May We Be Forgiven Part 16

"Goodbye." I walk to my car, knowing their eyes are on me.

I imagine them moving from room to room, window to window, as they watch me cross the well-landscaped front yard, trampling the perfectly trimmed gra.s.s, which reeks of prosperity and the vigilant use of pest-control products. It's midday, midweek, and apart from the fact that the plants are thriving, there are no other signs of life.

I drive away thinking they could have really hurt me. They could have tied me up, chained me to a radiator-were there radiators?-or kept me in the bas.e.m.e.nt like some science experiment. They could have buzz-sawed me into pieces and put me in the abandoned extra freezer. If what they said about their parents was true, it would be forever, or at least the Fourth of July, before I'd be found. My head is spinning. I was held hostage; I am an Internet idiot; I am a wreck. Something is vibrating as I drive; at first I think it's the car, but when stopped at a red light I look down and see my legs trembling wildly.

I drive straight to school. The department secretary looks at me with concern. "I hope you got my message?"

I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Your lunch today?"

I begin to sweat. "I didn't have lunch," I say, feeling the maraschino cherry rising in my throat.

"You were scheduled for your annual with Dr. Schwartz?"

I completely forgot.

"He had a dental emergency; I left you a message at home. Professor Schwartz cracked a tooth this morning at the faculty breakfast, and it looks like a root ca.n.a.l is in his future. He does want to see you sooner rather than later, so let's reschedule for tomorrow-noon."

"I'll be there," I say.

Office hour. It has to stop. Whatever it is I am doing or thinking I am doing with these "ladies who lunch," it needs to end. Today I got off easy; next time, it could be far worse. I check my date book. Tomorrow I'm scheduled to meet a woman-the only thing I can remember about her is that in our chat exchanges she made repeated references to the 1960s television show Bewitched. My sense, or maybe it was my fantasy, was that she had something quasi-magical in mind and needed a guy to play out the scenario. On the other hand, my experience of this morning leads me to add a darker spin to it-now I'm thinking that perhaps she is some kind of a suburban witch practicing her dark arts on dumb dogs of men who take the bait.

I attempt to log into my e-mail from the school's computer. I can't get online. Somewhat frantic, I feel like I need to cancel it now, right now-not ten minutes from now, but right this second, while I am strong and resolved and before I lose my will. I go charging up to the department secretary. "Is there a reason I can't get online?" I ask.

"The server is down," she says.

"All over campus?" I ask, thinking perhaps I can run to the library and do it from there.

"Yes, the whole system is down. If you need to check your e-mail, I'd let you log in from my phone." She holds up her phone-one of those twenty-first-century oddities with a slide-out keyboard.

Crumbs. If I log into my e-mail from her Android or whatever the h.e.l.l it is, I will leave a trail of electronic crumbs, the same crumbs that I would also leave logging into my personal e-mail from the school's computer. With a little work-the equivalent of a small electronic mop-they could trace my steps directly to "Bewitched101."

"That's okay," I say, with everything suddenly less urgent. And in fact I'm glad the server is down-it just saved me from myself.

I head into cla.s.s, prepared to discuss the origins of the moniker "Tricky d.i.c.k." I begin by introducing the figure of Helen Gahagan Douglas, actress and wife of actor Melvyn Douglas, who served Congress for three terms in the 1940s-including while having an affair with then Congressman and future President Lyndon B. Johnson. In 1950, Douglas ran for the United States Senate, against Nixon. Nixon took advantage of anti-communist sentiment, alluding to Gahagan Douglas's "red" sympathies, and launched a smear campaign, circulating anti-Douglas pamphlets printed on pink paper. Helen Gahagan Douglas lost the election, but coined the nickname that Nixon never lived down, "Tricky d.i.c.k."

"Tricky d.i.c.k" was later used to refer to various Nixon behaviors, ranging from personal use of campaign funds to the spying, stealing, wiretapping, plotting to overthrow, and likely worse. When Nixon was down he got mean, and when he lost or failed he got even meaner. His confidence in himself went a bit too far. In Nixon's famous 1977 interview with David Frost, when asked about the legality of some of his actions, Nixon said, with full conviction, "Well, when the President does it, that means that it is not illegal."

The cla.s.s continues to stare. I repeat myself: "When the President does it, that means that it is not illegal." They nod. "Is it true?" I ask. And they look confused. "Think about it," I say. "Rent the film." I close my books and exit.

"I forgot my meeting with Schwartz," I tell Tessie as soon as I'm in the door of the house. "I had such a totally strange day, and I totally forgot." I get down on my knees and look the dog in the eye. "Tessie, even if I told you, you wouldn't believe what I've been through." I log on to the computer and cancel my lunch "date" for tomorrow.

"What do you mean you're canceling?" the woman writes back.

"I mean I have to cancel," I write.

"Do you want to reschedule?"

"Not at this time."

"You cancel on me and you get no more," she writes.

"I have no choice, it's my annual review at work."

"Your d.i.c.k will die," the woman types.

"Your hostility leaves me at a loss for words."

"f.u.c.k you."

"Be nice," I type. "I know where you live, you gave me your address, remember?"

"Is that a threat? My husband will kick your a.s.s...."

"Your husband? You said you were never married."

"Oops. Well, have a nice day and good luck with your meeting. You know I'm kidding right, like if you want to reschedule, e-mail me and we'll work something out."

I unplug the computer. I need to more than turn it off. I need the screen not just to go to sleep but to go black.

The annual review. I prepare myself for lunch with Schwartz. I look up all things Nixon and refresh my knowledge on recent and forthcoming books in the field. I review my cla.s.s list and try to match names to faces in case he mentions the child of a friend of a friend. I study the school's annual report and gather my thoughts on the state of higher education. I depart, reminding myself that I am a player in the field and I am unique, I am a Nixon specialist.

Schwartz. On the one hand, I've known him for years; on the other, he took a turn, he teaches less, talks on TV more. His area of expertise, the history of war, makes him a go-to guy for a comment on almost anything. I'm thinking he's going to ask me to take on more, that he's going to say, Enough s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with this one cla.s.s per semester, you have so much to say, so much valued experience, we need you more than ever-can you pick up another cla.s.s or two?

Our lunch has been changed from the usual restaurant, where I always get Wiener schnitzel and he gets liver and onions and we joke about our parents and how when we were younger we never ate these things, but now that we're the age our parents once were we enjoy them enormously. At the diner, all I can think of is my mother and her friends going out for lunch and having cottage cheese and cling peaches.

"Are we here because of your tooth?" I ask Schwartz "My tooth is fine," he says. "We're here because of the times. I'll have the soup," he tells the waitress.

"Cup or bowl?"

"Cup," he says.

And what else?

"A seltzer," he says.

"And for you?"

I'm backpedaling, I was thinking turkey club with fries; instead, I say, "Greek omelet."

"Home fries or French fries?"

"Whatever," I say, suddenly nervous. "Home fries."

"So-how's tricks?" Schwartz asks.

"Tricky," I say.

"Are you ever going to write that novel?"

"I'm taking notes, it's really more a nonfiction."

"You've been taking notes since he left office."

"I'm not done," I say. "The story is still unfolding; it's an ongoing situation, more is slowly being revealed."

"I'll keep it short, then-you've got a lot to deal with," he says.

The waitress hasn't even poured the water yet.

"You have been with us for a long time, but times are changing...."

"Is there another course you're thinking I might teach? Contrasting Presidencies, George Bush Jr. vs. Richard Nixon, Who's the Sneakier Worm?"

"Actually, we're going to go with something else. We've got this fellow who has a new way of teaching history, it's future-forward."

"What does that mean, future-forward?" I ask, sounding more indignant than intended.

"Instead of studying the past, the students will be exploring the future-a world of possibility. We think it will be less depressing than watching reruns of the Zapruder films."

"Oh," I say. "Oh." And nothing else.

"You'll finish out the semester, of course."

I nod-of course.

The food arrives.

"I hope you won't fight us. Nixon's dead; your students weren't even born when Nixon was in office."

"Are you suggesting we no longer teach history?"

"I'm saying your cla.s.s has no relevance."

"I beg to differ," I say.

"Don't," he says. "You have no idea. We filled your cla.s.s with overflow kids who had to take one history to fulfill the requirement and the Internet and Americana cla.s.s was full. Trust me, they don't care about Nixon."

"But some of their papers were pretty good."

"They buy them on the Internet. They get papers about other people and change the names-because, honestly, at this point they're not even selling papers about Nixon, so they buy a Clinton paper and tweak it accordingly."

"No," I say, genuinely surprised.

"Yes. In fact, we did a test case in your cla.s.s, ret.i.tling 'The Morals of Monica Lewinsky' as 'Breaking Faith at the Watergate.' You gave a paper that wasn't about a break-in, but about a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, a B+."

"Was I grading on a curve?"

"You're out of touch," he says.

"I'm a professor. We're supposed to be out of touch. Remember elbow patches and pipes?"

"Not in this century."

"How about I teach a cla.s.s in murder, in memoir, in my murderous brother, in the American downfall," I suggest; given the timing, I can't help but think this has something to do with what happened with George.

Schwartz is unmoved. "I can't save you now anyway-we have no money. Write your book, write a couple of books, and then we'll talk." He raises his hand and signals to the waitress for the check. "You know," he says, "there are all these schools that now run programs on the Internet; maybe you could pick up an Internet cla.s.s or two and keep your hand in."

"That's it?" I say. "After all these years? I get half a lunch and a goodbye?"

"I don't meant to rush you," Schwartz says, "but there's nothing more to say."

Seeking counsel. In a local church there are late-afternoon meetings. I drive by, see cars parked outside, lights on in the old building. A feeling of warmth and welcome emanates. I park and enter, wandering through the upstairs chapel.

"Meeting's downstairs," the janitor tells me.

The meeting is already under way when I slip into the room and take a seat in the back. The men and women gathered have the posture of familiarity; I sense that not only do they all know each other, they've known each other for a long time. I am the odd man out. I feel them gently s.h.i.+fting in their seats so they can get a look at me. Finally, my moment comes.

"Hi, my name is Nit."

"Hi, Nit," they say in unison. The echo of their voices causes me to draw a deep breath; it is the echo of acceptance and welcome.

"What brings you here today?" someone asks.

"I got fired," I say. I pause and then begin again, "I f.u.c.ked my brother's wife, and then my brother came home and killed her. My wife is filing for divorce. And now, today, after having taught at the same college for many years, they said this semester is my last. I am living in my brother's house while he's in the bin. I'm taking care of the dog and the cat, and recently I started using his computer-you know, going online, visiting various sites. I've been making lots of lunch dates with women-mostly we don't have lunch, it's just s.e.x. A lot of s.e.x."

"Were you drunk?" someone asks.

"No," I say. "Not a bit."

"Do you have a drinking problem?"

"I hardly drink. I guess I could drink more. I've been watching you all from outside. You looked warm and friendly and welcoming."

"Sorry, Nit," the group says in unison.

"You have to go," the leader adds, and I feel like I've been kicked off the island. I get up from my folding chair and exit, pa.s.sing the old aluminum coffeepot with its ready light, the quart of whole milk, the sugar, the doughnuts, all the things I was looking forward to. I am tempted to take myself to a bar to become an alcoholic overnight so I can go back.

"There are other places, for people like you," one of the men says.

"There's a place for everyone," one woman calls after me.

I sit in the parking lot, imagining the meeting going on without me, all of them talking about me behind me back-or do they simply carry on?

As I'm pulling out of the lot, Claire calls on my cell phone. "We should sell the parking s.p.a.ce," she says.

"Sure," I say. "We can if you want. Are you sure you don't want it?"