into the street. Open for business. My first customer comes out of the pet store, wearing a tag that reads "Brad-a.s.sistant Manager."

"What are you doing?" Brad asks.

"Giving away kittens," I say, even though it's obvious.

"We sell kittens," he says.

I say nothing.

"You're going to have to move your pop-up shop," Brad says.

"Sorry."

"You're competing with our interests."

"But the ASPCA has a pet adoption stand right here every weekend."

"Are you a nonprofit?" Brad wants to know.

"I'm giving them away."

"You're small potatoes," Brad says.

"I beg to differ," I say. "Whoever takes these kittens is going to need supplies. How about just thinking of these five as a loss leader?"

"Loss leader?"

"The things a store is willing to lose money on in order to get people who will buy other things in the store. Milk, for example, is a common loss leader," I say.

"Move," Brad says. "Take your act over to the A&P. I'll help you...." He picks up the edge of the table, and the carrier starts to slide.

I grab the carrier. "Take your hands off my table or I will call the police, and then corporate pet whatever, and have your dumb a.s.s fired."

"I'm a witness," an old woman says. "I will testify."

"It was an accident," Brad says, and I sort of believe him.

"Tell it to the judge," the old woman says as she helps me carry the table closer to the A&P.

"Do you want a kitten?" I ask her.

"Absolutely not," she says. "I dislike pets almost as much as I dislike people. My husband says I should only shop online-that the world is a better place with me safe at home. He thinks I'm bad." She shrugs. "I think he's worse."

"How long have you been married?" I ask, laying out my flyers and supplies.

"Since the beginning of time," she says, and heads off.

An unseasonably overdressed young woman in a heavy coat and scarf, with multiple bags of groceries hanging from both arms, approaches and puts her bags down.

"Can I hold one?" she asks.