by Homes, A. M.
The book. Now is the time to finish the book. I feel instant relief at having remembered that in fact there was something, a mission—the book. I drag the canvas bag with the thirteen-hundred-page manuscript, covered with an elaborate system of Post-its and flags that seems entirely undecipherable, over to the kitchen table.
I sit. Sweat trickles down my back even though I am not warm. My heart beats faster and faster, the world is coming to an end, the house is about to explode. I hurry to the medicine cabinet and take the pill marked “As Needed for Anxiety.” I am taking George’s medication, thinking of George. I have to get out of the house. It’s cold in the house, bitterly cold. As quick as I can, I gather my things, my manuscript, my empty pads of paper. If I don’t leave immediately, something will happen. I grab my things and run out the door.
Outside, the sky is bright, the air is even. I stand there.
The book. I am going to work. I am going to the library in town and I’m going to write my book. I am going. I get in the car; I have no keys. I have George’s pants on. I run back into the house, grab the car keys, my phone. Tessie is wagging her tail, as though she thinks I’ve come back for her. “I’m going to the library, Tessie, I have to write my book. Be a good girl.”
Last renovated in 1972, the library is perfect for my mission. Its modern look is along the lines of a Unitarian church or community center. The entry vestibule features a floor-to-ceiling pin board covered with community-service announcements for “coffee and conversation,” “Mommy and me” programs, and a table stacked with voter-registration information along with pamphlets about Disaster Preparation. All I can think of is the wailing of the Thunderbolt civil-defense siren that went off once a month for three minutes at 11 a.m. all through my school years. Once inside, I spread the contents of my bag over a long table and begin reading what I have written so far, trying to be both critical and generous—an impossible combination. I skip ahead, picking up where I left off. When did I last work on this? I have legal pads, and a pen that’s gone unused for so long it doesn’t work—I borrow a stumpy half-pencil, a “golf” pencil, from the reference desk and return to my seat, thinking perhaps I should review what’s new in the world of Nixonology before continuing the book. Nixon himself wrote ten books, the last, Beyond Peace, finished weeks before he died. Titles like that, Beyond Peace, make me nervous, like maybe some part of him knew the end was near—the first volume of Ronald Reagan’s autobiography, published in the early 1960s, had the prophetic title Where’s the Rest of Me? Is there room for another book about Nixon? People often ask me, and I say, Well, you heard about Nixon’s trip to China, but what about his passion for real estate in New Jersey? What about his interest in animal welfare? I search the library’s collection and find a few items that bear rereading. I have copies of the books in the apartment in New York—in what I call the Nixon Library, which Claire calls your Nixon Library as opposed to the Nixon Library.
I fill my arms with books and march to the checkout desk.
In retrospect, I wish I’d held off. I wish I’d sat down with the books, read through them, and left them right there on the table, where they belonged. I was wanting to check them out to be on the safe side, to leave no stone unturned.
I put the books on the counter and hand the woman the library card.
“It’s not your card,” the librarian says.
“It came out of my pocket,” I say, pulling everything else from the pocket.
“It’s not yours.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s my brother’s. And these are my brother’s pants, and this is his driver’s license. I’m taking the material out for him.”
“Your brother killed his wife,” she says.
I take a breath. “My brother isn’t able to come in and check out books himself, so I’m getting these for him.”
“I’m going to mark the card as stolen—charges could be filed against you.”
“For what?”
“It doesn’t so much matter what,” the librarian says. “We live in a litigious society, it’s how people express their anger. And it would be a blot on your record.”
“Give me the card back.”
“Oh no,” the librarian says. “It says right here on the back that the use of the library is a privilege that can be revoked.”
“If it’s not my card, how can it be revoked?”
“Lack of use,” she says.
“Is it my subject matter? Is there something about Nixon that you don’t like?”
“No,” the librarian says. “It’s you. It’s you that I don’t like.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“And I never will,” she says. “Go. Leave before I press charges.”
“For what?”
“Harassment.”
Outside, I trip over a crack in the sidewalk, my bag goes flying, my manuscript—Post-its and all—spills. On hands and knees I pick up the pages. Bent, glancing up into the sunlight, I spot the overnight book depository. I make a mental note of a thing or two I might deposit some night after closing. I have the thought and then immediately think of the Texas Book Depository. A phone rings. I feel my pockets and first pull out George’s and then mine—it’s flashing “Claire” on the caller ID.
“Hello,” I say, still on the ground.
“Who knows the real story?” she asks.
“You’re home.”
“Who knows?” she repeats.
“I don’t know who knows,” I say as I finish collecting my papers.
“You know what I’m saying.”
“If you’re asking who I’ve spoken to, I’ve talked to no one.”
“People know,” Claire says. “It’s all over the New York Post, and there are photos of a bloody mattress being taken out of the house and you standing there looking like an idiot.”
“I must have missed a day.”
“It was on the inside. On the cover, in the lower right corner, was a photo of your brother pushing dirt into the grave with handcuffs on.”
“Do you think his lawyer staged that?” I ask.
“Speaking of lawyers,” she says, “you’re gonna need one. Also, I called a moving company.”
“Where are you going? You don’t have to move, Claire; the apartment is yours.”
“I’m not going anywhere. It’s for you. Where do you want your stuff to go?”
“Here, just send it to George and Jane’s.”
“Fine,” she says.
And she’s gone. I pull myself up, swing the canvas bag over my shoulder, and head down the street, slightly tilted to one side. I walk past the tennis store and the dry cleaner’s and stop at the Starbucks. I’m trying to start a routine. I’m trying to do things that other people do.
“Medium coffee,” I say.
“Grande?”
“Medium.”
“Grande,” the girl says again.
“Non parlo italiano,” I say, pointing to the medium-sized cup.
She hands me the coffee, burning hot, and I take a table. I unpack the pages of the manuscript and shuffle them back into order. A group of women are staring at me; one actually points.
“What?” I say loudly, looking back at them.
“You look like the guy,” a boy says as he’s wiping tables with a rag that smells like vomit.
“What guy?”
“The guy who killed his wife? She used to come in here with them, after exercise. They come here a lot,” he says. “You’re new.”
He starts wiping my table, as if to make the point that I should go.
“Okay,” I say, getting up and taking the coffee with me—after all, it was four dollars. I don’t even want the coffee. There’s a guy outside who looks homeless, and I try to hand it to him.
“Are you giving me your coffee?” he asks.
“I am.”
“Did you drink it?”
“No,” I say.
“Why would I want your coffee? Maybe you doped it?”
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I’m looking at the guy thinking he looks familiar, a cross between a guy who might change your flat and Clint Eastwood.
“You know,” he says, “the thing is, I don’t drink coffee.”
“Oh,” I say, accidentally splashing my wrist with the hot java.
“I come for the lemon pound cake and a cup of tea.”
I nod, still thinking I know this guy from somewhere. “All right, then,” I say, feeling the canvas bag slipping down my shoulder. “Enjoy.”
“And you as well. I hope you find a taker for your coffee.”
I put the coffee on the roof of the car and unlock the door and throw the canvas bag in. DeLillo, I think as I slam the door. DeLillo, as I start the engine. That was goddamned Don DeLillo. I would have loved to talk to him about Nixon. I put the car into gear and go. The back windshield is instantly doused in black coffee. In the rearview mirror I watch the cup bouncing down the street behind me.
Back to school. Am I ready for class? I’ve been teaching the same course for ten years. Of course I’m ready—I’m more than ready, I’m on autopilot.
I get lost driving to school. I’ve never come from this direction. I usually go from home, I know the route by heart. I’m late. In the car the phone rings. I scrape against a guardrail trying to wrestle the cell phone from my pocket. Again, it’s Claire. She says nothing.
“Claire,” I say. “Hello, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m in the car, Claire, driving to school. Let’s try again later.”
I rush to pick up my mail in the department office. There’s very little in my box: A postcard from a student saying she’s sorry but she’ll miss the next two classes because her grandmother in Maine is very ill. The postmark is from Daytona, Florida. Unfortunately, the signature is a blur, so I don’t even know who to demerit for that one. The only other mail is an interdepartmental letter. “The Chair of your department would like to schedule a time to speak with you.” I poke my head into the department secretary’s office. “Excuse me, I’m not sure if this is meant for me?”
“Yes,” she says. “He does want to talk with you.”
“Should we schedule something?”
She ducks into the Chair’s office and returns almost instantaneously. “A week from Wednesday for lunch, your annual event. He says you already know all the details, you have years of experience.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
I unlock the door of my shared space—Professor Spivak’s on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, mine on Monday and Wednesday from 2 to 3 p.m. I wait. No one comes. I extract the manuscript that’s become my travel companion and go at it, wildly jotting notes, suggesting revisions to myself, a teacher correcting his own work. Five minutes before class, I lock the office. Midway across campus, I am nearly decapitated by a Frisbee, which hits me on the back of the head. No one says sorry, or asks if I’m okay. I tuck the Frisbee into my bag and continue on.
In Room 304 of Donziger Hall, I stand welcoming each student—they barely glance up as they meander in. “Good afternoon, I hope you had a pleasant and productive vacation. Your papers are due. Pass them forward, and then we’ll get right into our conversation about Nixon, Kissinger, and the Paris Peace Talks.”
A handful of papers come towards me. One title catches my attention: “BLOW JOB or WAR: The Testosterone Paradigm.” Another one looks promising: “Checkers and Buddy and the Role of the White House Dog in Shaping Public Opinion.”
“I’ve only got a dozen papers here—who hasn’t turned one in?”
My phone rings. I answer only because for some goddamned reason I can’t turn the phone off without answering. “Oh, hi, Larry, I’m in class, literally right in the middle; can I call you later?” “My lawyer,” I say. “Family emergency.” And one of the students snickers. A plus—at least one of them keeps up with the news.
For ninety minutes I wax poetic about the complexities of the peace process that started in 1968, after a variety of delays including debate about “seating.” North Vietnam wanted the conference to be held at a circular table at which all parties would appear equal, whereas South Vietnam felt only a rectangular table physically illustrating two sides of the conflict would do. They resolved it by having North and South sitting at the circular table while all other relevant parties sat at individual square tables around them. I go on to present details about Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and the role of Anna Chennault, who brokered the backroom sabotage of the 1968 Paris Peace Talks. The South Vietnamese withdrew from the talks on the eve of the election, helping Nixon win and paving the way for the continuation of the war. Kissinger received a Nobel Peace Prize for his “efforts” in 1973 along with the North Vietnamese Le Duc Tho, who refused to accept.
From there, a flight of ideas leads me to digress; I regale the students with stories about Martha Mitchell—not Margaret Mitchell, the author of Gone with the Wind, who ditched her proper suitor, John Marsh, and married Red Upshaw, a bootlegger who beat her up, and then left him and went back to Marsh. No, I am talking about Martha Mitchell, wife of former Attorney General John Mitchell, aka “The Mouth of the South,” who was a drinker, known for calling folks in the middle of the night and saying things like “My husband is the fucking Attorney General of the United States.” It is the alcohol-fueled Mrs. Mitchell that I find compelling. Her allegations that the White House was involved in illegal activity were described as symptoms of mental illness and dismissed. She was ultimately vindicated, and her experience was deemed a legitimate syndrome, given the moniker “the Martha Mitchell Effect,” and described as the process by which a mental-health professional mistakes the patient’s perception of seemingly improbable events as delusional when in fact they’re real.
I spin, I whirl, I thoroughly unspool. It’s the best class I’ve taught in years. “Thoughts? Questions?” I ask. The students sit unblinking in a stupor. “Okay, then, until next week.”
I leave energized, loving Nixon all the more. I drive back to George’s, struggling to remember which road leads where. As I pull into town, everything is closing for the night—the luncheonette, the ladies’ clothing shop. There’s a sticky family dripping chocolate outside the 31 Flavors. I park near the Chinese restaurant. The red neon Chinese letters could spell out anything. For all I know, it says “Eat Shit and Die” in Mandarin. I bring the students’ papers in with me. The place is run by a family who cluck madly while serving steaming bowls of soup and perfect hills of white rice. Again my phone rings. “Claire, what’s the point of calling me again and again if you’re not going to say anything. Talk to me. I know I’m a shit, but I can listen. I can take whatever it is you want to say. I’m in a Chinese restaurant. I ordered scallion pancakes, which you hate, and hot-and-sour shrimp, and, yes, I know you’re allergic to shrimp, but I’m not.”
The house is dark. Tessie seems nervous; I let her out for a pee and give her some kibble. The cat rubs against my leg, flicking her tail.
“I didn’t forget you,” I say. “Have I ever forgotten you?”
Only when he calls again do I remember that I forgot to call Larry back. “Sorry, it’s been a strange time.” I laugh. “Very strange.”
I sit on the sofa, remote control in hand, flipping channels, noticing how the television is so big that the lighting in the room changes profoundly with each click of the remote. I like the old black-and-white televisions better—easier on the eyes.
“It’s Larry,” he repeats.
“I—” I start to say something.
“Don’t talk, listen,” he says. “I’ve got news for you; Claire has asked me to represent her.”
“But you’re happily married.”
“Represent her, not marry her. I’m going to be her lawyer.”
I turn the television off. “Larry, we’re friends; we’ve known each other since fourth grade.”
“Exactly,” Larry says.
“I don’t get it.”
“I’ve been waiting for this moment. I never forgot the way you and y
our brother treated me. I was the new kid, from Newark.”
“Oh,” I say, not really remembering.
“You did a ‘new Jew’ dance, and then your brother said I had to pay him three dollars a week if I wanted to live.”
“You got off easy,” I said. “I had to give him five.”
“Irrelevant,” Larry says. “Claire feels she has grounds. Do you have a lawyer, someone I should talk to?”
“You’re my lawyer.”
“Not anymore.”
“Does Claire want to make a time to sit down and talk about our shared property, retirement and health-care benefits, who gets what, and all that kind of thing?”
“No. She’s left all that to me.”
“Isn’t this a conflict of interest?”
“Not for me,” Larry says.
“Well, if you’re going to be her lawyer, who’s going to be mine?”
“Don’t you know anyone else?”
“No, it’s not like I pal around with ‘the law.’”
“I’m sure George has a lawyer. Also, I have to ask you to stop calling Claire. She says you keep calling her cell phone and leaving messages.”
“I don’t. Her cell phone keeps calling me, and I answer but she doesn’t speak.”
“I’m not going to engage in a ‘he said, she said.’ It has to stop.”
I say nothing.
“Okay, then,” Larry says. “There’s one other thing—the clock. She says you took the clock from her side of the bed. It was a four-by-four-inch square black Braun travel clock.”
“I’ll buy her a new clock,” I say.
“She doesn’t want a new clock,” Larry says. “She wants her clock.” A long silence passes. “She’s not asking for anything else, no alimony, no support of any kind. I’m authorized to offer you two hundred thousand dollars to never speak to her again.”
“That hurts,” I say.
“I could push it to two fifty,” Larry says.
“It’s not the money, it’s that Claire never wants to speak to me again, with the added insult that, in order to accomplish that, she thinks she’s got to pay me off.”
“So, you’ll take the two hundred?”