May We Be Forgiven

dishwasher, give Tessie and the cat fresh water, putter and put things away until there is nothing more to do.
    I walk around the house in circles.

W here does one go from here? I imagine leaving—walking out and never coming back. The dog looks at me. Okay, then, walking out and leaving a note for the mailman instructing him to have the pets sent to George at the nuthouse—animals are very therapeutic.
    Before this happened, I had a life, or at least I thought I did; the quality, the successfulness of it had not been called into question. I was about to do something. …
    The book. Now is the time to finish the book. I feel instant relief at having remembered that in fact there was something, a mission—the book. I drag the canvas bag with the thirteen-hundred-page manuscript, covered with an elaborate system of Post-its and flags that seems entirely undecipherable, over to the kitchen table.
    I sit. Sweat trickles down my back even though I am not warm. My heart beats faster and faster, the world is coming to an end, the house is about to explode. I hurry to the medicine cabinet and take the pill marked “As Needed for Anxiety.” I am taking George’s medication, thinking of George. I have to get out of the house. It’s cold in the house, bitterly cold. As quick as I can, I gather my things, my manuscript, my empty pads of paper. If I don’t leave immediately, something will happen. I grab my things and run out the door.
    Outside, the sky is bright, the air is even. I stand there.
    The book. I am going to work. I am going to the library in town and I’m going to write my book. I am going. I get in the car; I have no keys. I have George’s pants on. I run back into the house, grab the car keys, my phone. Tessie is wagging her tail, as though she thinks I’ve come back for her. “I’m going to the library, Tessie, I have to write my book. Be a good girl.”

    L ast renovated in 1972, the library is perfect for my mission. Its modern look is along the lines of a Unitarian church or community center. The entry vestibule features a floor-to-ceiling pin board covered with community-service announcements for “coffee and conversation,” “Mommy and me” programs, and a table stacked with voter-registration information along with pamphlets about Disaster Preparation . All I can think of is the wailing of the Thunderbolt civil-defense siren that went off once a month for three minutes at 11 a.m. all through my school years. Once inside, I spread the contents of my bag over a long table and begin reading what I have written so far, trying to be both critical and generous—an impossible combination. I skip ahead, picking up where I left off. When did I last work on this? I have legal pads, and a pen that’s gone unused for so long it doesn’t work—I borrow a stumpy half-pencil, a “golf” pencil, from the reference desk and return to my seat, thinking perhaps I should review what’s new in the world of Nixonology before continuing the book. Nixon himself wrote ten books, the last, Beyond Peace , finished weeks before he died. Titles like that, Beyond Peace , make me nervous, like maybe some part of him knew the end was near—the first volume of Ronald Reagan’s autobiography, published in the early 1960s, had the prophetic title Where’s the Rest of Me? Is there room for another book about Nixon? People often ask me, and I say, Well, you heard about Nixon’s trip to China, but what about his passion for real estate in New Jersey? What about his interest in animal welfare? I search the library’s collection and find a few items that bear rereading. I have copies of the books in the apartment in New York—in what I call the Nixon Library, which Claire calls your Nixon Library as opposed to the Nixon Library.
    I fill my arms with books and march to the checkout desk.
    In retrospect, I wish I’d held off. I wish I’d sat down with the books, read through them, and left them right there on the table, where they belonged. I was wanting to check them out to be on the safe side, to leave no stone unturned.
    I put the books on the counter and hand the woman the library card.
    “It’s not your card,” the librarian says.
    “It came out of my pocket,” I say, pulling everything else from the pocket.
    “It’s not yours.”
    “You’re right,” I say. “It’s my brother’s. And these are my brother’s pants, and this is his driver’s license. I’m taking the material out for