May We Be Forgiven

calling you about an exciting subscription offer. …”
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” he says.
    I take the phone into another room, leaving Madeline and Cy in front of the television.
    “I knew your brother,” Remnick, says, “not terribly well, but a bit.”
    “I didn’t realize,” I say.
    “So listen,” he says, “we’re very interested in this story, but before we can go further I need to know if it’s authentic.”
    “To the best of my knowledge it is,” I say, and explain how I was contacted by the family and the provenance of the boxes.
    “How many stories did Nixon write?” Remnick asks.
    “There are approximately thirteen,” I say, and then, suddenly, I’m not sure how much I can say without violating my confidentiality agreement.
    “Are you still there?”
    “I am,” I say. “But I should probably go.”
    “How would you characterize the other stories?” Remnick asks. “Personal, political, similar in tone to the one we’ve got? Are they really fiction?”
    I answer as carefully as I can. When we’re finished, I feel filleted but admiring of his technique. I place a call to Mrs. Eisenhower at home. I picture her on the sofa of an old-fashioned formal living room, a faded testament to another era.
    “She’s not available—may I take a message?”
    “Yes, I wanted to let her know I’ve had some calls from the media.”
    Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Eisenhower calls back. “I hope you won’t take this badly,” she says. “We’ve decided to withdraw the story. The response has been overwhelming; we’re going to take a step back and consider what we’re doing a bit more carefully.”
    “Was it anything to do with the quality of my work?” I’m compelled to ask.
    “No,” she says. “While I was surprised by the extent of some of your edits, when I looked them over in comparison to the longer versions I thought you did a fine job. It’s a family issue; we’re not sure that presenting my father as a fiction writer is consistent with the Nixon brand.” There is a long pause. “As you might imagine, the concept of our brand is not something I thought of before; it used to be all about red and blue, Democrat or Republican. So we’re going to give it some thought, and if we circle around, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you for your enthusiasm—I know how fond of my father you are.”
    I press further, thinking this may be my last chance to glean some insight. “As you know, I’ve been working on this book about your father. I’m curious, has your sense of him changed over time? Did you ever discover things that made you uncomfortable?”
    “My father was a complex figure who did what he believed was best for his family and his country. You and I will never know the depth of the challenges he faced. Thank you,” she says, “and good night.”

    I e-mail Ching Lan and ask her to meet me at the office tomorrow at nine.

    B y 7 a.m., CNN is on the air with an old guy in Oregon holding up a notebook of Nixon’s, which he claims his grandfather won when the former President was a poker-playing lieutenant commander in the navy. The notebook is dated 1944, which coincides with Nixon’s service. The man reads an excerpt, which I immediately recognize as a fragment from “Good American People.”
    Leaving the house, I have the feeling someone is watching me. An unfamiliar car is parked nose-out in the driveway across the street; the driver gives me a creepy nod, and I swear I would hear a camera clicking if cameras still clicked.
    The elevator in the midtown building that houses the firm stops on every floor, dispensing its Starbucks-cupped, muffin-topped human cargo. I am aware of someone behind me. “Cut too close to the bone,” he says over my shoulder. I move to turn; the elevator goes dark and jerks to a stop. The other passengers gasp.
    “We’re under attack,” a woman screams.
    “Doubtful,” a man mutters.
    “There’s always a snag,” a familiar voice says calmly over my shoulder. “Always something a little bigger than you running the show.”
    “Tell me more,” I say.
    “What more can I say? I’m disappointed,” he says. “My fifteen minutes are fading fast.”
    The elevator car lurches upward, the lights blink, the door opens. Passengers surge forward, rushing to get off, fearing there is more to come.
    “Must have been a power surge,” an old man who has remained in the car says. “That kind of thing used to happen all the time in