The Book of James (35 page)

as if it had been casual y tossed in. I picked it up. A green coin. It was rusted and a little dirty. I swallowed hard and turned it over.

Engraved in the metal was the name
J. R. Whitfield
. The second green coin. The one that Ralph Simpson had found in the dirt that day. I stuffed it in my pocket, straining to hear voices, but there was nothing. They had disappeared.

I leaned over, my fingers racing along the rest of the tabs to

see if any were marked. I grabbed one marked WILLS and another

one that said NICK. I partial y opened the latter without lifting the file from its slot and saw the writing I knew so wel . The same writing that had endorsed our checks and was in notes left on our dining-room table from time to time. Nick had written something

to her.

I pulled the Nick file, shut the drawer and locked it, and put

the keys back in my pocket. The hal way was empty, quiet. With

my back pressed to the wal , I inched toward the foyer. No one was there. For a second I was tempted to run down the steps and out

the front door. I could see the thick black door from where I stood.

In fifteen seconds, I could be inhaling fresh air. The only other way to the bottom floor were those narrow stairs by the kitchen.

When I’d planned this in my mind, I assumed they’d still be

talking in the foyer, and I could go back down through the kitchen and get out of the house through the French doors in the dining

room or by the tunnels. I stood in a moment of complete indeci-

sion. The main staircase to the front door, or the back stairway to the kitchen?

THE BOOK
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JAMES

291

I peeked around the wall again and down at the front door.

There was no sound. I shoved the file under my shirt, tucked it

partial y into the waistband of my jeans, and sucked in my breath.

On three, I ran down the stairs quickly and quietly flung open the door. When I saw them, it was too late.

They were near the front steps, talking. Dylan had lured her

outside, but there was no way I could have known. I glanced down.

The folder was poking me but wasn’t real y obvious through my

shirt. I folded my arms across my chest to hold it in place. Both Dylan and Cora had looked up when the door opened and were

staring at me.

“And what’s going on here?” I said. Dylan’s eyebrows went

up. His brow furrowed. Cora’s expression remained unchanged.

Neither of them answered me. “Cora, I was looking for you.” I kept my arms tightly folded in front of me and walked to where they

were standing. “I thought you might be in the kitchen, but you

weren’t there.” I kept talking. Better to just babble blindly than to give her an idea that something was wrong. “Then I thought I

heard voices. What are you doing here, Dylan?”

“I just stopped to talk to Mrs. Whitfield, but I guess I’ll be

on my way.” He averted his eyes and turned to go back down the

driveway. He got into his car and headed for the front gate. I would have given anything to be sitting in the front seat with him. Cora watched him too and then turned to me. She hadn’t spoken yet. I

kept my arms folded, although I could feel the heavy manila paper digging into my skin.

“What did you want?” she asked. I couldn’t read any emotion

coming from her at al . It was unnerving. I hadn’t seen her since she’d accosted me when I got out of the shower.

“What did Dylan want?” I asked.

She glanced toward the gate, as if his car were still there. “The law firm wants to give money for a memorial plaque for Bradford

292

ELLEN J. GREEN

and Nick in Eakins Oval in Center City . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What did you want?”

“I wanted to know where your family’s buried, maybe go out

and see it. You know, I was thinking about our conversation, and

I’d like to at least know what the cemetery looks like before I make any decisions about Nick.”

A quick cover. Many possible responses had floated through

my head the moment I opened my mouth:
I need more towels. Did
you find that piece of missing check? Do you know what happened
to your son, and why did you beat the shit out of him?
Instead I brought up the cemetery again.

“The family plot is here, on the grounds. Through the woods.”

She pointed to the back of the house. “I’ll show you. It’s surrounded by a wal , and you need a key to get in.”

I didn’t think she meant right then, but when she turned and

started walking around to the back of the house, I had no choice

but to follow. The file was still under my shirt, and the last thing I felt like doing was walking through the woods with this woman to

look at some burial site. She was moving at a good pace, and I had to walk fast to keep up with her. She was a few steps in front of me.

I was looking at the back of her gray hair as she moved in her flat orthopedic shoes and drab dress. I had to resist the impulse to pick up a rock and hit her in the back of the head.

We came to a stone-and-wrought-iron fence on the far-left

side of the property. I’d walked the grounds before, but the size and shape of the property were hard to judge. It wasn’t as easy as following the fence line, because the woods were so thick in places that it wasn’t passable. I hadn’t noticed this before.

Cora approached the small iron gate in the wall and took a

ring of keys from her pocket. The file had slipped down while we

walked and was pressed against my lower abdomen. I wriggled to

push it back up.

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JAMES

293

The family plot was surrounded on two sides by the wrought-

iron fence; the other two wal s were stone. A line of headstones

spread out and across the tiny area. Cora stood near the gate and moved back to let me in.

“There’s my mother and father’s grave.” She pointed to one side.

Weeds had grown tal , taking over, and tree branches hung low,

making the cemetery appear junglelike. There was only one head-

stone, one plot for the two, barely visible through the overgrowth.

She obviously didn’t pay the gardeners to clean up in here. “They were buried on top of each other. My mother is on the bottom.”

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and tried not to picture

coffins stacked on top of each other. I studied the stone. Engraved across the top, it said:
Beatrice Ann Monroe, Beloved Wife and
Mother, 1920–1949
. Underneath that,
Edward James Monroe,
1901–1985
.

Next to it was another, smaller stone.
Edward James Monroe II,
1949
was carved into the marble. Cora’s brother, who died during the birthing process.

“This is where I’d like to put Nick.” She pointed to a spot on

the other side of the cemetery, across from her parents’ grave. Her eyes were bright and eager. “This is where he belongs. He was born here. He should be put to rest here.”

A five-by-eight-foot section of earth had been cleared. All the

weeds had been pulled. I felt my throat close a little, and I had to force air into my lungs. She had come here recently and pulled all the weeds in preparation for Nick’s body. I wanted to tell her they would have to dig up the earth anyway—clearing the ground had

been pointless. I didn’t.

“I’ll order the headstone soon,” she said. “Nicholas Monroe

Whitfield.
A man who wanders from the way of understanding will
rest in the assembly of the dead
,” she murmured. “And he wandered.

Yes, he did.”

294

ELLEN J. GREEN

When I looked at her standing over that spot of earth, mum-

bling to herself in preparation for her son’s body, I knew that she was truly insane. Not just misguided by grief. Insane. I cleared my throat to get her attention. “He was born in the house?” I asked.

Her eyes moved from the ground to my face. “Yes. My father

wanted it that way.” She walked back to her parents’ headstone.

“And I’ll be buried on top of Nick when my time comes. That’s the way it should be.”

“On top of Nick? Is that what Nick’s father would have wanted?”

“It’s what’s right. Nick is the last in the line of Monroes.” She took a step backward and waved her arm in the direction of the

house. “All of this was his.” She turned to face me and glared.

“Until he left.”

It was bitter, accusing. She’d jumbled the facts. He hadn’t left

here to marry me. He was sixteen when he left, and we didn’t even meet until almost nine years later. Everything about this woman

was distorted.

She seemed eager to leave after showing me the small piece of

earth she had reserved for my husband. I wanted to look around

a bit, but it was out of the question. I just walked in front of her, silent, and watched her lock the gate and head toward the house.

“Where the hell have you been?” We stood in Dylan’s living room.

“I was ready to come looking for you—ring that damned bell again

and try to think of something else to say.”

I pulled the file out from under my shirt and threw it on the

coffee table. It had stuck to my skin and I had to peel it off me.

“Visiting the family burial plot. After you left, I had to say something, so I asked where the plot was, and she took off around the house to show it to me. I didn’t even know it was on the grounds.”

He pulled something out of my hair. “In the woods again?”

I put my hand to my forehead. “Ah, be quiet. She showed me

where she was going to put Nick. Across the plot from her parents, who are buried on top of one another. She’s got it all planned out.

So why did you go outside? You were supposed to stay in the foyer so I could hear your voices.” I sat down on the sofa and picked up the file.

“She opened the door and walked outside. She was trying to

get rid of me, end the conversation. What was I supposed to do?”

He sat next to me. “I’m not ever doing that again. I was trying to 296

ELLEN J. GREEN

think of something to say. The idea for a plaque downtown seemed

pretty good. So after all that, what did you get?” he asked.

I opened the file and sat back on the sofa. A letter from Nick

dated June 2 was on the top. It was handwritten on plain copy

paper, the writing scrawled and hasty. I read it quickly. As my eyes scanned the words, the file slipped from my lap and landed on

the floor. Dylan leaned over and picked it up. He straightened the papers and read the letter.

He looked over at me. “I’m sorry, Mackenzie.”

A lump constricted my throat. Every time I felt like I was

beginning to accept what happened, something else slapped my

face.

Mother,

You found me. Seeing that photograph was an unex-

pected reminder of everything I tried to escape from. Dad

is long dead. He knew the truth in the end and I guess it

kil ed him. Can you live with that? I have learned to. I can’t
take his money, though. Partly because I don’t deserve it and
partly because it’s connected to you in so many ways. I’m

never coming home. You’d have to kill me first. According

to my lawyer, marrying prevents and essential y ends any

control you may have had over me, alive, incapacitated, or

dead. I married the perfect woman. She accepts me despite

everything and she doesn’t ask a whole lot of questions.

Leave us alone. Finish your life in peace or it will be hell for
all of us.

He left it unsigned.

She’d sent him the picture. He’d sent back this note. Maybe

more than this note. The card with
JAMES 5 6
on it—had that been intended for her as well? Lord knows what was in the envelope that had arrived for Nick the day of the accident. And he never said a THE BOOK
of
JAMES

297

word about any of it to me. Why would he, when I never asked

any questions? I was perfect, all right. Perfectly stupid. I put my head down and tried to think. That’s why he’d become so distant

and unreachable those last few months. He’d received this picture of his missing brother in an envelope from his mother, whom he

hadn’t seen in fourteen years. It must have shaken him up, his past sneaking up on him that way.

“He said in his note, ‘according
to his lawyer.’ What lawyer?”

Dylan didn’t answer right away. I looked at him. “Dylan, what

lawyer?”

He rested his elbows on his knees. “Mackenzie, I’m sorry.

I didn’t tell you this back when we were at my father’s house. I

wanted to. It was all in his files. Letters back and forth.”

“What, Dylan?” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I knew

it was going to be bad.

I didn’t want Dylan to see me upset, so I kept my head down,

but he knew. He pulled me to him and put his arms around me.

“My father was involved in this from the beginning. He knew

where Nick was the whole time. It makes sense when so much

money was at stake. You can’t just have a party go missing. He was his lawyer and almost surrogate father. He advised Nick on every

area of his life, it seems.”

The phone card I had found in his wallet that day. That’s how

Nick had communicated and ensured that the cal s would never

turn up on our bil s. He had been talking to his lawyer.

“My father is an asshole and always was. Apparently they met

here in Philadelphia and in Portland. He took care of everything.

Nick was concerned that his mother would track him down and

try to exert some control over him if something happened to him.

Like if he had an accident and couldn’t take care of himself, if he was hurt, or dead . . .” He stopped talking. “She was next of kin. He wanted to legal y end the possibility that his mother would take