I had balked at one point. Claire had been seated at the graveside. Out of Claire’s earshot, Aunt Emeline encouraged me to sit next to her niece. This seemed to me a place for family or very good friends of the deceased.
“Please,” I protested, “there must be someone who was closer to Ben, or who is closer to Claire.”
She eyed me for a moment, then said, “Sugar, sometimes after a man dies, he just pulls the ladder right down with him.”
“The ladder?”
“All those people who were climbing up after him are brought low. You know, like the Bible says, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”
“Still-some of these people truly were his friends.”
She nodded. “Yes, sugar, they were. But she’s the one that’s living now, not Ben. And of all those friends of his, wasn’t a one of them happened to be there with her on the night he died. You were. Come sit by her now, won’t you?”
IN THEWATTERSON HOUSE, Claire said little more than “thank you” or, “yes, a shock” to her guests, who generally took the hint fairly quickly. Even Alana left early on. When I mentioned leaving, I was “won’t you”-ed into staying by Aunt Emeline.
When only the three of us remained in the house, Aunt Emeline brought a silver tray into the room where I sat with Claire, the study where Ben had left his note. The tray held strong black coffee in two fragile white cups. Emeline set it down and left, closing the door behind her.
Obviously, plans had been laid between the two of them to keep me there after the others had left. I waited.
Claire took her cup and stood, idly touching the spines of the books with her long, graceful fingers. “I’m glad it didn’t rain,” she said.
“Me, too. It was even a little warmer today.”
“Not much.” She stopped touching the books. “Not much.” She looked over at me. “I’ve imposed upon you all day.”
“Not at all. If it helped you in any way, I’m glad.”
“It did. I-I still need your help.”
“Like I said, glad to offer any help I can.”
“You can say no. I would understand. You may even feel angry with me…”
“Claire, ask.”
She nodded, and sipped her coffee.
I waited.
“I need-I need to understand why this happened. As much as I will ever understand it.”
“Of course. But I’m not sure I’m the best person to-”
“Forgive me. I’m not making myself clear.” She sat down, drew a steadying breath, and said, “I want you to contact your old friend.”
“My old friend?”
“Lucas Monroe.”
I was dumbstruck.
“That night…” she went on haltingly. “The night of the meeting-the night when Ben-when Ben died. You were talking about him. About Lucas Monroe. That’s why I asked you about him when we were in the car. On the way out, I overheard people saying that Roberta had seen him-and you had seen him, too. I could go to Roberta, perhaps, but-” She shrugged. “Roberta means well, but-I always feel as if she’s trying to make a project out of me.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I’m sure there’s some psychological diagnostic term for people who have her problem.
That earned a small smile, the first I’d seen from her in some time.
“So why do you need to talk to Lucas?” I asked. “What does he have to do with Ben?”
She walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out two envelopes.
She handed one to me. “This arrived in Ben’s office about two weeks before he died. He brought it home the day he told me he wanted to retire.”
It was a plain envelope postmarked from Riverside, with a typewritten address to Mr. Ben Watterson, President, Bank of Las Piernas. Although it had been sent to Ben at the bank, it was marked “personal and confidential.”
It contained a single black-and-white photograph. I saw the back side of the photo first. “Be in touch soon” was inscribed in a delicate handwriting. I turned the photo over.
A young African American man was smiling proudly, holding an oversized check-the type that are mocked-up for publicity shots. Ben Watterson was also smiling, his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Bank of Las Piernas Scholarship Fund” was printed at the top of the check, which was signed by Ben. The date was June 1, 1969. The amount was $2,500. The payee was the young man-Lucas Monroe.
11
THE ENVELOPE WASaddressed to Ben’s office,” I said. “How did you get this?”
“Ben was in here one night, staring at it. He seemed unsettled. I asked him about it, and he said, ‘Oh, this is just a young man who won a scholarship from the bank a long time ago. Probably wants to see me about a job.’ There was a fire in the fireplace that night, and he reached over as if he were going to burn the photograph. That time, I was able to stop him.”
She looked over to the fireplace, as if she could still see Ben reaching toward it. That blessed numbness of hers seemed to give way a little. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a trembling hand, as if her emotions were right there, right at her lips, being held in by the pressure of her fingers. But after a moment or two, she drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and dropped her hand. Although her voice was a little less steady than before, she went on.
“I took it from Ben, and told him that it looked like someone had saved that photograph for a long time, and that he ought to return it. After all, there was the note, ‘Be in touch soon.’”
“You said, ‘that time.’ What did you mean?”
“There were at least two pictures sent to Ben by this Lucas Monroe.” She handed me the second envelope, postmarked the day after the first one.
It was empty.
“Do you know what was in it?” I asked, turning it over in my hand.
“Yes. A color photocopy.”
A color photocopy. Andre Selman, who had certainly known Lucas, had recently received one, too. “A photocopy of what?”
“Some people on a boat. I only saw part of the page, and only for a few seconds. Ben succeeded in burning that one.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. Just that it was something someone had sent him to remind him of old times. He said it was a picture of our old boat. But I didn’t actually get a good look at it, so maybe that wasn’t true.”
“Was he in the habit of burning papers he didn’t need?”
She shook her head. “No, in fact, I think he was embarrassed when I caught him burning that one. He shoved the envelope into his desk drawer and tried to change the subject. I was mildly curious, but knowing how much Ben hated boats, it didn’t surprise me that he burned a picture of one.”
“Hated boats? I thought you just said you owned one.”
“For a time. Ben became completely disenchanted with it-in fact, he never went out in any kind of boat after we sold that one to Andre. That was years ago.”
