A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

She smiles.

I drive home loving Nixon all the more, marveling at his range, his subtlety, his facility with describing human behavior. I stop to pick up Chinese food, go home, set myself up at the dining-room table, and tell Tessie everything. I’m talking to the dog, spooning hot-and-sour soup into my mouth, and simultaneously writing as fast and furiously as I can. I’m transcribing everything I can remember, marveling at the nuance of Nixon’s thinking, the depth of character, the humor, so dark, so wry, revealing a much greater self-awareness than most would imagine Nixon capable of. I’m thinking about how these stories will redefine Nixon, alter the shape of scholarship — my book in particular. I write nonstop for an hour and a half, then remember the confidentiality agreement and tell myself that whatever I write now is just for me, a first draft, initial impressions. As I go deeper, I find myself wanting to describe the characters, the text in detail. I feel silenced, screwed, used, baited, and start plotting a way around it. If the family denies that the materials exist, if they’ve not been catalogued, it’s going to be hard to prove, hard to get anywhere. I am hoping the Nixons are reasonable people. I am hoping that they are willing to let him be known as he was, in his glory and his complexity. I am wondering what the next step is; do I have Julie’s phone number? I go back through caller ID. Be patient, I tell myself, let events take their natural course. The phone rings. “Good evening, is this Mr. Silver?”

“Perhaps. Who may I ask is calling?”

“Geoffrey Ordy Jr., from Wurlitzer, Pulitzer and Ordy.”

“Which Mr. Silver are you calling for?”

“How do you mean?”

“George or Harold?”

“Given where things stand, I’m assuming George is unavailable at the moment,” the guy says, annoyed.

“Correct.”

“I’m sorry to phone so late.”

“Not a problem. I was out all day,” I say.

“I’ll cut to the chase. There’s a hearing tomorrow at eleven a.m. in White Plains in regard to your brother’s car accident — we forgot to tell you. They’re bringing George down for it, first public appearance. The press will be all over it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Like I said, someone who should have known better forgot to tell you.”

“I have a lunch tomorrow, a lunch of great importance with someone I can’t afford to disappoint.”

“I’m just relaying the information.”

“It sounds both important and something that in the greater scheme of things could be skipped — it’s a first appearance, no doubt there will be others.”

“Correct.”

“Eleven a.m. in White Plains.”

“That’s the news.”

“George will be there.”

“Confirmed at the County Court House.”

“I’ll work around it. Next time a little advance warning would be appreciated.”

“Noted, and good night.”

That night I dream of Richard Nixon lying on the floor in a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt, his head on a tufted sofa pillow, his torso writhing from side to side as though he’s trying to work out a kink. Pat is there, walking back and forth across the room, repeatedly stepping over him in a tight red dress. In the dream Nixon is trying to peek under her dress. “Stockings, no panties?” he asks, surprised. “Is that comfortable?”

“Yes,” she says.

The phone is ringing.

“Listen, you son of a bitch …” a disembodied voice is yelling at me.

I’m terrified, thinking it’s him — Richard Nixon calling me.

“You have one hell of a nerve,” he says, continuing to shout as I come to consciousness. I realize it’s not Nixon, it’s Jane’s father. “I think about you and your lousy brother and I’m disgusted.”

She seduced me, I think to myself, but say nothing.

“I want you should never forget what you’ve done.”

“I think about it constantly,” I say, knowing that’s of little comfort.

“We hear things are coming to a head, the ball’s rolling, there’s a hearing, and the proverbial ax is going to fall, and, well, we’re worried about the children,” he says.

“The children are at school.”

“It’s enough already. We think they shouldn’t be a part of this.”

“They’re doing very well.”

“We think you should take them somewhere.”

“I saw Nate a couple of weekends ago, at Field Day — he’s quite the athlete.”

“They don’t need to be exposed to the brouhaha that’s going to surround this whole thing.”

“And Ashley called a couple of days ago. We had a wonderful phone call — really bonding, it was like we went through something together.”

“Shmuck,” he says. “Are you hearing anything I’m saying? We think it would be good if the children were out of the country.”

“Where?”

“You could take them to Israel.”

“They don’t speak Hebrew. They barely know they’re Jewish.”

There is silence. “Look, you giant creep,” Jane’s father says. “I was kidding when I said Israel.”

“It was a joke? What Jew makes a joke about Israel?”

“Who sleeps with his brother’s wife while his brother is in the nuthouse? I meant you should take them somewhere, get their minds off all this crap, I don’t care where.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Listen, asshole, I will pay you to take the children someplace.”

“They’re at school,” I say. “But, more to the point, if you want to take them someplace, why don’t you plan a little vacation and let me know the dates.”

“At the moment it’s all I can do to care for my wife and myself,” he says. I hear him cry out, a single deep, bellowing sob, and then he hangs up.

I walk the dog; the morning sky is a rich benevolent blue, filled with promise and opportunity. It’s overwhelmingly optimistic — in other words, it makes me nervous, sets the bar too high.

I dress for court and lunch in one of George’s charcoal-gray suits, a white shirt, and a blue tie. Blue seems more about justice than red, which signals aggression. An impending sense of doom is gnawing at me from the inside. I dress as best I can, putting deodorant not just in my armpits but in a thick line down the center of my chest, a ring around my lower back, as far up each side as I can reach. I’m a sweater — under duress I drip raindrops of stress; I can soak a shirt in two minutes.

In White Plains, I circle the Court House; there are “No Parking Anytime” signs posted everywhere. I end up parking at the Galleria shopping mall and walking through the mall.

Like all modern courthouses, this one is a characterless fortress, testament to paper pushing, bureaucracy, and the incipient insanity of our system. Going postal is no longer reserved for those who pledge that “Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night would deter its couriers from their appointed rounds.” It’s become a kind of rite of passage: disgruntled employee returns and shoots boss, disgruntled wife kills kids, disgruntled husband wrecks car, kills strang-ers, and then kills wife. Hard not to be surprised, when the bulk of public conversation goes like this: “Paper or plastic?” The loss of the human touch scares me.

I approach expecting a media circus, TV trucks, satellite dishes — this is Amer-ica, everything is a circus. The fact that it is not a “scene,” no red carpet, just business as usual, is all the more unnerving. Is it still “real” if it’s not documented and delivered back to us in the media? Does anything have meaning if it’s not covered? And what does it say about me that I feel these events are not legitimate without a camera crew? Inside the building, an anonymous recording plays: “Welcome, please empty your pockets into the bins provided and pass through our screening process.”