A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“So you think there may be a book in it?”

“As you know, I’m not a literary scholar, but I was enthralled, I saw a side of your father that I never knew existed, a description of a hard worker who felt unappreciated and, damn it, wanted someone to notice. I was reminded of Arthur Miller’s Willy Loman.” I say “Willy Loman” and stop short — smacked down by a historical flashback. Miller was called up to the House Un-American Activities Committee, and of course Nixon played a key role on that committee. Miller refused to name names and was cited for contempt of Congress. As soon as I say Miller’s name, I’m horrified that somehow I “forgot,” which proves every idea I ever had about the importance of knowing one’s history and not forgetting. I fall silent.

“Am I right in thinking there’s a Miller play on Broadway right now? I can’t recall which one it is, but David and I were planning to go. …”

I sputter to restart: “There may have been a mention in The New Yorker. Anyway, the stories echo the work of some classic American authors — Sherwood Anderson, Richard Yates, Raymond Carver. … They’re not about politics as much as they are about people, about men and women. And you know what, it’s always been a narrow line between us and them — between right and left, blue and red, personal and politic—”

She cuts me off.

“I am not afraid of Democrats, Mr. Silver,” Julie says. “I know you have a deep affection for my father that goes beyond politics. We’re hoping something can be done with this body of work, and we’re interested in having you begin to give it a shape.” She goes on to say that she’d like my thoughts about whether or not there might be a book or two in the boxes and that she’ll arrange for further access, and reminds me to bring some identification next time, and then laughs. …

“Clearly Wanda delivered a full report,” I say, embarrassed.

“It’s all right,” she says. “My mother always did things like that — left the house without her purse. And we’d get these calls about a woman down at Garfinkel’s in Tenley insisting she was Mrs. Richard Nixon and trying to use the ‘house charge.’ She didn’t go out all that often on her own — usually Trish or I went with her.”

We wrap up with Julie proposing a fee of seven thousand five hundred dollars to start and a contract that provides for either the termination or continuation dependent on a review in eight weeks.

“Sounds good,” I say.

“We’ll speak soon,” she says, hanging up.

As soon as we’re off, the phone rings again.

“I hope you realize that I don’t give up easily,” a woman says.

I say nothing.

Is it Julie calling again or is it her ? I wait for another clue.

“Are you there?” she asks. “Are you ready for me? I am ready for you … ready and waiting.”

“We are supposed to be working on building a friendship.”

“I don’t want to be friends,” she says. “I want you to pound my pussy, I want to come hard, fast, and frequently. I want you to do me and then do me again.”

“Do you do this with other fellas as well or am I the lucky one?”

“I cut back, you’re it. You and my husband.”

“And what does he think about all this?”

“He wants me to pretend I’m a hooker and negotiate with him for my services. He likes to pay me after the deed in front of the kids, who have no idea what he thinks is so funny. So when am I seeing you? Seriously, how about I come to your place this afternoon?”

“Not possible.”

“I thought you lived alone?”

“I have animals,” I say.

“Like what, a jealous monkey?”

“It’s not my house, I’m just a guest here; complicated story.”

“What about a motel?”

“How about we meet at a diner, like for lunch or coffee.”

“I want your cock in my hole.”

“Look, if you keep talking to me like that we’re not going to be able to continue. …”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Am I?”

“I met you on an Internet site. If you don’t do what I want, I could claim you raped me; I still have the underwear I wore the day you came over — no pun intended.”

“What do you mean?”

“I save my underwear from every encounter, just in case …”

“In case you feel the need to extort?”

“How about you do me on the phone — I’ll talk you through it.”

She somehow forces me to engage in phone sex with her, and even though I don’t want to be excited by it, I am slowly drawn in.

“I keep thinking I’m supposed to be helping you — not enabling you,” I say as I unzip my pants.

“I’m already so wet,” she says. “My hand is way up my pussy and I’m dripping — all I need is your cum gun to nail it. I want you to bang me. I want to feel your balls slapping my ass. I want you to do it to me doggy-style. Pinch my titty, pinch it hard.” And then she starts whooping — that’s the only word I can think of for it — kind of a charging, galloping sound like a rodeo cowboy, and I can tell she’s not faking. It’s kind of grotesque and kind of inescapably hot. As she’s coming I get more and more excited, and then it’s like I can’t stop myself — I’m sitting in George’s desk chair and just before I erupt I turn away from the desk, spinning in the swivel chair, and explode, shooting onto his bookcase, his volumes of American history and the silver-framed family photos. I immediately grab a tissue and try and clean up. “I have to go,” I say. “I’ve made quite the mess over here.”

She laughs. “I knew you’d crack.”

I’ve been had.

Moments later, when Nate calls, I feel as though I’ve been caught with my pants down. I pick up the phone on George’s desk, clear my throat, and bleat hello.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I bleat, clearing again.

Nate is filled with energy and thoughts going about a hundred miles a minute — by comparison, I feel stoned.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“At your father’s desk, I was doing a little work.”

“We can video-chat,” he says, excited. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. There’s a camera right there on Dad’s computer, it’s all set up. You just push the blue button at the bottom of the dock — it looks like a word bubble. Wait,” he says, “I’ll call you.” And seconds later, the computer makes a ringing sound. “Click ‘accept,’” he says, and without thinking I do.

Nate is there, waving at me. “I can see you,” he says.

“And I can see you too,” I say into the phone.

“We can hang up the phones,” he says. And I do.

“Can you hear me?”

I can. A video camera mounted in the computer — it’s terrifying. What if someone has been watching me? “What do you call this?”

“Facetime, iChat, or Skype,” he says. “It just depends on the program — the end result is pretty much the same thing.”

“Skype,” he says, and all I can think of is Ella Fitzgerald singing skat.

“What can you see?” I ask Nate, wondering how fine the resolution is.

“I see Dad’s whole office, his bookcases, his prizes. Everything that’s behind you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before — we could have been talking face to face this whole time. …”

“Yes, we could have been talking like this all along,” I say, all the while obsessing about my earlier encounter, wondering if there’s any evidence left behind on the bookshelf — some missed bit of something. …

Video chat is like talking NASA-style; there’s an ever-so-slight delay to the sound and images that reminds me of pictures sent from outer space, pixelated, like some weird postmodern animation.