"There isn't," I said.
"Look," he said, "I know that what I did was wrong, outrageously wrong. It was a horrible mistake, in every way, but I've paid my debt for it."
"Not to me you haven't," I said.
"What I did hurt your mother terribly," he said, "but I believe she's forgiven me. And so has your brother. You're the only hold-out."
"Are you so certain about mother's forgiveness?"
"She's not as cold to me as you are."
"Maybe she's a better person than I am."
"Or maybe," he said, "she doesn't enjoy a grudge as much as you do. You know the Yiddish word rachmones? It means compassion, mercy, pity. You might consider showing your father a little."
"You think so, do you?" I said, "Let's review quickly. You hire a man to kill your lover's husband, betraying your wife and dragging your family through scandal and humiliation, and you feel I am unreasonable in holding this little trespass against you. Call it a grudge, go ahead, but whatever it is I plan to hang on to it."
"Goddamnit, Ann," he said, "I am your father."
"That isn't really my fault, is it?" I replied.
My father looked down at his shoes. I walked out of the kitchen.
The next day my father called and asked if we might meet for lunch, just the two of us. I hesitated — the notion of being alone with him made me nervous-but then I said yes. We agreed to meet at a place called Barney's, on Broadway near Belmont.
I arrived on time. He was late. The place was clearly a draw for older people used to eating death-defying Jewish delicatessen food. Older women on walkers clomped up the restaurant's narrow aisles. A heavy man in an electric wheelchair drove in, followed by a Filipino caregiver. A little woman bent by osteoporosis entered, wires in her nose connected to an oxygen box that she carried on her walker. A waitress with an Israeli accent asked me if I wanted a coffee while I waited. I sat, content to watch people consume heavy soups, smoked meats, carbonated drinks, rich desserts, all in huge quantities. My father, fifteen minutes late, finally arrived.
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