May We Be Forgiven

for your coffee.”
    I put the coffee on the roof of the car and unlock the door and throw the canvas bag in. DeLillo, I think as I slam the door. DeLillo, as I start the engine. That was goddamned Don DeLillo. I would have loved to talk to him about Nixon. I put the car into gear and go. The back windshield is instantly doused in black coffee. In the rearview mirror I watch the cup bouncing down the street behind me.

    B ack to school. Am I ready for class? I’ve been teaching the same course for ten years. Of course I’m ready—I’m more than ready, I’m on autopilot.
    I get lost driving to school. I’ve never come from this direction. I usually go from home, I know the route by heart. I’m late. In the car the phone rings. I scrape against a guardrail trying to wrestle the cell phone from my pocket. Again, it’s Claire. She says nothing.
    “Claire,” I say. “Hello, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m in the car, Claire, driving to school. Let’s try again later.”
    I rush to pick up my mail in the department office. There’s very little in my box: A postcard from a student saying she’s sorry but she’ll miss the next two classes because her grandmother in Maine is very ill. The postmark is from Daytona, Florida. Unfortunately, the signature is a blur, so I don’t even know who to demerit for that one. The only other mail is an interdepartmental letter. “The Chair of your department would like to schedule a time to speak with you.” I poke my head into the department secretary’s office. “Excuse me, I’m not sure if this is meant for me?”
    “Yes,” she says. “He does want to talk with you.”
    “Should we schedule something?”
    She ducks into the Chair’s office and returns almost instantaneously. “A week from Wednesday for lunch, your annual event. He says you already know all the details, you have years of experience.”
    “Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
    I unlock the door of my shared space—Professor Spivak’s on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, mine on Monday and Wednesday from 2 to 3 p.m. I wait. No one comes. I extract the manuscript that’s become my travel companion and go at it, wildly jotting notes, suggesting revisions to myself, a teacher correcting his own work. Five minutes before class, I lock the office. Midway across campus, I am nearly decapitated by a Frisbee, which hits me on the back of the head. No one says sorry, or asks if I’m okay. I tuck the Frisbee into my bag and continue on.

    I n Room 304 of Donziger Hall, I stand welcoming each student—they barely glance up as they meander in. “Good afternoon, I hope you had a pleasant and productive vacation. Your papers are due. Pass them forward, and then we’ll get right into our conversation about Nixon, Kissinger, and the Paris Peace Talks.”
    A handful of papers come towards me. One title catches my attention: “BLOW JOB or WAR: The Testosterone Paradigm.” Another one looks promising: “Checkers and Buddy and the Role of the White House Dog in Shaping Public Opinion.”
    “I’ve only got a dozen papers here—who hasn’t turned one in?”
    My phone rings. I answer only because for some goddamned reason I can’t turn the phone off without answering. “Oh, hi, Larry, I’m in class, literally right in the middle; can I call you later?” “My lawyer,” I say. “Family emergency.” And one of the students snickers. A plus—at least one of them keeps up with the news.
    For ninety minutes I wax poetic about the complexities of the peace process that started in 1968, after a variety of delays including debate about “seating.” North Vietnam wanted the conference to be held at a circular table at which all parties would appear equal, whereas South Vietnam felt only a rectangular table physically illustrating two sides of the conflict would do. They resolved it by having North and South sitting at the circular table while all other relevant parties sat at individual square tables around them. I go on to present details about Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and the role of Anna Chennault, who brokered the backroom sabotage of the 1968 Paris Peace Talks. The South Vietnamese withdrew from the talks on the eve of the election, helping Nixon win and paving the way for the continuation of the war. Kissinger received a Nobel Peace Prize for his “efforts” in 1973 along with the North Vietnamese Le Duc Tho, who refused to accept.
    From there, a flight of ideas leads me to digress; I regale the