"Sure," I say.
"All in favor of Williamsburg and the surrounding area?"
"Yay," we all say.
And so it is decided-and as soon as it is decided, Nate starts gunning for me to take the orphan.
As we"re about to hang up, the boy"s name comes back to me-it"s really the memory of George and some c.r.a.ppy comment he made about the boy"s mother crying out his name-"Ricky," I say. "His name is either Ricky or Ricardo."
"And what do they call him?" Ash asks.
"Ricky or Ricardo," Nate says.
"Nice," Ashley says. "Let"s invite him."
I agree to call, even though I fear injecting our family further into the lives of these people who we"ve already harmed so profoundly. And then I think of Nate and Ashley and their youthful belief in the possibility of repair, and so it is with that that I push myself to make the call.
"Is Christina Menendez there?" I say her name slowly-because in my head I"ve inexplicably started calling her Carmen Miranda and am convinced I"m going to actually say it to her face.
"She no home," the man says.
I am about to ask if I can leave my name, but he hangs up.
I try again in the evening. "Is Carmen there?" I ask.
"Wrong number."
"I"m trying to reach Carmen. It"s about the boy?"
"You got it wrong, her name is not Carmen, it"s Christina. She"s not back yet."
"I"m sorry," I say, not even realizing that I in fact said it. "When will she be home?"
I"m noticing things in the kitchen, photos of the kids that have been on the fridge for years, things that have been stuck there and now are almost sh.e.l.lacked on with age and coatings of orange juice, milk, splashed spaghetti sauce.
"Can I give her a message?"
"I"d really like to speak with her," I say, picking at the edge of an old sticker for the newspaper delivery guy. It"s deeply stuck on; my picking makes it worse-it really needs to be sc.r.a.ped with a razor blade.
"Hold on."
"h.e.l.lo," a woman says suspiciously.
"Hi," I say. "I"m..."
"I know who you are."
"No," I say, "I"m the brother, the uncle of the children."
She says nothing.
I speak, I spill my guts, I say all the things that are so difficult to say. "The children of the man who killed your family feel bad, they are very worried about the boy, they want to help him...." It"s awkward, I really don"t know what to say. "I"m taking the children to Williamsburg and they"d like to invite the boy."
"What"s that?"
"Williamsburg? It"s a place in Virginia, an old town, a former plantation. It was the state capital after a fire in Yorktown; I guess it"s where the American Revolution gathered momentum. It"s a place you go when you"re studying American history." And then I jump to "There are amus.e.m.e.nt parks nearby. The kids thought the boy might like it-and you too, of course."
"I work," she says.
"If you can take time off, we could cover your lost salary," I say. "We"re going for a couple of days, a long weekend."
"He is a big pain," she says without affect, so it"s hard to know what she"s getting at.
"Still in pain from the accident?"
"No," she says, "he is a big pain, he has learning disability, ADD, DDD, BPI spectrum, et cetera. I have to give him medication."
"Oh," I say. "Well, the kids would like to get to know him better, and as I said, you"re invited as well."
She seems unmoved, or like she doesn"t understand what I"m saying.
"I will talk to my husband," she says.
"Okay," I say. "Thank you."
A little too proud of myself, I call Jane"s father. "I took your suggestion," I say.
"You couldn"t have," he says.
"I did," I say.
"Trust me," he says.
"I"m taking the kids away-we"re going to historic Williamsburg."
"I get it," he says, pauses, and then comes back: "My suggestion is that you G.o.dd.a.m.ned rot in h.e.l.l, you and your piece-of-s.h.i.t brother. You took my beautiful daughter, G.o.d knows what you"re doing to those children."
I collect my thoughts. "You"re right," I offer. "What happened was unforgivable, and I wanted you to know I heard what you said; I"m trying to do my best for these children."
"Shmuck," he says-and then there"s a pause. "So why are you calling?"
"You suggested I take the children somewhere; I wanted you to know we"re going to Williamsburg."
"And you"re expecting me to pay for that? You think Williamsburg is like Israel? Not a penny, a.s.shole, not a penny."
"I wasn"t asking for money-I just wanted you to know. We"ll send a postcard," I say, hanging up.
The next time we talk, I tell Nate that I called the boy"s aunt.
"What"s today?" Nate asks.
"In what sense?"
"The date?"
I give him today"s date.
"I know," he says. "Mom"s birthday."
"Right," I say, not having realized.
"Are we supposed to do something-have a cake with an unlit candle, something symbolic?"
"You could do that," I say.
"Yeah," he says, "I could ask the kitchen for a birthday cake for my dead mother, with an unlit candle...."
"I"ll go to the cemetery," I say.
"And do what?"
"Check on things, talk to her...." The more I say the worse it seems-I picture myself standing at her grave singing "Happy Birthday."
Silence...
"So what did the boy"s family say?" Nate asks.
"They"re thinking about it," I say.
"I hope he comes with us."
"How come?"
"This whole thing has been so bad," Nate says, "we have to make something go right, and this is something we can do."
"I hope so too," I say, surprising myself.
I go to the cemetery and drive in circles-it all looks the same, a few scattered cars, gravediggers, and a funeral in progress. This one allows no markers aboveground, so there"s something apocalyptically flat about it. There"s not a stray baby tree springing up, a lone elm taking root.
I can"t remember where Jane"s grave is and have to check in at the office. "Please sign our Visitor Book," the woman at the desk urges, but I don"t.
I would have brought flowers, but the cemetery doesn"t allow them: no live flowers also means no dead flowers that have to be collected and thrown away.
I get the directions, and as soon as I"m out of the car and up the small rise of land I see her-Jane"s mother, Sylvia. I see her and am tempted to leave, to turn and go back to the car, to respect her privacy, to avoid a confrontation. But, really, there is nowhere to go, nothing I can do except go forward.
"h.e.l.lo," I say.
She nods at me.
We both look at the grave. A few rocks have been placed, indicating that Jane has not been forgotten, others have been here.
"It"s a place," she says.
It"s hard to know how to respond. "Yes," I say, "it is. It"s her birthday."
"Yes," she says, brightening. "I remember the day she was born-vividly-like it was yesterday, but yesterday I don"t remember so well. Pardon me," she says, as if begging forgiveness. "I"m on medication, I needed something to calm me down-but now I"m like the walking dead."
"I can imagine it"s difficult." I pause. "Nate called-he was wondering what to do about today-I told him I was coming here." I give her a few details about each of the kids and then stop: she"s not listening.
"I knew about the affair," she says.
I nod.
"Jane and I talked...."
I don"t say anything, because what is there to say.
"I had an affair as well," her mother says. "When she told me about you, I told her about me."
"Whom did you have the affair with?"
"Goldblatt," she says, "the dentist. And Troshinksy, the girls" piano teacher. He had beautiful hands. I also had a moment, but not an affair, with Guralnick, who was for a time working in my husband"s office. Of course, my husband knows nothing of it."
"Of course."
"Jane liked you very much."
"I liked her."
"Was it worth all this? A moment of...whatever you want to call it, cost my girl her life," she says, as though she can"t believe it.
"What happened is very unusual."
"The affair?" She looks at me incredulously.
"The murder," I say.
She pauses. "Your wife was a foreigner," she says. "She married you to become legit."
"My ex-wife," I say, "is Chinese-American. She was born in this country and graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Stanford and her father was considered a strong candidate for the n.o.bel Peace Prize."
"I never knew," she says. And it means so many things. She puts a little blue box from Tiffany down on the dirt where next year the marker will be.
"You bought her a gift?"
"I"m not foolish," she says. "The box is empty. She always liked the little blue boxes."
In the car, on the way home, I debate calling George. I imagine the conversation in my head: "It"s Jane"s birthday. I didn"t know if you"d remember, but I thought I should check in on you."