Forgive Me (6 page)

Eleven

F
or four days, Nadine woke early in Hank’s guest bedroom. The winter sun streamed through the panes of the upstairs windows; even when Nadine closed the white shutters, the light worked its way underneath her eyelids. Besides the hissing of the steam heat, the house was utterly quiet. Nadine’s dreams—which had always been blissfully blank—were filled with images like shrapnel: the clay Madonna on a sick child’s bedside table, the knot of skin where a Haitian boy’s ear had been. Ann’s wedding ring, nestled amid Jim’s spare change in a glass dish on his dresser in the Surf Drive house.

In her pajamas, Nadine made coffee and drank it in on the front porch, looking over the large yard, which led to a dirt road and then the beach. The yard was made for dogs and children, thought Nadine, but there was only Hank and his fragile patient, drinking coffee, wrapped in a scratchy red blanket. By the front door was a row of fishing rods and a green plastic tackle box.

In the afternoons, they would read in the living room. They had visited Nantucket Bookworks and bought each other books for Christmas. Hank was working through
War and Peace
and Nadine was revisiting
Cry the Beloved Country.
They sat at opposite ends of the couch, propped up by pillows. Once in a while, Hank would read a sentence to Nadine, or she would look up to find him focused on her, not his reading.

“What?” she said once, catching him staring.

“Oh,” said Hank, “I just hit a boring part. You thought I was gazing at you?”

“No,” said Nadine, smiling.

“Good,” said Hank.

After a lunch of cheese, sliced apples, and bread, they shopped in town and then sat on the beach. They told each other ribbons of stories: Nadine’s summer in South Africa, Hank’s mother in Florida, who was growing forgetful, the young girl he’d just diagnosed with diabetes. “That must have been tough,” said Nadine, when he described telling the girl’s parents.

“She’s fine,” said Hank. “Diabetes is a cakewalk compared with the worst things.” Nadine wanted to ask about the worst things, but stopped herself: she didn’t need nightmares about pediatric health disasters. Instead, she changed the subject.

“I had a boyfriend once with diabetes,” she said. “Cameron. He was from Vermont.”

“Cameron,” said Hank.

“Yeah,” said Nadine. “I loved his family. I loved his house. His parents built it themselves.” Nadine had met Cameron her freshman year at Harvard. He was tall, with brown hair and green eyes. He had to give himself an insulin shot before every meal, taking the bottle from a mini fridge in the corner of his dorm room. He taught Nadine how to give him the shot, and he taught her about writing music, his passion. They went to jazz shows in the city, Cameron’s fingers tapping the beat on Nadine’s knee.

He brought her to Vermont for Thanksgiving. Cameron’s house, filled with skis and musical instruments, was never quiet. He had five siblings, and none sat still. Something was always cooking—bread, apple pie, vegetarian lasagna—and someone was always telling a story or practicing an instrument. Nadine threw away a bread bag, and Cameron’s mother, who wore fleece tops and athletic pants, fished it out of the garbage. “We can use this again,” she said kindly, her hand warm on Nadine’s shoulder.

Cameron’s home could not have been more different from Nadine’s. Jim never saved a bread bag to refill with a homemade loaf, or cooked at all, for that matter. Nobody ever trailed through Nadine’s house wearing a wet suit and flipper fins, the way Cameron’s brother Horace did after swimming in the nearby pond. Even when the whole family was finally assembled at the table for to-furkey Thanksgiving dinner, Cameron’s house buzzed with noise: clattering plates, scraping chairs, booming classical music. Nadine held the butter dish, which Cameron’s mother had made and painted with butterflies. She soaked in the noise of a happy family, and thought,
It is possible. I could have this.

“What was it like?” said Hank. “The house Cameron’s parents built?”

Even after Cameron dumped Nadine for a willowy oboe player, she thought of his family: a table of loud people who belonged together. She looked at Hank. “It was wonderful,” she said.

N
adine tried on clothes at the Lilly Pulitzer store, refusing to even exit the dressing room in the bright outfits. Finally, she found a store she liked, and charged jeans, slim black pants, leather boots, and two sweaters—more clothes than she’d bought in years.

Hank made elaborate dinners, which they ate in front of the fire: clams and linguine, lobster Diablo, steaks on the grill for Christmas. While he cooked, Nadine sat at the kitchen table and watched. “Where did you learn how to cook?” she asked.

“Maryjane could have been a chef,” said Hank. “When we broke up, I couldn’t peel a garlic clove. In fact, I had lost every skill she had—remembering people’s names, keeping up with Christmas cards, knowing where to hang a picture. One day I was in the grocery store, throwing ginger ale in the cart, and I stopped and asked myself,
Do I even like ginger ale?
Learning how to cook was a way of making my own life. I took lessons, actually, at Cape Cod Community College.”

“Do you?” said Nadine.

“Do I what?”

“Like ginger ale?”

“You know,” said Hank, “I prefer Pepsi.”

T
hat night, Nadine dreamed of dinner at her favorite restaurant in Mexico City. It was a small, neighborhood spot called Alejandro’s. Alejandro’s wife, a slight woman named Marguerite, made a chicken dish with a rich sauce from her native Oaxaca. The sauce was called
mole,
and Nadine loved it so much she decided to feature Marguerite in an article. She arrived at Alejandro’s with her notebook and convinced Marguerite to take her into the kitchen. The resulting story was a huge success, and Nadine committed the
mole
recipe to memory.

In the morning, Nadine decided to make
mole
for Hank. She presented him with a list of twenty-six ingredients and told him dinner would be late and fabulous, just the way it was at Alejandro’s. Hank stared at the list. “Chocolate?” he said. “I thought you were making chicken.”

“It’s a sauce with chocolate and chiles,” said Nadine. “You’re going to love it. Might as well get some sipping tequila, too.”

“Nadine,” said Hank, sinking into a kitchen chair, “You think the Nantucket Stop & Shop is going to have—” He paused, counting, and then continued. “—five kinds of chiles? I’ll be lucky if I can get tortillas.”

“Right,” said Nadine, sitting down next to him. “Well, do your best.”

Nadine cooked all day, and around nine
PM
they ate. “Spicy,” said Hank appreciatively.

“That would be the Ortega taco seasoning packet.”

“Hm,” said Hank. “And these—” He held up a forkful of something crunchy.

“Fritos,” said Nadine. She shook her head, imagining Alejandro’s horror at her creation. He’d like Hank, though, she decided, watching him pour another glass of tequila.

“Fritos,” mused Hank, swirling the smoky liquid in his glass. “Well, Fritos were tortillas once, right?”

O
n their last night, Nadine and Hank sat on the couch in front of a roaring fire. They shared the red blanket, spreading it over their knees as they balanced bowls of shellfish pasta in their laps. “Well,” said Nadine, “this week has been wonderful.”

“It’s been nice to have the company,” said Hank. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, actually,” Nadine lied. Her wrist felt better—by the third day she could use her fingers without trouble—but her headaches were worse. “They won’t send me out for a few months,” she said. “So I guess I have some time to…visit friends.”

“You’re going to Mexico, then?”

“I’m steering clear of the Sandy Toes, that’s for damn sure.” Nadine had tried to call her father but reached only a cheery answering machine announcement about the Sandy Toes’ summer season opening. She had left a message saying, “Dad, I love you. It’s Nadine. I just…I needed to get back to work. I’ll call soon.”

“You know,” said Hank, “you’re welcome to stay here. It’s empty all week. I come out most weekends, but the guest room’s all yours.”

Nadine looked at Hank. “That’s so nice,” she said. He shrugged. “Maybe I will stay a few more days. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“I could do without a city for another week,” said Nadine. “My apartment in Mexico City. Jesus, Hank, it doesn’t even have a couch! A futon and some milk crates to rest the printer on. It’s awful.”

“Do you ever want…I don’t know how to phrase it.”

“A boxspring? Some pots and pans? To tell you the truth, no. That’s just not for me. I’m happiest in the thick of things.” Even as she spoke, Nadine wondered whether she was telling the truth. She had repeated the same story about herself for so long that it was hard to admit how much she was enjoying afternoons reading in a cozy house, the smell of a real dinner being prepared as opposed to a bowl of Raisin Bran and a glass of wine, her usual repast.

T
hat night, after he had gone to bed, Nadine watched the fire die down to embers. She didn’t want to leave the living room: the plum-colored glow, books on the shelf, Hank’s teacup on the counter, the blanket that held his dusky, molasses smell. She touched the rough wool and felt tranquil. She breathed in the house, the week they had spent there. A house held on to the moments lived inside its walls, she thought. And Nadine had only her mind to hold her history. She had always been able to keep the unhappy memories at bay, but her brain, jammed full, was beginning to sabotage her. She was so tired.

Nadine walked barefoot across the living room floor. Hank’s room was off the kitchen, a large bedroom facing a vegetable garden. In the kitchen, the dishes were piled in the sink. The ticking of the grandfather clock. A heavy wind buffeted the house, but Nadine was warm inside. She cradled the knob to Hank’s room, and then she turned it.

Hank was asleep with his book in his hand, the light still on. Nadine watched his chest rise and fall. His skin held the caramel color of his Portuguese parents; his lips were full. He had not shaved all week, and there was stubble under his cheekbones: half black, half gray. Nadine slid her pajama pants down, pulled her shirt over her head. Naked, she approached the bed, folded Hank’s book, and placed it on the floor.

Nadine pulled back the covers and eased herself next to Hank. She pressed her lips to his, and something inside her relaxed. Her head stopped hurting, and Hank woke and said,
Is this a dream?
and Nadine said
Yes
and moved on top of him.

In the morning, it was snowing, the trees blanketed in white.

Twelve

H
ank didn’t leave for two more days. “I’ll tell them it snowed,” he said, lying next to Nadine, twirling a strand of her hair in his dark fingers.

“It did snow,” said Nadine.

“It did snow,” said Hank.

N
adine drove him to the ferry, carefully piloting the Volvo through slippery streets. The car had no heat, and cold air blew around the edges of the convertible top. “I’ll be back on Friday night,” said Hank. “I can catch the seven o’clock.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“You think you’ll be all right by yourself?” said Hank. Though he said she should start seeing another doctor in his office, Hank had examined her pupils and prodded her arm and pronounced her self-sufficient. Nadine had not mentioned the terrible pain in her head, or the dizziness.

“Of course,” she said.

He ran into the Nantucket Juice Bar for a drink and came out with a copy of the local high school newspaper, the
Whaler.
“I thought this might interest you,” he said. “And fudge,” he said, handing over a waxy paper box and leaning over to touch his lips to her cheek.

“You’re too good for me,” said Nadine.

“Obviously,” said Hank.

N
adine watched him run to catch the ferry, a slow pleasure testing itself in her body. He turned and blew her a kiss, and she waved. When she put the car in gear, she caught herself smiling in the rearview mirror. She stopped at the bookstore and bought
The Joy of Cooking,
planning to practice for a few days before attempting a welcome dinner. “You staying awhile?” asked the store owner, ringing up the cookbook on an old cash register.

“Who knows,” said Nadine.

“It gets in your blood.”

“God forbid,” said Nadine. The woman laughed. Nadine drove to Quidnet Road, blowing on her cold hands at every stop. She was sore from lovemaking and ready for an afternoon nap. She brewed a cup of chamomile tea, smiling and thinking of Hank, his body, his fingertips.

Nadine hummed as she walked into Hank’s room and climbed into bed. She sipped her tea. Next to her, the
Whaler
beckoned. Still, she resisted for a moment, looking out at the snow, tasting the sweetness of the two spoonfuls of local honey she had stirred into her mug. Then she opened the paper. She was calm until she saw the headline.

Local Couple Heads to South Africa for Son’s Murder Trial

And the sickening thrill ignited in her chest. She scanned the article.
Jason Irving
she saw, and
bludgeoned to death
and
gang of street children
and
beat his head with a rock
and
body flown back to Nantucket
and
Sophia and Krispin Irving.
Nadine held her breath.

She had always felt a connection to Jason, though they had never met. They were from the same corner of the world, after all, and had both ended up in South Africa. But Jason had never come home.

The
Whaler
article was written by a Nantucket High senior and featured a grim picture of Jason’s parents: Krispin, a wealthy entrepreneur, and Sophia, his blonde wife. Nadine had seen pictures of the Irvings before, splashed over the papers after Jason’s murder. They looked completely different now—old and broken, sipping coffee and looking away from each other.

In Hank’s warm bed, Nadine read.

This holiday season, Krispin and Sophia Irving are not buying ornaments at Nautical and Nice. They aren’t walking off too much turkey on Madaket Beach, either. Instead, the Irvings, who founded Cranberry Creations, are packing for their first visit to Cape Town, South Africa, where their son, Jason, was bludgeoned to death by a gang of street children ten years ago, his body flown back to Nantucket for burial.

Jason, valedictorian of Nantucket High School Class of 1984, went to South Africa to fight against apartheid, the shocking system of separating blacks and whites. Jason taught English to black children in the impoverished townships where blacks were forced to live in filthy conditions, often without water or sanitary facilities. He really loved his students, said his father. “Jason felt it was his life’s goal to fight the injustice of the apartheid government,” said Krispin Irving in an exclusive interview with the Whaler held in the high school cafeteria during free period.

But the young black children in South Africa had grown up persecuted by whites, and some adopted the saying, “One settler, one bullet,” which they yelled as they killed Jason Irving, who was not, obviously, a white settler, but a young man from Nantucket who incidentally once wrote for the
Whaler,
too. “They didn’t designate between different white people,” explains Krispin. “These children thought that any white person deserved to die. They believed that killing white people would end apartheid.”

On April 7, 1988, Jason was driving a student to the student’s home in Sunshine township. Some kids, all riled up from a political rally, surrounded the car and smashed the window with a brick. They dragged him out of the car, and jumped on Jason as he tried to run. A group of boys and a young girl kicked him and beat his head with a rock. They murdered him with their bare hands and the aforementioned rock.

Three of the boys and the girl were sentenced to eighteen years in prison each. But then things changed in South Africa. In 1992, Nelson Mandela (who is black and who was jailed for twenty-seven years) was elected president, ending apartheid. But the hatred between the races continued. Like a terrible motorboat, whites and blacks had committed heinous crimes, leaving a giant wake behind. Nelson Mandela’s party, the African National Congress, is handling the wake of these actions in a new way.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (also called the TRC), headed by the charismatic Archbishop Desmond Tutu, has invited victims and persecutors to come forward and tell their stories. The commission has already spent almost a year traveling to more than fifty public hearings all over the country to take statements.

If people’s crimes were political, and they tell the truth and ask for forgiveness, they can be given amnesty. In other words, they might walk free! “This process is not about pillorying,” Archbishop Desmond Tutu said. “It’s actually about getting to the truth, so we can heal.”

(Author’s note: Desmond Tutu did not say this to me, but I saw it in The New York Times. I wrote Desmond Tutu a letter but have not heard back as of yet.)

Jason’s murderers say that they thought killing Jason Irving would lead to the end of apartheid. They will appear before the commission on January 10, and Jason’s parents will be there to watch them explain what they did to Jason and why.

Krispin and Sophia Irving could make all the difference when they speak at the TRC hearing. If they support amnesty, their son’s killers might walk free into the sunshine. On the other hand, if they fight these children’s pleas for forgiveness, they could send them back to jail.

“I support their application for amnesty,” says Krispin Irving, eating the Dove bar I bought him. “They were young and angry, and they deserve a second chance. I am going to South Africa to tell Jason’s killers that I forgive them.”

Sophia Irving disagrees. While my parents and the Irvings were having cocktails on the Irvings’ yacht, Bogged Down, I was undercover, and I asked Mrs. Irving what she thought about Jason’s killers’ applications for amnesty. “I hope they rot in hell,” she said.

—Janine Lewis, senior editor, the
Whaler

It was time to go back; Nadine knew it in her bones. She told herself it was an important story—she had to see the TRC, to write about Evelina’s hearing. But there was more: a part of Nadine was still stuck in South Africa, still living the night she had betrayed Maxim. Nadine picked up the phone. A ticket from Nantucket Memorial Airport to Cape Town, South Africa, cost $2,301. She could leave in the morning. Nadine put the ticket on her MasterCard and began to pack, her chamomile tea growing cold on the kitchen table.