The office brought back every memory of the night I got stuck in the closet so clearly that just stepping inside made sweat break out on my upper lip. I could hear voices downstairs in the foyer. I couldn’t make out the words but I just prayed that Dylan was quick witted and would keep her occupied for a few minutes. I left the door open to the hallway so I could keep a sense of my timing, to try and hear if the conversation was wrapping up.
I slid the top-drawer open. It looked pretty much the same as the last time I was here. But I wasn’t interested in her financial ledgers this time. I removed everything and put it on the top of the desk, sorting through it as quickly as I could. Nothing new. I put everything back and pulled on the bottom drawer. It wouldn’t budge. I took out the keys from my pocket and flipped through them. My fingers shook a little and I tried to breathe deeply and focus. The two voices were still in the background. Poor Dylan. I couldn’t imagine what he was saying to Cora, but I knew I only had minutes to finish. The fourth key inserted into the lock was a success.
The bottom drawer slid out on well-oiled casters. It contained files. At least thirty in all. Some were marked on the top to give some indication of the contents, most were blank. I had no time to look through all of this. Dylan was stretching it as it was. I’d been up here at least fifteen minutes. I pulled five out and put them in my lap. My fingers moved quickly. Nothing. Just insurance and auto information, old credit card bills. I started to put them back into place when I saw something lying in the bottom of the drawer in the corner as if it had been casually tossed in. I picked it up. A green coin. It was rusted, and a little dirty. I swallowed hard and turned it over. Imprinted in the metal was 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.
My fingers raced along the tabs to see if any were marked. My hands were shaking. I grabbed one marked WILLS and another one that said NICK. I partially opened it without lifting the file from its slot and saw the writing I knew so well. 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 files, shut the drawer and locked it and put the keys back in my pocket. The hallway was empty, quiet. With my back pressed to the wall, I inched towards 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 indecision. The main staircase to the front door or the back stairway to the kitchen? I peeked around the wall again and down at the front door. There was no sound. I shoved the file under my shirt and tucked it partially into the waste band 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. He was supposed to keep her in the foyer by the stairs so I could hear the voices. A simple plan, gone awry. I glanced down. The folder was poking me but wasn’t really 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 the 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 all. It was unnerving. I hadn’t seen her since the day she was in my room.
“What did Dylan want?” I asked.
She glanced towards the gate, as if his car was still there. “The law firm wants to give money for a memorial plaque for Bradford 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 it looks like before I make any decisions.”
A quick cover. I had many possible responses floating 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 wall 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-hand 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 moved to the small iron gate in the wall and took a ring of keys from her pocket. The file had dropped while we walked and was pressed against my lower abdomen. I wriggled to push it back up. The family plot was surrounded on two sides with the wrought iron fence, the other two walls were stone. The woods continued on the other side of the bars.
The line of headstones spread out and across the tiny area. Cora stood near the gate and moved back to let me in. This small cemetery was a mess. Weeds had grown tall, taking over, and tree branches hung low making it appear jungle-like.
“There’s my mother and father’s grave.” She pointed to one side and looked down. There was only one headstone, 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 the coffins stacked on top of each other. I studied the stone, Beatrice Ann Monroe, beloved wife and mother 1914-1942 was printed across the top, Edward James Monroe 1894-1973 was underneath it. Next to it was another smaller stone. Edward James Monroe II 1942 was carved into the marble. Cora’s brother that died during the birthing process.
“This is where I’d like to put Nick.” She pointed to the spot on the other side of the cemetery across from her parent’s 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 foot 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 head stone soon,” she said softly. “Nicholas Monroe Whitfield. A man who wanders from the way of understanding will rest in the congregation of the dead,” she mumbled. “And he wandered. Yes, he did.”
When I looked at her standing over that spot of earth mumbling 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 parent’s 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?”
She took a step backwards towards the gate and looked at me. “It’s what’s right. Nick is the last in the line of Monroes.” She pointed in the direction of the house. “All of this was his.” She turned to face me at the gate 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 that small piece of earth she had reserved for my husband. She stood behind me and motioned to the gate. 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.