Remember Me, Irene

10

KEENEDAGEmight not have wanted to see me at Ben Watterson’s funeral services, but Roberta Benson made sure she got a seat next to me in the church. The place was fairly packed, and people were still filing in by the dozens. Keene and his friends were already in the crowded front pews, as were my friends Lydia and Guy. But I hadn’t known Ben very well, so I settled for a place near the back.

The high number of “mourners” should have been a tribute to Ben’s power and contributions to the community. But in the course of a few short days, the community’s regard for Ben Watterson had changed. The man whose remains lay in the closed casket at the front of the church had become an enigma, and at least part of the throng was there because his suicide had become the focus of public curiosity. According to the coroner, Ben had no disease.

Why would a man lie in a suicide note? The question had been asked at every lunch table and water-cooler in town. Rumors ran rampant. One was that his widow-hisyoung widow-had somehow managed to kill him for his money. Quiet, withdrawn, and now very, very rich, Claire was a favorite target. Supposedly, she had either done some fancy sneaking in and out of the SOS meeting or hired someone else to kill Ben. The coroner continued to say it was suicide.

Another rumor claimed that the Bank of Las Piernas was on the verge of failing. So far, the bank examiners were declaring it healthy and sound. No financial cancer, either.

It was also speculated that Ben had led a double life, but no one could figure out where he had found the time to lead the second one. And the rumor that some doctor was going to be sued for a mistaken diagnosis was also false-Ben’s doctor hadn’t seen him in over a year. The last visit had been a checkup. Ben had been told he was in fine condition.

The metal casket stood mute before us, as impervious to rumor as it would be to the earth that would soon cover it-while Claire was left to brave more than the elements. Still, it seemed to me that she, too, was encompassed-in a numbing, bewildered grief that allowed her to be absent from all that went on around her.

I moved down the pew to make room for Roberta, thinking her worried look was for the widow. Roberta’s sense of vocation is seldom confined to her office, and I figured she wanted to talk to me about how we could help Claire through the crisis. But Roberta had another friend in mind.

“Have you seen Lucas?” she asked in a whisper.

“No,” I whispered back, leaning to catch a glimpse of Claire from my new position on the pew. “He hasn’t contacted me yet. How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

I turned to her in surprise. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

She leaned a little closer and whispered, “He’s missed two appointments with me. I’m worried. I’m afraid he may be drinking again.”

I thought back to Lucas on the bench, my own hurried judgment of him. “Maybe he has some other reason for missing the appointments.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since I got back into town. He hasn’t reported to his rehab program during the last three days-not once. He’s missed his AA meetings. The shelter told me he hasn’t slept there since Wednesday night.”

“Are they sure? It’s been so cold the last few days. Haven’t they been overcrowded?”

“Yes. They’re sure. They’ve held his place for him as long as they could each night. But he hasn’t checked in. I even looked at the log for the locker room. He hasn’t been to his locker since Wednesday night.”

“Wednesday night? The night of the SOS meeting?”

“Yes. I guess I was too optimistic about him.”

I felt myself bristle. “You said he was doing well, was on the mend.”

She sat back a little, then said in a low voice-each word enunciated as if English were not my native language-“He was. But when you’ve been in my line of work long enough, you learn that nothing is very certain when it comes to substance abuse recovery.”

“This isn’t about your line of work,” I hissed. “This is about Lucas Monroe. A human being. You said-”

“Keep your voice down!” She looked toward Claire, then went on. “I said seeing you really made a difference, and I never should have said a word to you about him.” I knew the look on her face. Every reporter has seen it a million times. It was the whoops-I’ve-told-you-too-much look. The look that always follows it is one you can see on a mule. “If he hadn’t asked me to say hello to you,” she went on peevishly, “I wouldn’t have mentioned him to you. It came very close to breaking a professionally privileged confidence-”

“Cram your professional confidence!” I snapped, only to realize that I had spoken loudly enough to cause heads to turn. A lady in front of me scowled so hard I was afraid she’d never get her face straightened out again.

I was ashamed to notice that even Claire had been disturbed by my voice; she was looking toward us. In the next moment her heretofore blank gaze seemed to focus on me, and her brows drew together. I mouthed an apology, but she leaned over to the woman who sat next to her, an older person who sat between Claire and her sister. From the back, I could only see gray hair and a broad back stretching a dark dress. The lady glanced over her shoulder at me, holding the corner of her glasses as she peered over the rims. She nodded, rose, and moved slowly toward us. She was an apple-shaped woman, a wonder of balance as she trod carefully in her sensible shoes.

Oh hell, I thought, this old biddy is going to scold me and ask me to leave.

In the next moment, I decided that would be a blessing. The growing crowd made the air in the church steadily more stuffy, and my desire to escape the room had grown proportionately. I was angry with Roberta, probably unreasonably, which only made me more anxious to evade the “closure” she would undoubtedly seek. And, as will happen at funerals, I selfishly remembered those friends and family members I had lost over the years, and fought hard to prevent each shard of old grief from piercing whatever get-on-with-life barrier I had built around it.

Roberta seemed to think the lady was approaching her, but the woman bent over and laid a cool, paper-dry hand on my wrist. Roberta leaned back to avoid smothering in the woman’s pillowy, ample bosom. I heard a lovely drawl when the lady said, “I’m Claire’s Aunt Emeline. Forgive me for disturbing you, sugar, but Claire wondered if you might be willing to please come up and sit beside her. You will, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” I said, and stood up to move out of the pew.

Roberta also stood. “I should be with Claire, too.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Aunt Emeline said to her, with a cool look that made Roberta sit back down.

Claire nodded a greeting, but didn’t say anything to me or to her aunt. Alana moved over, so that Claire sat between her aunt and me. Claire remained silent, staring at the coffin throughout the service. I tried very hard not to think of Ben Watterson as I had last seen him. When it was time to leave for the cemetery, Aunt Emeline leaned over a little and said, “Ride with us, won’t you?”

I stayed with Claire and her aunt and sister throughout the rest of the ceremonies, even through the brief and subdued gathering at the Watterson home. During that time, her aunt would simply suggest something and add “won’t you?” and I’d follow along.

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.Theraputis Interminus.”

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.