A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

And I think Ashley does too — which is why she starting screaming on the roadside, and why her survival training kicked in.

Africa seems both so far away and eternally present, like a scrim that I’m operating behind. I keep drinking Londisizwe’s tea, which I think is helping. I am cooking, cleaning, and packing three enormous duffels with a month’s supply of sheets, pillows, bug spray, stamps and stationery, shirts, shorts, and bathing suits, while having an identity crisis — one I’m too old to have — against the backdrop of a heat wave and three children who are leaving for camp this weekend. Ashley and I talk about “relationships” away from home and reaffirm that there should be no trading of physical favors between adults and children — she shouldn’t fool around with anyone more than three years older or younger, and what she does should be limited to “the soft arts,” a phrase I coined for the occasion. Ricardo and I review the plan I’ve come up with in collaboration with a colleague of Dr. Tuttle’s to wean him off his medications and add a variety of supplements. Nate and I go over his summer reading and extra-credit projects.

At dinner, Cy holds up a stalk of broccoli like it is a tree and asks, “What is this? Is it an evergreen tree? Is it a maple? If I can’t identify it, I can’t eat it.”

“Broccoli,” Ashley says. “Not a tree, a vegetable.”

“Oh, right,” Cy says.

“Take a brave taste,” Ricardo urges, and he does.

“Oh, right,” he says, “I forgot, I used to know broccoli. In fact, Madeline used to make a delicious sauce that went on it.”

I ask Madeline if she minds my deviating from her recipe book.

“Not a bit,” she says, “I never could eat that crap. I did it for the child.”

On the third Saturday in July, Ashley leaves for a month of camp. On Sunday, we all drive the boys to the bus, which is parked in the church parking lot — the same church parking lot where Amanda found Heather Ryan’s wallet in the trash. I see the trash cans in the corner but say nothing — there is really no one to say anything to. Ricardo’s aunt Christina comes with us to say goodbye; she’s made an enormous lunch for him to take on the bus. “Use it to make friends — share,” I whisper as we’re sending him off.

On the way home, we stop at a nursery and buy a trunkful of plants, a few new roses, petunias, geraniums, some cherry tomatoes, zucchini, and radishes, because Cy says he’s always wanted to farm. We spend the afternoon in the yard.

“Do you miss Amanda?” I ask Madeline.

“It’s tricky with children,” Madeline says. “You have your ideas and they have theirs. There’s a lot each of us doesn’t know about the other.”

We plant a rosebush for Amanda, and later I notice that Madeline frequently talks to it.

In the afternoon, while Cy is napping, Madeline tells me that she used to have a companion, “a very handsome neighbor whose husband also worked long hours in the city. She was thoughtful in ways that never occurred to Cy …” she says, her voice trailing off, leaving me wondering if they were lovers or just friends.

We have drinks before dinner: grilled cheese sandwiches and a summer gazpacho that Cy describes as soup waiting to mature and become a Bloody Mary.

There is enormous stillness in the house, an odd hollow. “Awfully quiet around here,” Cy says.

And we all agree — it’s too quiet.

That night, I come upon Madeline sitting in a rocking chair, her shirt up, a withered old breast extracted, and one of Ashley’s babies at her breast. She looks so calm, so pleased with herself, that I do nothing more than drape a blanket from the sofa over her.

“She’s still got the knack,” Cy says.

“How long will they be gone?” Madeline asks, patting the baby.

“A month,” I say.

Monday morning, the pet sitter’s sister comes to spend the day with Cy and Madeline, and I return to work in the city.

The dress code at the law firm is relaxed for summer: khakis, seersucker suits, and men in short shirtsleeves looking more like accountants with pen protectors than the finest of legal minds.

The stories are in good shape. Ching Lan has worked hard: each has been transcribed, edited, and copyedited. I go over them once more, make a few small changes, and return them to Ching Lan before lunch for a final polish. Following up on my earlier conversation with Julie Nixon Eisenhower, I phone her and again suggest submitting them for publication. During the course of the afternoon, the decision is made to send them out through the firm to five or six places simultaneously. Given the sluggishness with which most things happen and the hot, then cold, response when I first suggested submission, I’m surprised by how quickly the idea gathers momentum.

One of the partners drafts a letter announcing an exciting new development in the field of Nixon scholarship, the short stories of RMN collected and edited by noted Nixon scholar Harold Silver. The draft is approved by Mrs. Eisenhower, and “SOB” goes out by messenger that afternoon.

In the later part of the evening, my telephone rings. “It’s David Remnick from The New Yorker. ”

I pause, waiting for something more, like the rest of the recorded announcement: “We’re calling you about an exciting subscription offer. …”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he says.

I take the phone into another room, leaving Madeline and Cy in front of the television.

“I knew your brother,” Remnick, says, “not terribly well, but a bit.”

“I didn’t realize,” I say.

“So listen,” he says, “we’re very interested in this story, but before we can go further I need to know if it’s authentic.”

“To the best of my knowledge it is,” I say, and explain how I was contacted by the family and the provenance of the boxes.

“How many stories did Nixon write?” Remnick asks.

“There are approximately thirteen,” I say, and then, suddenly, I’m not sure how much I can say without violating my confidentiality agreement.

“Are you still there?”

“I am,” I say. “But I should probably go.”

“How would you characterize the other stories?” Remnick asks. “Personal, political, similar in tone to the one we’ve got? Are they really fiction?”

I answer as carefully as I can. When we’re finished, I feel filleted but admiring of his technique. I place a call to Mrs. Eisenhower at home. I picture her on the sofa of an old-fashioned formal living room, a faded testament to another era.

“She’s not available — may I take a message?”

“Yes, I wanted to let her know I’ve had some calls from the media.”

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Eisenhower calls back. “I hope you won’t take this badly,” she says. “We’ve decided to withdraw the story. The response has been overwhelming; we’re going to take a step back and consider what we’re doing a bit more carefully.”

“Was it anything to do with the quality of my work?” I’m compelled to ask.

“No,” she says. “While I was surprised by the extent of some of your edits, when I looked them over in comparison to the longer versions I thought you did a fine job. It’s a family issue; we’re not sure that presenting my father as a fiction writer is consistent with the Nixon brand.” There is a long pause. “As you might imagine, the concept of our brand is not something I thought of before; it used to be all about red and blue, Democrat or Republican. So we’re going to give it some thought, and if we circle around, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you for your enthusiasm — I know how fond of my father you are.”