Jan Burke - Remember Me, Irene

“Oh, in my case, it’s the other way around. Allan’s an alumnus, of course. He’s done a great deal over the years to keep community leaders in touch with the college.”

“Just how much money has he brought in, Booter?”

“Well, hard to say. Hard to say. Helped immeasurably. Let’s just put it like that.”

“And the college has helped Allan, of course.”

“We’ve helped him stay in touch with experts here at the college, helped the city as well. Is that what you’re driving at?”

“Experts like Andre Selman?”

“Certainly. Andre has done a number of studies for the city.”

“And that brings in city grant money to the college?”

“We apply for them, compete for them like everybody else. It’s cost-effective to use local experts whenever possible. Allan knows that.”

“I’m sure Allan has done the college a world of good.”

Booter leaned back, making the chair creak. He began stroking his tie. It was a nervous habit of his, pulling on his tie like that. Wouldn’t take a Freudian psychiatrist to figure out why Booter didn’t wear bow ties.

“Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Why no, of course there isn’t. That’s the trouble with the media these days. That’s why a lot of Americans are just plain fed up with the press. You’re all so negative-”

I tuned out while he went on and on about what a heartless bunch we were. I’ve heard it all before. Every clown who ever read the funny papers is a media expert these days.

It was especially irritating to hear someone like Booter rant about the media’s supposed failings. People like Booter believe that newspapers (and almost everything else in the world) exist for their convenience. Their idea of cooperating with the press is to try to use it. They want to be interviewed, but only if the interview flatters them. We exist to supply them with public favor, whether they deserve it or not. Their motto seems to be “Don’t buy advertising, get the newsroom to hand it out for free.” But begin to tell the whole story, and suddenly, we’re the negative press. This gets damned tiresome.

Booter ground to a halt, suddenly realizing his mistake. “Oh, Irene, I’m just an old windbag.”

Although I was tempted to tell him that I knew exactly where he had found the wind to fill up that bag, and that he had his head stuck up in the very same place, I kept my temper in check and asked, “Did the six of you get together often?”

“Not too often. We’re all busy.”

“I’ve been saying six, but I guess it should be seven. Ben Watterson would have been there.”

His smile disappeared, his eyes grew moist. Booter is such an oily fake, it was hard to trust what I saw on his face.

“Ben was a good man,” he said. “The best. He was always kind to me. I wish he would have talked to me, confided in me. Maybe I could have cheered him up. I wish he would have just let me try to cheer him up. I wish he had called.”

His wishes were wasted, of course, as are all our wishes for what we could have done for the dead. But it seemed his sadness was genuine.

“Did you know Ben was ill?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Booter, I didn’t know you and Ben were close.”

“We weren’t, really. But Ben-well, he was a good man,” he repeated, half to himself. “Better than most.”

I decided to change the subject, finding myself uneasy with a Booter that didn’t bluster.

“Last night, did Allan Moffett ever get around to explaining why he resigned so quickly?”

“No call for that, either,” he said absently. “A man shouldn’t panic.”

“No,” I said, keeping my voice low and coaxing. “And Allan doesn’t scare easily. So he must have had good reason to panic, right?”

“Huh?” he said, sitting up in his chair. I watched one other true emotion cross his face-his horror at speaking to me in an unguarded manner. He recovered quickly. “I’m sorry, I was talking about Ben. Allan had no need to panic. No, no. Allan simply decided to enjoy life, get away from all the hassles. That’s all.”

He was about as forthcoming as a clam with a bad case of tetanus after that. Except for delivering another meaningless and infuriating lecture-on how unduly suspicious the members of the press were-he had nothing to say.

My own jaw started to lock. I managed to mutter a good-bye. His secretary had my coat waiting for me.

I had met with two men who-each using his own style-might have been trying to feed me a load of crap.

A typical day; maybe even better than average.

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-his young 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.”