and say, ‘My Lord, I’d forgotten that.’ So from that standpoint, it worked very well. Now what I’m trying to do is get hard evidence that what she told me was real.”
“How’s she holding up?”
“Amazingly well. We’ve done the same session a number of times and I haven’t caught her in a discrepancy yet. And we’re not talking about something you could write out and memorize. These were lengthy sessions, an hour or more at a time. You’d expect her to trip up somewhere if she were trying to pull a fast one, wouldn’t you, Mr. Janeway?”
I took in a deep breath. I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Aside from her memories,” she said, “I’ve gone through many pages of records that tell who the people in her family were. How they lived.”
“Ms. Bujak—”
“Call me Koko.”
What a great name, I thought. Koko Bujak. A great and elegant name indeed.
I told her the long version of the story I had given the social worker, beginning with Josephine’s arrival in my bookstore the day before. She said nothing while I flashed back to my own infatuation with Richard Burton, the auction, and how Mrs. Gallant had discovered me. Then she said, “I knew something was going on with her. I wish she had told me about it, I’d have taken her to Colorado myself.”
“Why would she not tell you?”
“Who knows? Maybe she was afraid I’d try to stop her. We had a good working friendship but I think I still represented the state to her.”
“For what it’s worth, I think she’d have died anyway. Whether you had come or not.”
“Yes, she sensed the end coming and so did I. She had lost a lot of ground in the past six months. I was working hard to get her memories transcribed, so she could see what I had.”
“What are you going to do with it now?”
“Finish it, of course. I didn’t get into this just to patronize her.”
“What happens when you do finish it?”
“Depends on what I’ve got and how good it is. If it’s good enough I might try to find her a writer to put it into a book. Otherwise I’ll leave it with the state historical society. They’re always interested in records that tell about local people.”
“How will you decide…you know, whether to turn it over to a writer?”
“The obvious standard would be whether there’s national interest or if it’s strictly local. If what she thought was even partly true, I think it could be a significant book. Don’t you?”
“I sure do. And if I may say so, it sounds like she left it in good hands.”
There was a pause, as if she didn’t quite trust the compliment. Then she said, “I do have a sense about it. It goes way beyond what I’ve done with other life histories. I can’t think of a better use of my time right now. But there are some things I can’t do from here. I may have to go to Charleston to chase down some facts. I’ve been avoiding that, but—”
“Can I ask how much you’ve been able to verify so far?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” she said, and I felt my heart rumble again.
“How much of it really involves Burton?”
“Well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? How much of what she thought was real really was, and how much can be nailed down at this late date.”
We were at a sensitive point and I knew it. “Your name came up last night, just before she died. She was talking about a photograph of Charlie and Burton that had been taken long ago in Charleston. She said you knew about it.” I suffered through an awkward pause, then said, “I guess I’ve got to ask for your help, Koko. I know it’s asking a lot —you’ve done so much work on her story, and all I can do is promise you that nothing you share with me will get out before you decide how you want to go.”
“In the end, though, I would have to take your word for that.”
“That’s what it would come down to.”
“This couldn’t be done on the telephone; you’ll have to come back here. I want to see your face before we get any deeper into it.”
“That’s fine. I’m happy to do that.”
“Just understand that this is still very much a work in progress. I’ll talk to you but that’s all I’m promising at this point.”
“I’ll take that chance. I might be able to come next week.”
“I’ll be here. I live on Hill Street, fifth house on the right. My name’s on the mailbox.”
Reluctantly, almost painfully, I let her go.
By then it was after six. I was late for my call to Treadwell’s, so I punched in the number and waited. The same spacey-sounding woman answered. This time she asked who was calling. When I told her, she said, “Justa
