May We Be Forgiven

the Dictabelt, which came out in 1947, preceded by the Ediphone, and followed, of course, by the reel-to-reel, and on and on to some pretty fantastic items, including the eight-track tape, which my father still has—he kept his copy of Iron Butterfly Live —it’s red, and he keeps it in his sock drawer. …” Nate stops himself, having perhaps revealed more than he intended to. “How’s Tessie?”
    “Good, except she has diarrhea. She got into the garbage.”
    “She loves garbage,” Nate says. “Well, I better go, lots more homework to do.”
    “All right,” I say. “I’ll ask about the boy, but my bet is there’s nothing we can do before the trial—it would seem like we were trying to influence the outcome.”
    “I hadn’t thought of that,” Nate says. “I was just thinking about the boy.”

    T he next morning, bright and early—the phone rings.
    “Sorry it took so long, busy day here,” Julie Nixon Eisenhower says.
    “I saw your father once at a distance,” I blurt, so excited that I start sweating. “I was in junior high, and they took the class to Washington. We went to the White House; your dad was welcoming a foreign dignitary—I saw him far across the lawn. And then we went to the Smithsonian, we saw Foucault’s Pendulum and the flag made for Fort Henry by Mary Young Pickersgill, that’s the flag that Francis Scott Key spotted and which prompted him to write ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ We went to the U. S. Mint, the Bureau of Engraving, and the National Archive to visit the Declaration of Independence.” It’s all coming back to me, spilling out of me; I didn’t even remember any of this until the phone rang, and then it was like a door in some old part of my brain opened and stuff came tumbling out. “I love Washington. When I was younger, all I wanted to do was grow up and live in Washington and drive to work down Independence Avenue, past the Smithsonian, to the United States Capitol. …”
    “My,” she says when I pause for breath, “you are a true patriot.”
    “Thank you,” I say. “It’s a thrill to be speaking with you.”
    “I’m not sure how up-to-date you are,” she says, “so forgive me if I’m telling you what you already know. As of 2007, the library became part of the federal system of presidential libraries; prior to that it was a private library housing my father’s pre-and post-presidential material.”
    “If I remember correctly,” I say, putting my foot in my mouth, “there was some family tension.”
    She says nothing for a moment and then goes on. “The move into the U. S. Archives and Records Administration prompted us to do some reorganizing. Long story short, we came across a few boxes, materials that had been kept apart.”
    “What kind of materials?”
    “My sense is that they were somewhat personal to my father, writings that the rest of us aren’t familiar with, previously unknown documents. What I’m trying to say is, we discovered something. …”
    “Really?” I say, rather surprised. “Something like what?”
    She pauses. The line is silent, almost dead.
    “I’m listening.”
    “Writing that we didn’t know about,” she says in a clipped voice.
    “Journals?”
    “Perhaps. Or something else.”
    “Love letters?”
    She says nothing.
    “Memoir?”
    Again silence and then, finally, “Stories,” she says, “short stories.”
    “Like the kind of thing you’d see in The New Yorker ?” I offer.
    “Darker,” she says.
    “Fascinating.”
    “In looking for someone to work with the material, we wanted to go outside the box, away from the usual suspects, well-known scholars whose opinions with regard to my father are perhaps a bit too codified, and Cheryl thought you might be interested.”
    I almost ask, “Who’s Cheryl?” but catch myself and cough. “I’m interested,” I say, “very interested. Did you know your father wrote fiction?”
    “No one knew,” she says. “I’d like you to take a look, and then perhaps we can talk further. Where are you?” she asks.
    “In the kitchen,” I say.
    She waits.
    “In Westchester.”
    “David and I are near Philadelphia. I could arrange to have the materials available at an attorney’s office in Manhattan.”
    “I’m available,” I say. “Mondays and Wednesdays I teach, and this Friday I’ve got a meeting scheduled, but other than that—wide open.”
    “Let me see what I can arrange, and I’ll call you back,” she says.
    “Looking forward to