May We Be Forgiven

students with stories about Martha Mitchell—not Margaret Mitchell, the author of Gone with the Wind, who ditched her proper suitor, John Marsh, and married Red Upshaw, a bootlegger who beat her up, and then left him and went back to Marsh. No, I am talking about Martha Mitchell, wife of former Attorney General John Mitch-ell, aka “The Mouth of the South,” who was a drinker, known for calling folks in the middle of the night and saying things like “My husband is the fucking Attorney General of the United States.” It is the alcohol-fueled Mrs. Mitchell that I find compelling. Her allegations that the White House was involved in illegal activity were described as symptoms of mental illness and dismissed. She was ultimately vindicated, and her experience was deemed a legitimate syndrome, given the moniker “the Martha Mitchell Effect,” and described as the process by which a mental-health professional mistakes the patient’s perception of seemingly improbable events as delusional when in fact they’re real.
    I spin, I whirl, I thoroughly unspool. It’s the best class I’ve taught in years. “Thoughts? Questions?” I ask. The students sit unblinking in a stupor. “Okay, then, until next week.”
    I leave energized, loving Nixon all the more. I drive back to George’s, struggling to remember which road leads where. As I pull into town, everything is closing for the night—the luncheonette, the ladies’ clothing shop. There’s a sticky family dripping chocolate outside the 31 Flavors. I park near the Chinese restaurant. The red neon Chinese letters could spell out anything. For all I know, it says “Eat Shit and Die” in Mandarin. I bring the students’ papers in with me. The place is run by a family who cluck madly while serving steaming bowls of soup and perfect hills of white rice. Again my phone rings. “Claire, what’s the point of calling me again and again if you’re not going to say anything. Talk to me. I know I’m a shit, but I can listen. I can take whatever it is you want to say. I’m in a Chinese restaurant. I ordered scallion pancakes, which you hate, and hot-and-sour shrimp, and, yes, I know you’re allergic to shrimp, but I’m not.”

    T he house is dark. Tessie seems nervous; I let her out for a pee and give her some kibble. The cat rubs against my leg, flicking her tail.
    “I didn’t forget you,” I say. “Have I ever forgotten you?”
    Only when he calls again do I remember that I forgot to call Larry back. “Sorry, it’s been a strange time.” I laugh. “Very strange.”
    I sit on the sofa, remote control in hand, flipping channels, noticing how the television is so big that the lighting in the room changes profoundly with each click of the remote. I like the old black-and-white televisions better—easier on the eyes.
    “It’s Larry,” he repeats.
    “I—” I start to say something.
    “Don’t talk, listen,” he says. “I’ve got news for you; Claire has asked me to represent her.”
    “But you’re happily married.”
    “Represent her, not marry her. I’m going to be her lawyer.”
    I turn the television off. “Larry, we’re friends; we’ve known each other since fourth grade.”
    “Exactly,” Larry says.
    “I don’t get it.”
    “I’ve been waiting for this moment. I never forgot the way you and your brother treated me. I was the new kid, from Newark.”
    “Oh,” I say, not really remembering.
    “You did a ‘new Jew’ dance, and then your brother said I had to pay him three dollars a week if I wanted to live.”
    “You got off easy,” I said. “I had to give him five.”
    “Irrelevant,” Larry says. “Claire feels she has grounds. Do you have a lawyer, someone I should talk to?”
    “You’re my lawyer.”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Does Claire want to make a time to sit down and talk about our shared property, retirement and health-care benefits, who gets what, and all that kind of thing?”
    “No. She’s left all that to me.”
    “Isn’t this a conflict of interest?”
    “Not for me,” Larry says.
    “Well, if you’re going to be her lawyer, who’s going to be mine?”
    “Don’t you know anyone else?”
    “No, it’s not like I pal around with ‘the law.’”
    “I’m sure George has a lawyer. Also, I have to ask you to stop calling Claire. She says you keep calling her cell phone and leaving messages.”
    “I don’t. Her cell phone keeps calling me, and I answer but she doesn’t speak.”
    “I’m not going