Free May We Be Forgiven by A. M. Homes Page B

procession, waits until all the cars have passed; then we slip into a McDonald’s.
    “My treat,” I say to everyone, including the driver.
    “I thought they were serving lunch at the shiva,” Nate says.
    “What would you rather have, a hamburger or egg salad?”
    “I’ll toss the evidence,” the driver says when we get to Susan’s house.
    “I’m assuming you’ll wait?” I say.
    “You don’t have a car?” the driver asks.
    “My car is back at the house where you picked us up.”
    “Usually we just drop the people off. But I’ll wait. I’ll make it a time call; the hourly rate is seventy-five, with a four-hour minimum.”
    “We won’t be that long.”
    The driver shrugs.

    T he twins are on the loose. They’re running through the house, chased by a small dog that seems like a trip hazard for old people. The front hall is mirrored tile with gold veins running through. Just glancing at it makes me nervous; my reflection splits into many pieces, and I wonder if it’s a “magic mirror” somehow empowered to display my internal state.
    Susan is leading a tour of her remodeled split-level, showing Jane’s friends how she “blew out” the ceiling and “pushed back” the rear wall so she’d have a great room and a dining room, and how they “recaptured” the garage and made a den/ breakfast room with French doors and added decks “everywhere.”
    “We did everything we could think of and more,” Susan says, proudly.
    And it shows.
    The visitors are the same people from the funeral, friends, neighbors, do-gooders, and curious assholes who have no business being there. Despite having eaten a double cheeseburger, I circle the dining-room table, where lunch is laid out. Pitted black olives and cherry tomatoes stare at me, expressionless. Avocados and artichokes, deviled eggs with paprika, smoked salmon, bagels, and macaroni salad; I’m looking at it all, and suddenly it turns into body parts, organs: the Jell-O mold is like a liver; the macaroni salad, cranial matter. I pour myself a Diet Coke.
    An older man comes up to me with a look of purpose and extends his hand.
    “Hiram P. Moody,” he says, shaking my hand, “your brother’s accountant. No doubt you’ve got a lot on your mind, but what I want you to know, fiduciarily speaking, you’re going to be okay.”
    I must have given him an odd look. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says. “Financially–you’re in good shape. George was a bit of a player, he took some chances, made a gamble here and there, but let’s just say he had a good sense of timing.”
    “I’m sorry?” I say, finding Hiram P. hard to follow.
    He nods. “Let me be blunt. You and the children will be well cared for. I pay the bills; whatever you need, you let me know. I’m much more than a ‘see you in mid-April’ tax guy. I’m your go-to guy—the one who holds the purse strings—and now so do you. I’ve got some papers that you’ll need to sign—no rush,” he says. “I assume you know that you’re the legal guardian for the children, as well as guardian and medical proxy for your brother, and Jane specifically wanted you as executor of any estate—she was concerned that her sister didn’t share her values.”
    I nod. My head is bobbing up and down as if I were a puppet on a weight.
    Hiram P. slips a business card into my palm. “We’ll talk soon,” he says. And as I turn to go, he calls after me, “Wait, I’ve got something better. Put out your hand.” I do, and he slaps something into it. “Refrigerator magnet,” he says. “My wife had them made—it’s got all the info, even my cell—for emergencies.”
    “Thanks,” I say.
    Hiram P. takes me by the shoulders and gives a combo shake/ squeeze. “I’m here for you and the children,” he says.
    Inexplicably, my eyes fill with tears. Hiram P. moves to hug me as I’m bringing my hand up to blot my eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a hand, maybe it was my fist; maybe I wasn’t going to blot