A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

I fill my arms with books and march to the checkout desk.

In retrospect, I wish I’d held off. I wish I’d sat down with the books, read through them, and left them right there on the table, where they belonged. I was wanting to check them out to be on the safe side, to leave no stone unturned.

I put the books on the counter and hand the woman the library card.

“It’s not your card,” the librarian says.

“It came out of my pocket,” I say, pulling everything else from the pocket.

“It’s not yours.”

“You’re right,” I say. “It’s my brother’s. And these are my brother’s pants, and this is his driver’s license. I’m taking the material out for him.”

“Your brother killed his wife,” she says.

I take a breath. “My brother isn’t able to come in and check out books himself, so I’m getting these for him.”

“I’m going to mark the card as stolen — charges could be filed against you.”

“For what?”

“It doesn’t so much matter what,” the librarian says. “We live in a litigious society, it’s how people express their anger. And it would be a blot on your record.”

“Give me the card back.”

“Oh no,” the librarian says. “It says right here on the back that the use of the library is a privilege that can be revoked.”

“If it’s not my card, how can it be revoked?”

“Lack of use,” she says.

“Is it my subject matter? Is there something about Nixon that you don’t like?”

“No,” the librarian says. “It’s you. It’s you that I don’t like.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“And I never will,” she says. “Go. Leave before I press charges.”

“For what?”

“Harassment.”

Outside, I trip over a crack in the sidewalk, my bag goes flying, my manuscript — Post-its and all — spills. On hands and knees I pick up the pages. Bent, glancing up into the sunlight, I spot the overnight book depository. I make a mental note of a thing or two I might deposit some night after closing. I have the thought and then immediately think of the Texas Book Depository. A phone rings. I feel my pockets and first pull out George’s and then mine — it’s flashing “Claire” on the caller ID.

“Hello,” I say, still on the ground.

“Who knows the real story?” she asks.

“You’re home.”

“Who knows?” she repeats.

“I don’t know who knows,” I say as I finish collecting my papers.

“You know what I’m saying.”

“If you’re asking who I’ve spoken to, I’ve talked to no one.”

“People know,” Claire says. “It’s all over the New York Post, and there are photos of a bloody mattress being taken out of the house and you standing there looking like an idiot.”

“I must have missed a day.”

“It was on the inside. On the cover, in the lower right corner, was a photo of your brother pushing dirt into the grave with handcuffs on.”

“Do you think his lawyer staged that?” I ask.

“Speaking of lawyers,” she says, “you’re gonna need one. Also, I called a moving company.”

“Where are you going? You don’t have to move, Claire; the apartment is yours.”

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s for you. Where do you want your stuff to go?”

“Here, just send it to George and Jane’s.”

“Fine,” she says.

And she’s gone. I pull myself up, swing the canvas bag over my shoulder, and head down the street, slightly tilted to one side. I walk past the tennis store and the dry cleaner’s and stop at the Starbucks. I’m trying to start a routine. I’m trying to do things that other people do.

“Medium coffee,” I say.

“Grande?”

“Medium.”

“Grande,” the girl says again.

“ Non parlo italiano ,” I say, pointing to the medium-sized cup.

She hands me the coffee, burning hot, and I take a table. I unpack the pages of the manuscript and shuffle them back into order. A group of women are staring at me; one actually points.

“What?” I say loudly, looking back at them.

“You look like the guy,” a boy says as he’s wiping tables with a rag that smells like vomit.

“What guy?”

“The guy who killed his wife? She used to come in here with them, after exercise. They come here a lot,” he says. “You’re new.”

He starts wiping my table, as if to make the point that I should go.

“Okay,” I say, getting up and taking the coffee with me — after all, it was four dollars. I don’t even want the coffee. There’s a guy outside who looks homeless, and I try to hand it to him.

“Are you giving me your coffee?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Did you drink it?”

“No,” I say.

“Why would I want your coffee? Maybe you doped it?”

I’m looking at the guy thinking he looks familiar, a cross between a guy who might change your flat and Clint Eastwood.

“You know,” he says, “the thing is, I don’t drink coffee.”

“Oh,” I say, accidentally splashing my wrist with the hot java.

“I come for the lemon pound cake and a cup of tea.”

I nod, still thinking I know this guy from somewhere. “All right, then,” I say, feeling the canvas bag slipping down my shoulder. “Enjoy.”

“And you as well. I hope you find a taker for your coffee.”

I put the coffee on the roof of the car and unlock the door and throw the canvas bag in. DeLillo, I think as I slam the door. DeLillo, as I start the engine. That was goddamned Don DeLillo. I would have loved to talk to him about Nixon. I put the car into gear and go. The back windshield is instantly doused in black coffee. In the rearview mirror I watch the cup bouncing down the street behind me.

Back to school. Am I ready for class? I’ve been teaching the same course for ten years. Of course I’m ready — I’m more than ready, I’m on autopilot.

I get lost driving to school. I’ve never come from this direction. I usually go from home, I know the route by heart. I’m late. In the car the phone rings. I scrape against a guardrail trying to wrestle the cell phone from my pocket. Again, it’s Claire. She says nothing.

“Claire,” I say. “Hello, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m in the car, Claire, driving to school. Let’s try again later.”

I rush to pick up my mail in the department office. There’s very little in my box: A postcard from a student saying she’s sorry but she’ll miss the next two classes because her grandmother in Maine is very ill. The postmark is from Daytona, Florida. Unfortunately, the signature is a blur, so I don’t even know who to demerit for that one. The only other mail is an interdepartmental letter. “The Chair of your department would like to schedule a time to speak with you.” I poke my head into the department secretary’s office. “Excuse me, I’m not sure if this is meant for me?”

“Yes,” she says. “He does want to talk with you.”

“Should we schedule something?”

She ducks into the Chair’s office and returns almost instantaneously. “A week from Wednesday for lunch, your annual event. He says you already know all the details, you have years of experience.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

I unlock the door of my shared space — Professor Spivak’s on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, mine on Monday and Wednesday from 2 to 3 p.m. I wait. No one comes. I extract the manuscript that’s become my travel companion and go at it, wildly jotting notes, suggesting revisions to myself, a teacher correcting his own work. Five minutes before class, I lock the office. Midway across campus, I am nearly decapitated by a Frisbee, which hits me on the back of the head. No one says sorry, or asks if I’m okay. I tuck the Frisbee into my bag and continue on.