May We Be Forgiven

Helen Gahagan Douglas, actress and wife of actor Melvyn Douglas, who served Congress for three terms in the 1940s—including while having an affair with then Congressman and future President Lyndon B. Johnson. In 1950, Douglas ran for the United States Senate, against Nixon. Nixon took advantage of anti-communist sentiment, alluding to Gahagan Douglas’s “red” sympathies, and launched a smear campaign, circulating anti-Douglas pamphlets printed on pink paper. Helen Gahagan Douglas lost the election, but coined the nickname that Nixon never lived down, “Tricky Dick.”
    “Tricky Dick” was later used to refer to various Nixon behaviors, ranging from personal use of campaign funds to the spying, stealing, wiretapping, plotting to overthrow, and likely worse. When Nixon was down he got mean, and when he lost or failed he got even meaner. His confidence in himself went a bit too far. In Nixon’s famous 1977 interview with David Frost, when asked about the legality of some of his actions, Nixon said, with full conviction, “Well, when the President does it, that means that it is not illegal.”
    The class continues to stare. I repeat myself: “When the President does it, that means that it is not illegal.” They nod. “Is it true?” I ask. And they look confused. “Think about it,” I say. “Rent the film.” I close my books and exit.

    “ I forgot my meeting with Schwartz,” I tell Tessie as soon as I’m in the door of the house. “I had such a totally strange day, and I totally forgot.” I get down on my knees and look the dog in the eye. “Tessie, even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through.” I log on to the computer and cancel my lunch “date” for tomorrow.
    “What do you mean you’re canceling?” the woman writes back.
    “I mean I have to cancel,” I write.
    “Do you want to reschedule?”
    “Not at this time.”
    “You cancel on me and you get no more,” she writes.
    “I have no choice, it’s my annual review at work.”
    “Your dick will die,” the woman types.
    “Your hostility leaves me at a loss for words.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Be nice,” I type. “I know where you live, you gave me your address, remember?”
    “Is that a threat? My husband will kick your ass. …”
    “Your husband? You said you were never married.”
    “Oops. Well, have a nice day and good luck with your meeting. You know I’m kidding right, like if you want to reschedule, e-mail me and we’ll work something out.”
    I unplug the computer. I need to more than turn it off. I need the screen not just to go to sleep but to go black.

    T he annual review. I prepare myself for lunch with Schwartz. I look up all things Nixon and refresh my knowledge on recent and forthcoming books in the field. I review my class list and try to match names to faces in case he mentions the child of a friend of a friend. I study the school’s annual report and gather my thoughts on the state of higher education. I depart, reminding myself that I am a player in the field and I am unique, I am a Nixon specialist.
    Schwartz. On the one hand, I’ve known him for years; on the other, he took a turn, he teaches less, talks on TV more. His area of expertise, the history of war, makes him a go-to guy for a comment on almost anything. I’m thinking he’s going to ask me to take on more, that he’s going to say, Enough screwing around with this one class per semester, you have so much to say, so much valued experience, we need you more than ever—can you pick up another class or two?
    Our lunch has been changed from the usual restaurant, where I always get Wiener schnitzel and he gets liver and onions and we joke about our parents and how when we were younger we never ate these things, but now that we’re the age our parents once were we enjoy them enormously. At the diner, all I can think of is my mother and her friends going out for lunch and having cottage cheese and cling peaches.
    “Are we here because of your tooth?” I ask Schwartz
    “My tooth is fine,” he says. “We’re here because of the times. I’ll have the soup,” he tells the waitress.
    “Cup or bowl?”
    “Cup,” he says.
    And what else?
    “A seltzer,” he says.
    “And for you?”
    I’m backpedaling, I was thinking turkey club with fries; instead, I say, “Greek omelet.”
    “Home fries or French fries?”
    “Whatever,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Home fries.”
    “So—how’s tricks?” Schwartz