The Lost Years

24

On Sunday evening Lillian Stewart reflected with great relief on her decision not to admit to the police that Jonathan had given her the parchment for safekeeping. She had already been contacted separately by two members of the dinner group. Each had told her flatly that if she had the parchment, he could quietly find her a buyer—and for a lot of money.

Her first instinct had been to tell the police that she had the parchment. She knew that if it was what Jonathan thought it was, it belonged in the Vatican Library. But then she thought of the five years she had given to Jonathan with nothing to show for it now except a lot of heartache. I’m entitled to whatever I can get for it, she thought bitterly. When I sell it to one of them, I want the money in cash, she decided. No wire transfer. If two million dollars suddenly shows up in my savings account, I know that the bank has to report that to the government. I’ll just put the cash in my safe-deposit box and take it out gradually, so that if they do check me out, I won’t be raising any red flags.

What would it be like to have two million dollars at my disposal? I still would rather have Jonathan, she thought sadly, but since I don’t, I’m going to do it this way.

Lillian looked at the clock. It was five of six. She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and carried it into the den. She curled up on the sofa and clicked on the television. The six o’clock news would be coming on in a couple of minutes.

If Mom were alive, I know what she would think of all of this, she told herself. Mom was the smart one. Dad was such a loser. He did have an impressive name, Prescott Stewart. I guess by giving him a name like that, Granny thought that he might make something of himself.

Lillian’s father had been twenty-one and her mother had just turned eighteen when they eloped. Her mother had been desperate to get out of the house—her own father was a hopeless alcoholic who had physically and emotionally abused both her and her mother.

Mom leapt from the frying pan into the fire, Lillian thought. Dad was a compulsive gambler. They never had two nickels to rub together, but Mom stuck with him until I was eighteen because she was afraid he would fight her for custody of me. I know if she were here she would tell me firmly that the parchment belongs in the Vatican Library. The fact that I would even think of keeping it would infuriate her. I guess I have more of my father in me than I realized.

It’s kind of crazy, she thought. The main reason that Jonathan wouldn’t divorce Kathleen was because he knew Mariah would never speak to him again if he did. Mom would never speak to me again if she knew I was doing this, but unfortunately I don’t have to worry about her reaction. I still do miss her so much.

The pain of that afternoon when Jonathan had phoned to say he was coming to speak to her washed over her again.

“Lily, there’s no easy way to say this, but I have to stop seeing you.”

He sounded as if he had been crying, but his voice had been resolute, Lillian thought angrily. He loved me so much that he dumped me, and then got shot despite all his noble intentions to repair his relationship with Mariah and dedicate himself to taking care of Kathleen.

He and his wife had had forty good years together before Kathleen got sick. Wasn’t that enough for her? For the last few years, she didn’t even know who he was most of the time. What was Jonathan staying for? Why couldn’t he understand that he owed me something too? And eventually it would have been okay with Mariah—she knew how bad her mother had been and what her father was going through. Even she must be honest enough to realize that she didn’t have to deal with it every minute, day in and day out, like he did.

The six o’clock news was coming on. Lillian looked up to see that the lead story was about Jonathan’s death. The area around the courthouse was filled with media. The CBS on-scene reporter said, “I am standing on the steps of the Bergen County courthouse in Hackensack, New Jersey. As you can see from the video, and this was taken just about an hour ago, seventy-year-old Kathleen Lyons, accompanied by prominent defense counsel Lloyd Scott, and her daughter, Mariah Lyons, walked into the courthouse and up to the second floor, where she surrendered in the office of the Bergen County prosecutor. After an almost weeklong investigation, she has been charged with the murder of her husband, retired NYU professor Jonathan Lyons, who was found dead in his home in Mahwah last week. It has been reported that Kathleen Lyons, whom sources say has advanced Alzheimer’s disease, was found crouched in a closet, clutching the gun that killed him.”

The tape showed Kathleen walking slowly into the courthouse, between her lawyer and her daughter, each supporting one of her arms. For once, Rory the caregiver isn’t on the scene, Lillian thought. I never did like her. She always had that expression that meant, “I know your secret,” when she looked at me. I swear I blame her for all the problems. Jonathan told me he had hidden the pictures of us in a fake book in his study. How did Kathleen ever manage to find that one book, with all of the others that he had in his study? I can guess what happened. Good old Rory nosed around, and when she found the photos, she showed them to Kathleen. She’s a born troublemaker.

As the clip ended, the reporter excitedly indicated that Lloyd Scott and Mariah Lyons were now leaving the courthouse. Mariah looks devastated, Lillian thought. Well, that makes two of us. As microphones were shoved in Mariah’s face, Lloyd Scott protectively pushed them away. “I just have a few words to say and that will be it,” he said tersely. “Kathleen Lyons will be in court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning before Judge Kenneth Brown. She will plead not guilty to the charges. The judge will also be addressing the subject of bail at that time.” His arm around Mariah, Lloyd hurried her down the steps and into a waiting car.

I wish I could be a fly on the wall in that car, Lillian thought. What’s Mariah going to do now? Cry? Scream? Kind of like I felt when Jonathan so nobly decided that I was expendable. I felt like a beggar, crying and screaming, “This is it? What about me? What about me?”

She thought about the parchment. It was hidden in her safe-deposit box in the bank, just two blocks away. There were people who wanted it desperately.

How much would they pay, she wondered, if she did a sort of silent auction for it?

When Jonathan showed it to her three weeks ago, she had seen the awe and reverence in his face. Then he asked her if she had a safe-deposit box where she could keep it until he made the arrangements to have it returned to the Vatican.

“Lily, it’s the simplest of letters. Christ knew what was going to happen. He knew that Joseph of Arimathea would ask for His body after the Crucifixion. He is thanking Joseph for all the kindness he has given Him all of His life.

“Of course the Vatican will want to have their own biblical scholars authenticate the letter. I want to meet with them, hand it over personally, and discuss my reasons for believing it is the document I think it is.”

When he was here for the last time, Jonathan wanted me to meet him at my bank the next morning so that I could get the parchment and give it to him. I stalled him, Lillian thought. I was desperate to give him a chance to see how much he’d miss me. I told him I’d give it to him in a week if he still felt the same way. And then he was dead.

A commercial was coming on. She turned off the television and looked at the prepaid cell phone Jonathan had given her. It was on the coffee table. I’d use up the minutes and then buy more, she thought. I’d call him on his own prepaid phone. Anything to prove I didn’t exist.

And now I have three of them, she thought drearily.

The third prepaid phone had been given to her by one of the bidders for the parchment. “We don’t want to leave any trail,” he warned her. “The cops are going to be looking for that parchment. You have to know they suspect you have it or you know where it is. Too many phone calls between us would get their attention.”

Whenever she touched it, it felt cold in her hand.