May We Be Forgiven

precious little room for movement. I wonder if it would be different now: if Nixon owned up (deeply unlikely) and attributed his behavior, his failings, to a traumatic event—growing up in the Nixon household—would he have been exonerated? Is the rise or fall of popularity or historic significance a fixed game?
    As I close in on the ending, I find myself thinking about Claire. Imagining if Claire could see me now … Would she be impressed? When I stop to think really hard about it, nothing I’m doing would make any sense to her. My fantasy moves on to Ben Schwartz, my former department Chair—Ben, who thought I’d never finish the book—what would Ben think? I belch. The flavor is overwhelming—Londisizwe’s tea! This is the last of the pain, the foul smell coming out; these thoughts are the path of the old mind needing to be left behind.

    I call Tuttle. It’s the middle of the afternoon in early August; he answers his phone.
    “Why are you there?” I ask. “I thought shrinks took August off?”
    “I’m a contrarian,” he says. “I take July. In August I make my nut working overtime, covering for my colleagues who prefer Wellfleet.”
    We make a time to meet. His office is freezing cold. Across the edge of his desk where last time there was a collection of cups from Smoothie King, there’s a row of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups. “They opened a drive-thru,” he says.
    “I’m almost finished with the book,” I say. “But it’s like I’m waiting for something to happen, some kind of relief or sense of relief.”
    “Are you pleased with your work?”
    “I want someone to read it.”
    “Who is your fantasy, your muse?” he asks.
    “Richard Milhous Nixon,” I say.
    “And what would you want him to say?”
    “‘Thank you’?” I suggest, plaintively. “‘The world needs more men like you, Silver. You’re a good man.’”
    “Do you see Nixon as a father figure?”
    “I wouldn’t rule it out,” I say after a long pause.
    “Why can’t you just say yes?” Tuttle asks. “What would it mean to you?”
    I look to the floor, I break out in a cold sweat, I can’t meet Tuttle’s eye.
    “What would it mean?” Tuttle asks again.
    “I love him but I think he did wrong,” I sputter.
    “Do you say that in your book?”
    “Not so much.”
    “Why not?”
    “George is a paranoid bully who doesn’t see what’s good for him and looks at me as the enemy no matter what I do.” I blurt it out, and then there’s a very long silence.
    “And Nixon?” Tuttle asks.
    “I’m not sure Nixon could psychically afford to accept that he did anything wrong. He desperately needed to think of himself as decent.”
    “Do you think your book is good?”
    “Sometimes I think it is a brilliant, reinvigorating discussion not only about Nixon but about an entire era. Other times I wonder if it’s just a cultural hairball that took years to cough up.”
    “Among the living, whose opinion matters to you?”
    “Remnick?” I suggest, tentatively. For whatever reason, since the phone call I’ve been fixated on Remnick.
    “Are you really finished?”
    “Pretty much. I’m just waiting for something to happen.”
    “Waiting for something to happen? Like what?”
    I have no answer.
    “Isn’t it up to you,” Tuttle suggests, “to make something happen?”
    We sit in silence for the rest of the session. As I’m leaving, he hands me a folded mint-green sheet of paper. I’m blank.
    “The Psychiatric Evaluation form from the New York Department of Social Services,” Tuttle says.
    “Thank you.”
    “I’m open to working with you further,” Tuttle says. “Let me know if you’d like to schedule something.”
    From Tuttle’s office, I go visit my mother. In the parking lot of the home, they have set up a large aboveground pool with a wide cedar deck, umbrellas, chairs, and a long wheelchair ramp from the front door of the facility to the edge of the pool, where residents can be deposited onto a slide, and—“wheee”—down they go. “More,” a man shouts. “I want to go again. It’s like Coney Island.”
    I spot my mother under an umbrella, holding court in a black-and-white polka-dot swimsuit, wearing Jackie O–style sunglasses, and sipping a plastic tumbler of iced tea.
    “Ma,” I say. “You look ten years younger.”
    “I always liked being by the shore,” she says.
    “Where’s your husband?” I ask.
    Looking around, I realize that all the men and women are wearing