State of affairs

Nixon had eaten too much jam. He was out with his heart. He was on a watch list, having mailed a Saul Bellow novel to a friend in Syria. His insurance didn't cover the species of tree that fell on his house. His feet felt heavy as a sleeping child. "I know just where I'm going to put this one," he announced to the photograph of Oprah at her height, propped on the kitchen table like an icon. His hands were empty.

For he had seen an airplane approach the harbor like a goose coming in for a landing. But when its nose touched the water, the plane fell through the water in a way he wasn't expecting. The water did not offer any resistance. Later, by way of comfort, someone passed him a note from the bankers on the plane. They had been trying to get away.

He got out of bed and tried to wash his face, but that only made him feel that he was the airplane falling through the water. His voice was the little black box. They would sift through the river water for days to find it.