A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

In Room 304 of Donziger Hall, I stand welcoming each student — they barely glance up as they meander in. “Good afternoon, I hope you had a pleasant and productive vacation. Your papers are due. Pass them forward, and then we’ll get right into our conversation about Nixon, Kissinger, and the Paris Peace Talks.”

A handful of papers come towards me. One title catches my attention: “BLOW JOB or WAR: The Testosterone Paradigm.” Another one looks promising: “Checkers and Buddy and the Role of the White House Dog in Shaping Public Opinion.”

“I’ve only got a dozen papers here — who hasn’t turned one in?”

My phone rings. I answer only because for some goddamned reason I can’t turn the phone off without answering. “Oh, hi, Larry, I’m in class, literally right in the middle; can I call you later?” “My lawyer,” I say. “Family emergency.” And one of the students snickers. A plus — at least one of them keeps up with the news.

For ninety minutes I wax poetic about the complexities of the peace process that started in 1968, after a variety of delays including debate about “seating.” North Vietnam wanted the conference to be held at a circular table at which all parties would appear equal, whereas South Vietnam felt only a rectangular table physically illustrating two sides of the conflict would do. They resolved it by having North and South sitting at the circular table while all other relevant parties sat at individual square tables around them. I go on to present details about Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and the role of Anna Chennault, who brokered the backroom sabotage of the 1968 Paris Peace Talks. The South Vietnamese withdrew from the talks on the eve of the election, helping Nixon win and paving the way for the continuation of the war. Kissinger received a Nobel Peace Prize for his “efforts” in 1973 along with the North Vietnamese Le Duc Tho, who refused to accept.

From there, a flight of ideas leads me to digress; I regale the students with stories about Martha Mitchell — not Margaret Mitchell, the author of Gone with the Wind, who ditched her proper suitor, John Marsh, and married Red Upshaw, a bootlegger who beat her up, and then left him and went back to Marsh. No, I am talking about Martha Mitchell, wife of former Attorney General John Mitch-ell, aka “The Mouth of the South,” who was a drinker, known for calling folks in the middle of the night and saying things like “My husband is the fucking Attorney General of the United States.” It is the alcohol-fueled Mrs. Mitchell that I find compelling. Her allegations that the White House was involved in illegal activity were described as symptoms of mental illness and dismissed. She was ultimately vindicated, and her experience was deemed a legitimate syndrome, given the moniker “the Martha Mitchell Effect,” and described as the process by which a mental-health professional mistakes the patient’s perception of seemingly improbable events as delusional when in fact they’re real.

I spin, I whirl, I thoroughly unspool. It’s the best class I’ve taught in years. “Thoughts? Questions?” I ask. The students sit unblinking in a stupor. “Okay, then, until next week.”

I leave energized, loving Nixon all the more. I drive back to George’s, struggling to remember which road leads where. As I pull into town, everything is closing for the night — the luncheonette, the ladies’ clothing shop. There’s a sticky family dripping chocolate outside the 31 Flavors. I park near the Chinese restaurant. The red neon Chinese letters could spell out anything. For all I know, it says “Eat Shit and Die” in Mandarin. I bring the students’ papers in with me. The place is run by a family who cluck madly while serving steaming bowls of soup and perfect hills of white rice. Again my phone rings. “Claire, what’s the point of calling me again and again if you’re not going to say anything. Talk to me. I know I’m a shit, but I can listen. I can take whatever it is you want to say. I’m in a Chinese restaurant. I ordered scallion pancakes, which you hate, and hot-and-sour shrimp, and, yes, I know you’re allergic to shrimp, but I’m not.”

The house is dark. Tessie seems nervous; I let her out for a pee and give her some kibble. The cat rubs against my leg, flicking her tail.

“I didn’t forget you,” I say. “Have I ever forgotten you?”

Only when he calls again do I remember that I forgot to call Larry back. “Sorry, it’s been a strange time.” I laugh. “Very strange.”

I sit on the sofa, remote control in hand, flipping channels, noticing how the television is so big that the lighting in the room changes profoundly with each click of the remote. I like the old black-and-white televisions better — easier on the eyes.

“It’s Larry,” he repeats.

“I—” I start to say something.

“Don’t talk, listen,” he says. “I’ve got news for you; Claire has asked me to represent her.”

“But you’re happily married.”

“Represent her, not marry her. I’m going to be her lawyer.”

I turn the television off. “Larry, we’re friends; we’ve known each other since fourth grade.”

“Exactly,” Larry says.

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment. I never forgot the way you and your brother treated me. I was the new kid, from Newark.”

“Oh,” I say, not really remembering.

“You did a ‘new Jew’ dance, and then your brother said I had to pay him three dollars a week if I wanted to live.”

“You got off easy,” I said. “I had to give him five.”

“Irrelevant,” Larry says. “Claire feels she has grounds. Do you have a lawyer, someone I should talk to?”

“You’re my lawyer.”

“Not anymore.”

“Does Claire want to make a time to sit down and talk about our shared property, retirement and health-care benefits, who gets what, and all that kind of thing?”

“No. She’s left all that to me.”

“Isn’t this a conflict of interest?”

“Not for me,” Larry says.

“Well, if you’re going to be her lawyer, who’s going to be mine?”

“Don’t you know anyone else?”

“No, it’s not like I pal around with ‘the law.’”

“I’m sure George has a lawyer. Also, I have to ask you to stop calling Claire. She says you keep calling her cell phone and leaving messages.”

“I don’t. Her cell phone keeps calling me, and I answer but she doesn’t speak.”

“I’m not going to engage in a ‘he said, she said.’ It has to stop.”

I say nothing.

“Okay, then,” Larry says. “There’s one other thing — the clock. She says you took the clock from her side of the bed. It was a four-by-four-inch square black Braun travel clock.”

“I’ll buy her a new clock,” I say.

“She doesn’t want a new clock,” Larry says. “She wants her clock.” A long silence passes. “She’s not asking for anything else, no alimony, no support of any kind. I’m authorized to offer you two hundred thousand dollars to never speak to her again.”

“That hurts,” I say.

“I could push it to two fifty,” Larry says.

“It’s not the money, it’s that Claire never wants to speak to me again, with the added insult that, in order to accomplish that, she thinks she’s got to pay me off.”

“So, you’ll take the two hundred?”

“Two fifty,” I say.

“And you’ll send her the clock.”

“Fine,” I say. And we are done.

I need air. I clip on Tessie’s leash. She is hesitant to leave the yard, and as we get closer to the sidewalk, I have to really pull on her.