A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“I felt like I was dying,” she says, looking me in the eye.

“And then it passed?”

“I was able to do what was expected.” Her voice is tight, sad, like something was lost and never recovered.

“On the phone you mentioned something about ‘our moment’?”

“Yes,” she says, licking her lips. “You struck me as someone who hadn’t had his moment yet.”

“A late bloomer?” I ask.

“Big-time,” she says. “I find it charming, it’s like you’re still waiting for something to happen.”

“Good fortune to fall upon me,” I add.

“Something like that,” she says. “And you’re so charmingly out of it, it’s like you’re from another era — sweet. All I know about is what sixteen-year-old boys are interested in, and my husband talking about boats and cars and vacations and what toys he wants to get, remote-control this and that.” She looks at me guiltily. “I have a real problem,” she says.

“And what’s that?”

“Well, after I recovered, I remembered that I liked you — that’s what made me call. But now I have a real problem.” She signals for the waiter. “Could I have a glass of wine?”

“How about an Arnold Palmer?” I suggest.

“White,” she says. “A big pour of white.”

“How about a bottle?” the waiter says.

“Just a glass, thanks,” she says. And the waiter is gone. “In a nutshell — no pun intended — I still like you. I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous, but I do, and I know I shouldn’t. And I’m back on medication and I am myself, or my ‘better’ self, but the thing is — I still want you. And, weirder yet, if you want to hear weird, I once met this guy, a young guy who collects masks of presidents, he has like forty famous faces and likes to role-play with women who maybe fantasize about getting banged by JFK, or done doggy-style by Abe Lincoln. Or how about being tied to a lectern and being made to submit by a leather-bound Jimmy Carter? His scenarios were endless, but the thing was … is … he’s not you. He’s like a fake historian and you’re the real deal. So what do I do?” she asks.

I don’t know what to say, and so I adopt what I call the “Thumper pose,” one hand on the chin and brow furrowed. In Bambi , Thumper says, “If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.” Good advice, dating back to 1942. She’s still looking at me, waiting for something. “I don’t quite know what to say.”

“Say you want me too,” she says.

I do a couple of presidential imitations to spin off the stress.

Her glass of wine arrives; she downs it in a couple of gulps and orders another.

“Look,” I say, trying to be compassionate, “I don’t think we should do anything that puts you at risk. I don’t want to do anything that would be unhealthy for you or that puts your marriage and family in peril. For now, let’s sit with it. This isn’t something that we have to solve right now.” I raise my hand and signal for the check.

“We can have lunch again in the next few weeks.”

“I want more than lunch,” she says.

“Really, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you want me,” she repeats herself.

I say nothing. The check comes, I pass the waiter my credit card without even looking at the bill — I need to get out of here.

Her eyes fill with tears.

“Don’t cry — this was nice, we had fun, the pizza was delicious.”

“You’re so sweet,” she says.

“Really I’m not,” I say.

Together we walk to the parking lot. As I’m bidding her farewell, she pushes me between two parked cars, throws her purse over her shoulder, and gropes my crotch. “You need me,” she says, giving the goods a hard pump. “I am your future.”

Monday’s class was described in my syllabus as “Nixon in China: The Week That Changed the World.” The line is a direct quote from the great man himself, describing his 1972 trip to China. The trip was actually an eight-day, carefully orchestrated, made-for-television view behind the Bamboo Curtain. An incredibly unlikely diplomatic achievement pulled off by a staunch anti-communist — in fact, when Nixon first presented the idea to his own men, they thought he’d lost his chips. In classic Nixon fashion, the President appeared to back off but instead worked through diplomatic back channels via Poland and Yugoslavia, taking advantage of a fissure in Soviet-Sino relations, and mindful that the country with the world’s largest population was “living in angry isolation.” The payoff of his daring détente increased U. S. leverage with Russia, prompting the SALT II talks and the slow unwinding of Cold War tensions. My favorite bit of the script — Kissinger’s July 1971 stop in Pakistan, during which he feigned illness at a dinner, left, and flew to China for secret meetings with Zhou Enlai that laid the groundwork for Nixon’s trip. The presidential visit itself was replete with the stuff of burgeoning friendship, an excursion to the Great Wall, displays of Ping-Pong and gymnastics, and of course the First Lady, indelible Pat, in her bright-red coat.

And at the infamous February 21, 1972, banquet in Peking, President Nixon raised a glass to Chairman Mao, and said,

What legacy shall we leave our children? Are they destined to die for the hatreds which have plagued the old world, or are they destined to live because we had the vision to build a new world? There is no reason for us to be enemies. Neither of us seeks the territory of the other; neither of us seeks domination over the other; neither of us seeks to stretch out our hands and rule the world. Chairman Mao has written, “So many deeds cry out to be done, and always urgently. The world rolls on. Time passes. Ten thousand years are too long. Seize the day, seize the hour.” This is the hour, this is the day for our two peoples to rise to the heights of greatness which can build a new and a better world.

A few days later, the telephone rings. I don’t hear the ring, only the voice on the machine.

“I trust you realize that, however we decide to proceed, our work must remain in confidence.”

I pick up. “Of course,” I say, without a clue to whom I’m speaking.

She continues. “At some point we’ll spend some time together, but for the moment I’d like to get a sense of what you think might be there. …”

“Where?” I ask, hoping for a clue.

“In the pages,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I picked up as you were speaking, may I ask who’s calling?”

“Julie Eisenhower,” she says.

“Of course, my apologies.” I take a breath.

“What was it like?” she asks.

“Amazing — a dream come true. I felt like a kid in a candy store — up close and personal. It was a thrill to hold the pages he wrote on, to feel the weight of his hand, the pressure of his pen, the urgency with which he needed to express himself. It was”—I draw a long breath—“transcendent.”

“And what about the material itself — what do you make of the content?”

“Well, there’s a freedom to the work, a lack of self-consciousness — the stories are surprisingly candid. And there’s a depth of imagination and feeling, perhaps call it pathos, which people don’t often associate with your father. And more: the stories are illustrative of a kind of knowing about the common man, about an everyday Joe, in a way that humanizes your father, giving the reader a sense of his history, his values, his own progression and development as a person. These writings add dimensionality. I guess what I’m saying is that these could help reframe how history characterizes him. … Your father is a classic of his time, aspiring, striving, and desperate, capturing the moment where America turned, and summing up the darkness in the American soul, the change in who were pre — and post — World War II.”