A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“It is my sense that Nixon was besieged with a guilt about his family, particularly the two brothers he lost early in life. And in the dark days of my own recent family drama, I think of my relationship to my own blood and the meaning of being thy brother’s keeper — literally. I think of my own marriage failing in this public debacle. I consider Dick and Pat and their fortitude in the face of all that we knew and didn’t know about them. I think of my rage at being trapped in this life, inexorably of my own making.”

I pause for breath.

“Pardon the digression.

“There are paths, forks in the road, journeys we must take. Sometimes it’s not a choice, but about what we do with what we are given. Today it is with mixed emotions, marking a beginning and an end, that I am leaving the university and will be working full-time on the Nixon Project and am looking forward to deepening my relationship with my subject matter. For those who have come to bid me adieus, our special guests: a young rabbinical student exploring the relationship of Jews to crime, Ryan, good luck to you; to the Chairman of this department, Ben Schwartz, whom I have known for many years, and who knows the depth of my feeling for him, I need not say more. Today I speak to you not only as students, but as men and women — citizens, I hope. Further, I pledge to you today that, as long as I have a breath of life in my body, I shall continue in that spirit. I shall continue to work for the great causes to which I have been dedicated throughout my years. There is one cause above all to which I have been devoted, and to which I shall always be devoted, for as long as I live. When I first took the oath, I made this sacred commitment, to ‘consecrate my office, my energies, and all the wisdom I can summon to the cause of peace among nations.’ I have done my very best in all the days since to be true to that pledge. As a result of these efforts, I am confident that the world is a safer place today, not only for the people of America but for the people of all nations, and that all of our children have a better chance than before of living in peace rather than dying in war. This, more than anything, is what I hoped to achieve. This, more than anything, is what I hope will be my legacy to you.”

Again I pause, and look around to see if anyone has caught on vis-à-vis the degree to which I have “quoted” or “sampled” some of Nixon’s most famous speeches, including of course his resignation. There is not a glimmer of recognition in the room. I conclude, as did the master, “May God’s grace be with you in all the days ahead.” The room explodes with applause. I nod, I bow, I almost fucking curtsy. Near the back of the room a hand goes up. Authorial guilt overwhelms me. “Before I take your questions, I must footnote that my comments were drawn quite extensively from speeches delivered by Richard Nixon — namely, his resignation broadcast live on television at nine p.m. on August 8, 1974.”

A girl in the front row laughs. “Nineteen seventy-four, I wasn’t even born yet,” she says.

“My point exactly. And now to the question from the rear.”

“Can you tell us, without being able to factor in a final exam, what you will grade us on?”

“I will be grading on a U-turn,” I say, smiling at my own wit. They look perplexed. “If you turned in your papers and participated in class discussions, you will pass the course.”

The clock strikes five, the students cheer; I’m not sure if it’s because this is the last class or because they know I will finally stop talking. Whatever it is, I choose to take it for myself. I leave victorious, holding my cassette recorder high above my head, and thinking aloud, “You never even knew me.”

A few days later, I am summoned to The Lodge for a “placement” meeting regarding George. When the administrative secretary calls to confirm, she advises me to bring extra clothing for George. “Think outdoorsy,” she says. “Jeans, heavy socks, wool sweaters.”

“It’s a done deal?”

“No idea,” she says. “I’m just reading what’s written on the Post-it. Also, I’m supposed to ask you if you’re planning to stay the night.”

“I’m not,” I say curtly. “Do you know who else will be there?”

“I have the attendants listed as you, your brother’s lawyer or a representative from their firm, the medical director, and someone from the State Corrections Office.”

“Does the person from the state have a name?”

“Walter Penny.”

While we’re talking, I Google Walter Penny and get photos of a super-skinny college track star from Gambier, Ohio. Do we live in a world where there are multiple Walter Pennys?

The pet minder comes to take care of Tessie and the kittens.

I pack for George, emptying his drawers into an enormous suitcase — more like an armoire than something you’d attempt to travel with. I figure what he doesn’t want can be donated.

At The Lodge, they remove the suitcase from the car and carry it in for me.

“Checking in?” the fellow asks.

“You’re new,” I say.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks.

“Yes.”

They’re running late. I sit in the waiting area outside the director’s office, eating from a blue tin of Danish Butter Cookies and drinking tea poured from a pot that I suspect has a higher-than-normal bacterial count. I hold the tin on my lap to catch crumbs.

“Manny,” the guy sitting opposite me says, jutting his hand forward, “from the firm — Wurlitzer, Pulitzer and Ordy.”

“Have we met before?”

“I came along for the ride with Ordy in White Plains. Rutkowsky isn’t going to be here today — he’s in the middle of a trial.”

“Any idea how formal or informal the meeting will be?” I ask.

Manny shrugs. I offer him a cookie; he declines.

“I was under the impression that it was going to be a discussion of what should happen next — but then they asked me to bring George’s extra clothing. I get the sense that decisions have already been made.”

“Nothing is definite,” Manny says. “But, in the interest of conserving energies and expenditures, we have a plan that I think will serve George well.”

I must have scowled or made some other face.

Manny anxiously adjusts the large shopping bag he’s got parked between his feet and says, “Why don’t we wait for the official meeting.”

A few minutes later, we’re summoned into Dr. Crawley, the medical director’s office. Walter Penny is already there. Clearly there was a pre-meeting to which we were not invited.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Crawley says. He’s a plump, balding man of indeterminate age. Walter Penny introduces himself, shaking hands with a strong up-and-down pump. He’s young, rail-thin, and wearing a cheap suit, which looks good on him only because there is nothing to him. His hair is close-cropped into a fuzzy buzz cut. He could pass for eighteen. Scratching behind his ear, Walter Penny makes a repetitive gesture reminding me of Tessie scratching herself with her back foot.

I look at him, wondering if he is in fact the Walter Penny of Gambier, Ohio, who ran track a couple of years ago, and curious what he could possibly know about people, or justice.

He hands me his business card. Dr. Walter Penny, with a Ph.D. in criminal justice.

“Walter, how’d you get interested in criminal justice?” I ask.

“My family was in the military, and we’re hunters,” he says as though that explains it.

I nod. “What part of the world are you from?”

“Ohio,” he says.

Manny hands over the shopping bag, and the director extracts from it an enormous tin of Garrett’s of Chicago caramel corn.

“It’s from my brother-in-law,” Dr. Crawley says. “The infamous Rutkowsky.”