Clemente. But there's Beattie's mom and her short story writer, friend and Chekhov fan Raymond Carver (yes, as in the other book I mentioned, which of course Beattie has read, thought about), Tennessee Williams (cuz Pat read a play and both she and Dick were on stage), the film Rashomon cuz who knows what really happened, paper dolls, Elvis, Chekhov himself, contrived fiction by Pat, photo captions, reviews, Beattie's student papers and emails, again, a mad scrapbook. Titles of chapters include “Approximately Twenty Milk Shakes,” “Caracas, Venezuela, 1958,” “David Eisenhower Has Some Ideas” and “Moments of Mrs. Nixon's Life I've Invented.” At one of many ecstatic moments, Beattie shows off, both embracing her own challenge and meeting it by way of making something out of nothing, and everything. Her Nixonia is pitch-perfect, physical descriptions right on. It's hard not to show off with this kind of material (and why wouldn't you?), with a First Lady who never wrote her own memoir, in a nation which seems to forget just how rich and too-sweet and complicated are the lives of the paper dolls we seem to elect, their strange families, the history they themselves seem to imagine. And what's wrong with pedantic? It's hard to know when not to be pedantic when there's so much teaching to do, tongue in cheek and otherwise. It seems to me that often, again, they can very much resemble each other.