A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

The waitress hasn’t even poured the water yet.

“You have been with us for a long time, but times are changing. …”

“Is there another course you’re thinking I might teach? Contrasting Presidencies, George Bush Jr. vs. Richard Nixon, Who’s the Sneakier Worm?”

“Actually, we’re going to go with something else. We’ve got this fellow who has a new way of teaching history, it’s future-forward.”

“What does that mean, future-forward?” I ask, sounding more indignant than intended.

“Instead of studying the past, the students will be exploring the future — a world of possibility. We think it will be less depressing than watching reruns of the Zapruder films.”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh.” And nothing else.

“You’ll finish out the semester, of course.”

I nod — of course.

The food arrives.

“I hope you won’t fight us. Nixon’s dead; your students weren’t even born when Nixon was in office.”

“Are you suggesting we no longer teach history?”

“I’m saying your class has no relevance.”

“I beg to differ,” I say.

“Don’t,” he says. “You have no idea. We filled your class with overflow kids who had to take one history to fulfill the requirement and the Internet and Americana class was full. Trust me, they don’t care about Nixon.”

“But some of their papers were pretty good.”

“They buy them on the Internet. They get papers about other people and change the names — because, honestly, at this point they’re not even selling papers about Nixon, so they buy a Clinton paper and tweak it accordingly.”

“No,” I say, genuinely surprised.

“Yes. In fact, we did a test case in your class, retitling ‘The Morals of Monica Lewinsky’ as ‘Breaking Faith at the Watergate.’ You gave a paper that wasn’t about a break-in, but about a blow job, a B+.”

“Was I grading on a curve?”

“You’re out of touch,” he says.

“I’m a professor. We’re supposed to be out of touch. Remember elbow patches and pipes?”

“Not in this century.”

“How about I teach a class in murder, in memoir, in my murderous brother, in the American downfall,” I suggest; given the timing, I can’t help but think this has something to do with what happened with George.

Schwartz is unmoved. “I can’t save you now anyway — we have no money. Write your book, write a couple of books, and then we’ll talk.” He raises his hand and signals to the waitress for the check. “You know,” he says, “there are all these schools that now run programs on the Internet; maybe you could pick up an Internet class or two and keep your hand in.”

“That’s it?” I say. “After all these years? I get half a lunch and a goodbye?”

“I don’t meant to rush you,” Schwartz says, “but there’s nothing more to say.”

Seeking counsel. In a local church there are late-afternoon meetings. I drive by, see cars parked outside, lights on in the old building. A feeling of warmth and welcome emanates. I park and enter, wandering through the upstairs chapel.

“Meeting’s downstairs,” the janitor tells me.

The meeting is already under way when I slip into the room and take a seat in the back. The men and women gathered have the posture of familiarity; I sense that not only do they all know each other, they’ve known each other for a long time. I am the odd man out. I feel them gently shifting in their seats so they can get a look at me. Finally, my moment comes.

“Hi, my name is Nit.”

“Hi, Nit,” they say in unison. The echo of their voices causes me to draw a deep breath; it is the echo of acceptance and welcome.

“What brings you here today?” someone asks.

“I got fired,” I say. I pause and then begin again, “I fucked my brother’s wife, and then my brother came home and killed her. My wife is filing for divorce. And now, today, after having taught at the same college for many years, they said this semester is my last. I am living in my brother’s house while he’s in the bin. I’m taking care of the dog and the cat, and recently I started using his computer — you know, going online, visiting various sites. I’ve been making lots of lunch dates with women — mostly we don’t have lunch, it’s just sex. A lot of sex.”

“Were you drunk?” someone asks.

“No,” I say. “Not a bit.”

“Do you have a drinking problem?”

“I hardly drink. I guess I could drink more. I’ve been watching you all from outside. You looked warm and friendly and welcoming.”

“Sorry, Nit,” the group says in unison.

“You have to go,” the leader adds, and I feel like I’ve been kicked off the island. I get up from my folding chair and exit, passing the old aluminum coffeepot with its ready light, the quart of whole milk, the sugar, the doughnuts, all the things I was looking forward to. I am tempted to take myself to a bar to become an alcoholic overnight so I can go back.

“There are other places, for people like you,” one of the men says.

“There’s a place for everyone,” one woman calls after me.

I sit in the parking lot, imagining the meeting going on without me, all of them talking about me behind me back — or do they simply carry on?

As I’m pulling out of the lot, Claire calls on my cell phone. “We should sell the parking space,” she says.

“Sure,” I say. “We can if you want. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“I don’t drive, remember? I’m selling the parking space to the people upstairs.”

“The ones with the screaming kids who run up and down on our heads all day and all night.”

“Yes,” she says. “They have a minivan, and they offered twenty-six thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-six thousand?”

“It went into a bidding war, since there are so few spots.”

“Wow.”

“They’re paying in cash.”

“Great, so we’ll split it fifty-fifty.”

“Actually, I’m the one who paid for the parking place,” she reminds me.

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Just wanted you to know,” she says, and then is gone.

I dream of Nixon. Nixon, the Night Stories. The idea being that he had a confidant; that every night, when Nixon couldn’t sleep, he’d call this friend and they’d talk and sometimes the friend would read to him from books like Moby-Dick and Notes from the Underground and Paul Johnson’s Journey into Chaos or Enemies of Society, and sometimes they would watch television together. Nixon liked the idea that his confidant was up when he was and that he was never really alone. Being alone frightened him.

Friday evening, as she’s finishing up, having put the mop and bucket away and gone into the powder room to change back into her street clothes, Maria the cleaning lady says, “Mister, I can no work here no more. I miss Mrs. Jane too much. It makes me unhappy to come here. I am here working and you are sitting here all day. I don’t know you. I know your brother killed Mrs. Jane. And what about those beautiful children, who no more have a mother? Please you tell them Maria said hello to them, but to you I say goodbye.”

I reach for my wallet. I give her five hundred bucks. She takes three and gives me back two. “I have no debt,” she says. And I don’t know what she means.

“I’ll tell the children,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “Also, you need Mr. Clean and Windex.”

“Thank you, Maria.”

Monday morning, a truck pulls up outside the house, a white truck with a giant insect mounted on the roof. Two guys in white suits get out, unload large stainless-steel spray canisters, put masks over their nose and mouth, and walk towards the front door. Before they come to the door, one breaks right, the other breaks left, and they circle the house, spraying. Tessie’s bark and the sickening scent both prompt me to open the front door and call, “Can I help you?”