May We Be Forgiven Part 63

"And the children?" he asks.

I tell him how I have come to know the children, how they are so much more interesting than I had expected, and that I love them. I share the details of our Williamsburg adventure.

"And are you in a s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p now?" he asks.

"Yes, with a local girl, very nice family," I say, as if bragging.

He shrugs as if to say, How would you know? "Okay, so this boy Ricardo that you want to foster..."

"He survived the accident, and the kids want to help, and the aunt who was left in charge has been struggling, and..."

"And what makes you think you're qualified?"

"Good question," I say.

He nods.

"I care about the kid. I was a teacher for many years. I have the time and energy to focus on figuring out what he needs and how to get that for him. I feel very bad about what happened and would like to see him through."

"Would you send him to school?"

"Every day."

"What if he needed to go to a special school?"

"I'd find the best one and fight to have it covered by the state education system, which is legally obligated to educate every child regardless of disability; and, depending on the outcome, I'd see what I could do."

"Would you be doing this with an eye toward adoption?"

"The children would like me to adopt him. I'm not sure that's what his family wants. But, yes, I'm doing it with an eye towards the long term; this isn't something I take lightly."

"And what is your work as a self-employed person?" He says "self-employed" slowly, like it's a suspect notion.

"I was a professor of Nixon studies for many years, and as a Nixon scholar I am working on a book about him and also working with the Nixon family on a special project."

"Interesting. What drew you to Nixon?"

"Nixon is like someone from another time: old-fas.h.i.+oned to the point of being a bit backward, inescapably ugly whether he knew it or not, bitter, self-spiting, insecure and overly confident simultaneously."

The psychiatrist nods. "Not uncommon, to be both driven and conflicted."

"I find it fascinating-his sweat, his paranoia, his emotional lability. Even as President of the United States he didn't fit in."

"Do you have a t.i.tle for your book?"

"While We Were Sleeping: The American Dream Turned Nightmare-Richard Nixon, Vietnam, and Watergate: The Psychogenic Melting Point."

"That's a lot of t.i.tle."

"I've been thinking a lot about the drug that is the American Dream as the American ent.i.tlement, which gave way to the American downfall. Without Kennedy's a.s.sa.s.sination, we wouldn't have had Johnson, who paved the way for Nixon. The seeds of Nixon's 'success' were planted in a moment of failure-that hot, sweaty flop of a television debate and the lost election of 1960. Look at the Presidents all in a row and it makes sense: they are a psychological progression from one to another, all about the unspoken needs and desires and conflicts of the American people. I'm writing about Nixon as the container for all that was America at that moment in time and why we elected him and what we hoped he'd do...." I'm digressing, and nearly aggressing, as I jump all over the place, hitting the highlights.

"You seem quite pa.s.sionate on the subject," Tuttle says. "But what's your dream, what do you want for yourself?"

"Nothing," I say.

"Really?" Tuttle seems surprised.

"Really, I can't think of anything."

"Is it self-punis.h.i.+ng to not want anything in a society that's all about desire?" Tuttle asks.

"Is it?" I ask.

"You have no desire?" he suggests.

"Limited," I say.

"Depression?"

I shrug. "I don't think so."

"Then what is it?"

"Contentment? Satisfaction?" I suggest.

"Is there such a thing?" Dr. Tuttle asks.

"You tell me. Is contentment death? Does one need to want in order to live? Can one aspire to that which is not material?"

"It would seem wise to aspire to objects more real and less fleeting than a feeling state which you can't bank on," Tuttle says. "You may feel good now, but say something happens and you don't feel so good later. In your model there's no backup: you can't say, 'Well, I feel like c.r.a.p but at least I have a really nice car and a big television set.'"

"Why not say, I may feel bad now but I felt good before and chances are I'll feel good again?"

"Oh, that would be asking a lot of most people, a very lot," he says, pressing back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against each other. He glances at the clock, an early digital model with tiny number flaps that tumble forward as each minute pa.s.ses. When it's quiet, you can hear the dull click as the digit drops.

"We're running out of time for today," he says. "Should we schedule another session?"

"I'm hoping you'll be able to fill out the form for me," I say, nodding towards the mint-green sheet of paper I gave him when I came in. "It's the psychiatric report for the Department of Social Services, asking if I'm fit to parent."

"Leave the form with me," he says. "I should be able to complete it by the end of our next session."

"So the total cost is seven hundred and fifty dollars to get the form filled out?"

"Is that a problem?" Tuttle asks.

"No, I just want to be sure I understand."

Tuttle nods. "Same time next week?"

During the day, when I'm not doing something for the kids, visiting my mother, working on the Nixon story project in Manhattan, or sitting at George's desk trying to finish the book, I see Amanda.

We meet in parking lots between errands. Amanda tells me what's new in the grocery store-an expanded aisle of "ethnic" foods, more heat-and-eats, and that one of the checkout ladies has a heavy thumb on the produce scale. Amanda is a puzzle. I tell her that I wish I knew her better.

Amanda says nothing.

As I start to elaborate on my mother's upcoming wedding, she cuts me off. "I'm really not interested in you as a person," she says.

As hurtful as it sounds, I don't take it personally. I think she's lying.

In the evening, while I'm repainting the upstairs bathroom, I talk with Nate on speakerphone.

"Any further thoughts about the bar mitzvah?"

"Yeah," he says. "Let's cancel it."

"No bar mitzvah?" I ask.

"Yeah, I can't go into the temple," he says.

"What about doing it somewhere else?" I dip the brush into the can of Benjamin Moore semi-gloss and sweep it across the wall.

"Like where?"

"Here at home?" I suggest. "I've been sprucing it up."

"She was killed at home," he says flatly.

"At a country club? Or hotel?" I dip the brush again.

"Over-the-top awkward," Nate says, "and besides, I think the rabbi is a jerk."

"Well, we should do something special. How about taking a trip?"

"Like to Disney World?" Nate asks, and I remember that I am talking to a twelve-year-old.

"I'm thinking something more substantive-a game changer."

"I don't know," Nate says. "The one place I'd like to go...is back to Nateville. I'm not sure I'll ever get there."

"You're twelve years old and worried you'll never go there again."

"Don't mock me," he says.

"So-you'd like to go to South Africa?"

"I think so."

"Just to Nateville, or on a more expanded trip, like on a safari?"

"A safari would be cool. We'd take Ashley?"

"Of course."

"And Ricardo?"

"If you like."

"Cool," Nate says, seeming genuinely pleased.

"Okay," I say, standing back to look at my work so far. "I'll see what I can find out." The call waiting beeps; I say good night to Nate and take the call.

"Your mother called my mother," Jason says.

"What happened to 'h.e.l.lo'?" I say, stepping off the ladder.

"It was all very pleasant until she invited my mother to her wedding and got upset when my mother said, 'I already went to your wedding. Don't you remember?' And your mother said, 'Of course I remember-I'm talking about now, I'm getting married again.' Long story short, my mother thinks your mother is out of her mind."

My brush slips out of my hand and bounces across multiple surfaces before landing in the toilet. "She's actually doing well; she met someone at the home," I tell Jason as I fish the brush out of the bowl and shake it off.

"Are you going to let her get married?"

"I'm not sure that it's entirely up to me." I pause-it occurs to me that Lillian might know the fiance. "Hey, could you ask your mother if she knows Bob Goldman? They all went to the same junior high, so it might ring a bell."

"You mean Bobby Goldman, Yetta Goldman's baby brother?"

"Maybe."

"He's the one who was so bad as a kid; he flushed a rug down the toilet at the temple."

"I think he used to be into sports," I say, as though somehow rug flus.h.i.+ng could be considered sporty.

"Goldman played professional ball for a season or two and then was a radio announcer under the name of Bob Gold, so no one would know he was Jewish."

"How do you know all that?"

"Because when our parents were sitting around talking I actually listened. You and your brother were always too busy trying to kill each other."

I stop-cold.

"We were trying to kill each other?"

"You were always fighting."

"Really? I don't remember that."

Ricardo has come for a week, gone home for two days, and then returned with a larger bag of clothes. My new life has an unrelenting schedule: 6 a.m., wake up; 6:15, wake Ashley; 6:30, wake Ricardo, feed and walk animals and children; 7:45, drop Ricardo at his school; 8:45, drop Ashley at the puppet theater, where she's working on their upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet. And then, if it's not a workday in the city, back to the house, clean, groceries, work, and get ready for Ricardo's return at 4:30. Tessie seems to have quickly learned the routine and antic.i.p.ates the yellow school bus's arrival by about forty-five seconds, barking to tell me it's time. The bus stops, the narrow door peels open; Ricardo hops out and cuts across the gra.s.s, his enormous backpack kind of like a second person on top of him. We have a snack and catch up, and a little while later, the car service slides into the driveway and out comes Ashley, suddenly looking like a young woman, texting as she walks up the driveway. On the days I'm in the city, Ricardo stays late at school, or Christina or a friend of hers picks him up and then we collect him by 6:30 and go out for pizza.

The kitchen is filled with homework charts, an incentive-based program that I've started for both children. Ricardo is also now on a swim team and part of a soccer club. I buy a used Ping-Pong table at a yard sale and set it up in the living room. We play round-robins and mixed doubles. The speed and the eye-hand coordination are good for all of our mental acuity.