May We Be Forgiven

actually more layered than that. People wondered, was Bremer working for someone? Whose side was he on? Did Nixon succeed in planting McGovern campaign materials in Bremer’s apartment—if so, was it propaganda or cover-up?” I pause and look at Cheryl. I find myself wondering: how many men did she have “lunch” with during her period of insanity, and does her husband know?
    “He doesn’t know,” she says, as though reading my mind. “In theory, in the rules of ‘recovery’ I should tell him. But while I may have gone nuts, I’m not crazy—he knows I lost my mind, the details aren’t relevant.”
    The pizza lands, hot, gooey, truly exceptional. I burn the roof of my mouth on the first bite and manage to peel it off with the third—after that I taste nothing except my own flesh.
    “And what about Julie Eisenhower—are you close?” I ask, still peeling cheese off my palate.
    “She’s very nice, but I wouldn’t say we’re close. I wouldn’t even know her except that we’re distantly related. Me, I’m not at all political, I’m more social, a people person. But I guess you found that out.”
    “Has anything like this happened to you before?”
    “Anything like what?”
    “Any of this.”
    “I had depression in college; no one knew about it. I stayed in bed for a month and then I got up.”
    “Did you miss classes?”
    “No, I got up for classes and meals, and then I went back to bed.”
    “So you weren’t really paralyzed by the depression?”
    “I felt like I was dying,” she says, looking me in the eye.
    “And then it passed?”
    “I was able to do what was expected.” Her voice is tight, sad, like something was lost and never recovered.
    “On the phone you mentioned something about ‘our moment’?”
    “Yes,” she says, licking her lips. “You struck me as someone who hadn’t had his moment yet.”
    “A late bloomer?” I ask.
    “Big-time,” she says. “I find it charming, it’s like you’re still waiting for something to happen.”
    “Good fortune to fall upon me,” I add.
    “Something like that,” she says. “And you’re so charmingly out of it, it’s like you’re from another era—sweet. All I know about is what sixteen-year-old boys are interested in, and my husband talking about boats and cars and vacations and what toys he wants to get, remote-control this and that.” She looks at me guiltily. “I have a real problem,” she says.
    “And what’s that?”
    “Well, after I recovered, I remembered that I liked you—that’s what made me call. But now I have a real problem.” She signals for the waiter. “Could I have a glass of wine?”
    “How about an Arnold Palmer?” I suggest.
    “White,” she says. “A big pour of white.”
    “How about a bottle?” the waiter says.
    “Just a glass, thanks,” she says. And the waiter is gone. “In a nutshell—no pun intended—I still like you. I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous, but I do, and I know I shouldn’t. And I’m back on medication and I am myself, or my ‘better’ self, but the thing is—I still want you. And, weirder yet, if you want to hear weird, I once met this guy, a young guy who collects masks of presidents, he has like forty famous faces and likes to role-play with women who maybe fantasize about getting banged by JFK, or done doggy-style by Abe Lincoln. Or how about being tied to a lectern and being made to submit by a leather-bound Jimmy Carter? His scenarios were endless, but the thing was … is … he’s not you. He’s like a fake historian and you’re the real deal. So what do I do?” she asks.
    I don’t know what to say, and so I adopt what I call the “Thumper pose,” one hand on the chin and brow furrowed. In Bambi , Thumper says, “If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.” Good advice, dating back to 1942. She’s still looking at me, waiting for something. “I don’t quite know what to say.”
    “Say you want me too,” she says.
    I do a couple of presidential imitations to spin off the stress.
    Her glass of wine arrives; she downs it in a couple of gulps and orders another.
    “Look,” I say, trying to be compassionate, “I don’t think we should do anything that puts you at risk. I don’t want to do anything that would be unhealthy for you or that puts your marriage and family in peril. For now, let’s sit with it. This isn’t something that we have to solve right now.” I raise my hand and signal for the