May We Be Forgiven Part 34

I finish and I'm almost in tears-it's a side of Nixon that I've never seen before but always suspected existed beneath the surface. There's a humanity, a desperation to this Nixon, which is early Nixon, not presidential Nixon, but Nixon as he knows himself. This Nixon is a man with burgeoning ambition, an idealized, if cliched, everyman, crisscrossing the country laying the groundwork for the great moment to come. Wilson Grady is a man who wants something but doesn't quite know how to get it.

I unpack the box, making a row of piles of the material, careful to keep things in order-but wanting to get to the middle, the end, wanting a sense of the arc of the materials, the shape of things.

I find a short piece about halfway through the stack. What draws my attention to it is how Nixon has printed "SOB, Son of a b.i.t.c.h" multiple times across the top two inches of the page. The "story," almost entirely in curses, is a vignette of a man being attacked by the furniture in his office. The man arrives late, having been delayed by train trouble. And rain. His shoes are soaked. His socks are wet. He comes into his office, takes his shoes and socks off and lays them on the radiator, puts his damp leather briefcase down-noticing that it actually smells like a barnyard-takes out his important papers, and sits in his chair, which promptly spins him in endless circles before tipping him forward onto the floor. He remounts the chair and leans forward to turn on the desk lamp, which delivers a surprising shock. He then picks up his ink pen, which leaks all over his fingers, and then, finally, in a rage, as he's looking for a handkerchief to clean himself, he slams the pencil drawer shut, pinching his fingers.

"Christ."

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"d.a.m.n it."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"c.o.c.ksucker."

From there I find another story; scrawled across the top in parentheses is a note, "no names, because I actually once had a drink with this fella."

An Apartment on the Avenue Arthur comes home late, having had one or two more than is good for him. He finds his wife in the bedroom, undressing; he watches her thinking she still looks good, s.e.xy, he'd be in the mood for getting frisky, but as soon as she speaks, his hopes...

"Is there something I can get for you, Arthur?"

"Nothing," he says.

"All right, Arthur, I thought from the way you were standing there that you were waiting for something."

"You wanna know what it is, Blanche? The truth of it all...I never loved you-I married you because I thought it would be good for me."

"I already know that, Arthur."

"And if I didn't think it would cost me in more ways than one, I would have been out of here long ago."

"You're not the only one who feels that way," she says.

"When was the last time you wanted me?" he says. "In the way that a woman should want her man."

"I've never liked s.e.x, you know that," she says, looking at him in the mirror of her dressing table.

"Exactly," he says, talking to her reflection. "But imagine how that makes a fella feel? The thing is, I like it and it would be nice to do it once in a while with someone who didn't think it was disgusting."

"It is my understanding that you certainly have found places to 'do it.'"

"It always comes back to that, doesn't it?"

"Doesn't it?" she says. "Well, Arthur, when you talk about things that could hurt you, having relations with your boss's secretary can't be good for you, can it?"

"Men don't see it the same as women," he says.

"I'm sure," she says.

He comes close to her, close to the dressing table where she's sitting, putting cream on her face.

"Put some on me," he says, almost begging for it. She's not interested.

"You know how to take care of yourself," she says, getting up and walking away.

He reaches out to pull her towards him, but everything goes wrong, and his hand connects with her face, like he's taking a swing at her. It's not the first time something like this has happened.

She has no reaction, she just takes it, and somehow it's the lack of a reaction, the absence of anything human, that prompts him to do it again-this time with clear intention. Fingers rolled into a fist, he lays one on her, hitting her cheek.

She doesn't fall; she stands there, barely swaying. "Are we done for the night?" she says and then spits-a single tooth lands on the carpet.

With nothing left to say, he goes down the hall, takes the blanket they used to use for summer picnics in the park out of the closet, and sets himself up on the sofa. Alone among the side tables, lamps, and wing chair, he sobs. Heavy tears like marbles running down his face as he talks out loud to himself, in a rambling incantation that stops only when he plugs his mouth with his thumb-sucking until sleep comes.

At noon, Wanda comes into the conference room, puncturing the reverie. "Time for lunch," she says.

"That's okay," I say, "I'll work straight through."

"We break for lunch," Wanda says. And I look at her. "There's no one available to monitor you, so you need to come out for an hour. You may leave your materials as they are; we'll lock the room."

I ride down in the elevator with Wanda. As we're getting out, I glance at her; she looks at me, concerned. "Do you need money for lunch?" she asks.

"Oh no," I say. "I've got plenty of money, just no identification. Not to worry. Is there someplace you'd recommend?"

"There's a salad bar in the deli across the street, and restaurants up and down," she says, relieved.

I walk out of the building and into the light, realize Claire could be out there, and furtively duck into the deli, where I slip into the rotation of people walking in slow circles around the salad bar, vaguely mumbling like they're meditating. There's chopped lettuce, cherry tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, steamy trays of meat in mysterious sauce, brilliant orange macaroni and cheese.

I think of Nixon's short story about the diner and find myself putting meat loaf and mashed potatoes into my container, and then a large scoop of hot, heavy macaroni that softens the Styrofoam. I pay and go to the back of the deli, where I see a few guys sitting on empty plastic pickle barrels. "Mind if I join?" I ask, and they simply look at me and go back to eating. The food is delicious-beyond delicious, it is divine, a melange of flavors like nothing I've ever had before.

"You look busy," the Chinese woman from the deli says to me while I'm perched on the pickle barrel.

"I've had a very big day," I say.

"You go to work, you win, win, win."

I nod. She brings me a cup of tea.

"Do you know Richard Nixon?" I ask.

"Of course," she says. "Without Nixon I'd be nowhere."

"I'm working on Nixon."

"Pick something," she says. "Before you go, you pick for yourself for later."

"That's okay," I say, not sure what she wants me to do.

She slaps a Hershey bar into my hand. "You like with almond?"

"This is great," I say, looking down-almond.

"You do good work," she says, nodding. "I know you from before, long time ago, you buy cookies for your wife."

I'm confused.

"You don't remember?" she asks, holding up a box of cookies. LU Pet.i.t ecolier. "You buy these."

"Yes," I say. "That's right, I did. I used to buy those for Claire."

"Of course you did," she says.

"Was that here?"

"One block down," she says. "We move, this much better location, big building right on top, big bankers, crunching numbers, need something to chew on."

"I'm surprised that you remembered me."

"I never forget," she says, and then pauses. "I sorry for your life. I see you in the newspaper-one big mess."

"It's more my brother than me."

"It's you too," she says. "You are your brother."

"I'm okay," I say. "Things are looking up."

"See you later, alligator," she says, walking me out the door.

In the lobby, after lunch, while waiting for Wanda, I peel open the chocolate bar and take a bite. I am amazed that the deli lady remembered me. It's so strange that she knew who I was. She knew me and Claire and all about my brother. She felt sorry for me and gave me a chocolate bar. No one just gives anyone anything anymore. I take another bite, no longer worried what my suit looks like or that Claire is "out there" somewhere in her tight work skirt, her heels a little too high to be respectable. In the lobby I watch people come and go, thinking of Nixon, a man of his own time, wondering what he would make of the new technology for spying, for gathering information. I'm wondering if he'd still write longhand, wondering if he'd be surfing p.o.r.n sites on his iPad while kicking back in that beloved brown velvet chaise longue in his secret Executive Office Building retreat, wondering what he'd think of all the women in power these days. After all, he was the one who said he didn't think women should be in any government job-he thought of them as erratic and emotional.

The afternoon is spent reading multiple drafts of a chillingly grim novella, Of Brotherly Love, set in a small California town, in which a failed lemon-farmer and his wife conspire to murder their three sons, convinced that the Lord has bigger plans for them in the next world. After the youngest son dies, the middle boy catches on and tries to tell his older brother, who treats him as though he's gone insane-violated the very word of G.o.d. When the middle boy comes home at the end of that day and his parents tell him that the oldest boy has gone to the Lord, the boy becomes terrified. Fearing for his life, he collapses and tells his parents that there must be a reason that the Lord, having taken two of his brothers thus far, has spared him. The Lord must have a plan for him. The parents, grief-stricken, nod and urge him to go up to bed. He says his prayers, then feigns sleep. He rises after midnight and slays first his father and then his mother, all the while fearing the hand of G.o.d. He murders his parents, then sets the house and barn afire and rides off in the family car, hoping to get across the border before the authorities find him.

The story is filled with paranoia, questions of faith, and the fear that the parents didn't take good enough care of the children, that G.o.d himself was not pleased. The expectation is that the surviving brother should do something more, something heroic-he is obligated to make up for their loss.

I read these incomplete fragments as Nixon's attempt to process the early death of his two brothers, Arthur and Harold, and his own crisis of faith. Despite the unnerving morning, the afternoon brings a new comfort level. I ask for the key to the men's room and am given a programmed card, like a hotel-room key, and told that it will expire in ten minutes. The bathrooms are deluxe; the urinal is filled with ice-which snaps, crackles, pops as my stream hits it. They say it keeps bathrooms cleaner if men have something to aim for. The card gives me the excuse to walk the halls, wondering how the Nixon doc.u.ments found their way here. What is the "firm's" relationship with the Nixon family? Someone knows someone who knows someone; it's all about who you know, who you went to school with, who you grew up with in the backyard. After a couple of laps around the firm, I go back into the conference room. Moments later I sneeze, and a young man appears with a box of Kleenex.

"Thank you," I say, reminded that I am being watched.

At four-thirty Wanda appears. "Thirty minutes until closing," she says. And at four-fifty, "Ten minutes." At four-fifty-five, I put my pencil down. Wanda appears, and I show her the few pages of pencil notes I've scratched out on their legal pads.

"Do you think you'll be returning?" she asks.

"I hope so, it's a very exciting discovery, I barely made a dent."

"I'll let Mrs. Eisenhower know you were pleased."

"Thank you. And thank you for your help as well. Have a good evening."

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 a.s.suming 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.