May We Be Forgiven: A Novel

by Homes, A. M.

  “May I?” I overhear a woman ask Cheryl.

  “I guess,” Cheryl says.

  I look away—even in this place, people are entitled to their privacy. Out of the corner of my eye, like slow motion, I see the woman’s hand, her long thin fingers, the glint of her wedding ring as it extends towards Cheryl’s breast. The woman brushes Cheryl with her fingers, lightly, almost as if dusting the breast—touching without touching. And then she leans forward and kisses her. Cheryl kisses back. And then the woman is gone—vaporized by the experience.

  “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I have to go to the city tomorrow morning and want to be home at a decent hour,” I say to Cheryl.

  “I let a woman touch me,” she says, apparently unaware that I was standing right next to her when it happened.

  “Was it your first time?”

  “Yes.” She pauses. “She touched me so lightly—it tickled.”

  “It sounds like maybe you liked it.”

  “I didn’t not like it.”

  “That’s what you call a double negative—do you mean that you liked it?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve felt a woman’s hands before—but always, like, in a doctor’s office—like, raise your arm, and they take your breast and smoosh it into the mammo machine—but I never had someone touch me just for fun. I had no idea a woman’s lips felt that soft. What about you? Any action?”

  “Yeah, a guy rubbed against me,” I say. “But I think he was just trying to get by. He rubbed me, then said sorry. It was the ‘sorry’ that made me uncomfortable. The rub was kind of interesting, but when he apologized I felt like a creep because I actually liked it.”

  “I think you’re reading too much into it,” she says.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say. “I’ve got to go,” I say, “it’s getting late.”

  “Do you have time for a coffee?” she asks. “We could debrief?”

  She laughs at her own joke. As we’re crossing the parking lot she says: “Can you believe such a place exists, right here, right next to the drugstore, the hospital supply, and the card shop? I buy cards for my mother-in-law in there.”

  Stinking of sweat, some of it other people’s, we go to Friendly’s.

  “I don’t think you were very into it,” she says as we’re sitting down.

  “Frankly, I was surprised by how depressing it was.”

  “Me too,” she says.

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asks.

  “Coffee,” I say.

  “Is that all?”

  “Coffee and apple pie?”

  “À la mode?” she asks.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Coffee and apple pie,” Cheryl says. “That’s what Grandfather used to order.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Eighty-six the apple pie, and I’ll have a clown sundae—with chocolate ice cream.”

  When the waitress leaves, I lean forward. “Why did you want to do this?” I ask Cheryl, who looks tearful.

  “I’m just really curious,” she says. “I would think you already know that about me. I want something different, something more.”

  My ice cream arrives, and she digs in.

  “You need a job,” I suggest, “maybe get a real-estate license, or go back to school and become a social worker.”

  “I got the real-estate license,” she says. “It just means you fuck strangers in other people’s houses.” Impromptu, she belches; the scents of white wine and chocolate ice cream blast across the table. “Apologies,” she says. “I don’t think I’m supposed to drink while I’m on this new medication.”

  “I didn’t know you were on new medication,” I say, sobering up.

  “Yeah—a whole new regimen.”

  “Do you think maybe the new medication prompted this whole thing tonight? How do you know it’s what you actually want to do and not some strange side effect?”

  “I don’t think the desire to explore a swingers’ club is listed under side effects. Like I said, I’m curious; is that a bad thing? And, honestly, I like the idea of having sex with some guy and not having to do his laundry and make his lunch and shop for his socks.…”

  “Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks.

  “Just the check,” I say, noticing that now several other “couples” from the party have come into Friendly’s, pink-cheeked and laughing too loud.

  I dress for my last class, solemnly. I wear a suit and tie; there is a seriousness of purpose, like for a funeral, I suppose. I enter with my head held high, having checked my underlying grief and sense of betrayal, carrying only an old oversized cassette recorder. “Today’s class marks the closing of a chapter of my life,” I say as I’m setting up. “In honor and memory of Richard Milhous Nixon, I am going to record my comments.” I set the recorder down on the hollow lectern, thumping it several times to get their attention. The thumping on the hollow wood is amplified, thump, thump, like the pounding of a gavel—hear ye, hear ye. I press “play” and “record” simultaneously and clear my throat. “Testing, one, two, three…testing, testing.” I hit “stop,” then “rewind.” I play back the test; the tone is as expected—classically metallic.

  “I come before you on this, our final meeting together, with the power of history foremost in my mind, the awareness that if we live only in the present, without consciousness of the past, we will have no future. Imagine, if you will, an America without Richard Nixon, a country without a past, a world in which it is truly every man for himself and there is no building of trusts, alliances between men and countries. Think of your own moment in time. Your history—your culture, your behavior—is perhaps more documented, scrutinized, than any previous generation. Your image is captured dozens if not hundreds of times per day, and the line you are expected to walk is thin and unforgiving. Consider for a moment the Internet posting that doesn’t go away—remains perpetually present, doesn’t allow for a kind of growth, progression, or forgiveness.”

  I pause for breath.

  “Today’s class marks a passage in my life: my last performance on the academic stage, a curtain call of sorts. I thought I’d take the opportunity to simply share my thoughts with you.

  “But first I am going to ask you to turn off all your electronic equipment and imagine a morning meeting in the Nixon White House—the President, his Chief of Staff, Haldeman, Haig, Henry Kissinger, and a select handful of others—and imagine each of them holding in one hand a cup of Starbucks coffee with his name and the contents annotated on the side and in the other hand brandishing some kind of electronic device on which he is e-mailing, tweeting away, texting, whatever. Would Nixon think they weren’t listening? And instead of writing his thoughts, his middle of the night musings, in ink on legal pads, would Dick Nixon break out his smartphone and tweet away or text himself volumes of digression on the devolving state of the union?

  “Think about it as you power down your devices—this is my last stand, and I want your full attention.”

  I pause for an extended moment; assorted electronic goodbyes chirp around the room. “This is the nineteenth time I have stood before you—in a place that has been a center of learning for so many years, shaping minds and lives for generations. In all of my decisions, in the materials that I presented to you, I have tried to do what is best. I felt it was my duty to make every effort to introduce you to your history and the history of this country and to make every effort to educate you as to the relevance, the value of both knowing and questioning the past. Today is in some ways a resignation. In order to teach, one must have students, eager learners. I am aware that many of you took this class to fulfill a requirement that you take a history class. I know, via scuttlebutt, that this class is rumored to be “a fluff.” I am equally aware that many of you are the first in your family to even go to college, and that, instead of taking that privilege as a mandate to educate yourselves, you use it as time to hang out with friends and party. I have always thought of myself as a professo
r, a teacher, a mentor to the young. With no children of my own, I have perhaps wrongly allowed my students to act as surrogates. I have rallied for you, shown up for your football games, cheered you on. I believed in you. And despite shifts in the winds of academia, in the tides of the study of history, despite waning interest, I have always felt it was my duty to persevere. And let me make this perfectly clear…I would have preferred to carry on despite the personal hardship, the fact that a teaching obligation cuts into my hours of research and writing as a historian. I have never been a quitter, but, given the direction this institution feels the study of history is moving in, it would seem my effectiveness is coming to its conclusion. My own view of things is a long one. Here I note the contrast of the Nixon White House to that of Bush Senior and Dick Cheney, who makes Richard Nixon seem simplistic by contrast.

  “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.”

  “A bribe?” I suggest.

  “My wife loves the stuff,” Crawley says. “She grew up on it.” He pulls himself together. “Okay, so Walter here is going to tell us a bit about the program he’s been working on—and I can tell you that, while we’ve not placed anyone in it before, I’ve been talking with lots of folks about options for George, and short of either a classic loony bin or jail, there’s not a lot out there. And I honestly don’t think either of those would be right for George.”

  “May I?” Walter asks.

  “Please,” Dr. Crawley says.

  “We’re always exploring new concepts in criminal justice, everything from the architecture of prison structures to the psychological experience of punishment. The Woodsman is an experiment that can be boiled down to a low-cost survival-of-the-fittest model. And while George isn’t the typical candidate, we think he’s a viable candidate and this could be a strong placement option.”

  “Who is your typical candidate?” I ask.

  “Someone with more of a criminal history, rural as opposed to urban experience, not much white-collar, more robbery, grand theft, a little murder. A man good with his hands who needs physical challenge. We’ve found that violent men are less likely to behave violently in a natural setting. When they’re up against the elements, they train themselves, they self-regulate—they see it as man versus the land, instead of man versus man. We have no serial killers—we think of that as a very different profile, and as much as we have a legal mandate to punish, we also have to respect the inalienable rights of our prisoners and not put them at undue risk. Essentially, The Woodsman is designed as an inexpensive self-policing penal colony. As you may know, there is a long history for a self-sustaining prison farm, as well as the Quaker model. They built the first penitentiary, which included the need to look towards the sky.” Walter in fact looks up as he speaks. “In essence, see the light, be with God, and repent!”