Tomb With a View

There was a piece of newspaper at the bottom of what I thought was the now-empty box, and I grabbed it so I could wad it up and throw it away.

Which was when I realized that what I thought was an empty box wasn’t empty at all.

I lifted out a sixteen-by-twenty-inch frame and stared at the single piece of paper behind the glass.

Ella was still in that conference room with me, and when I read what was written on the paper and my eyes lit up, she knew something was going on.

“What is it?” she asked. In her excitement, she bounced up on the heels of her flat, chunky shoes. “Is it something valuable?”

“It depends who you ask,” I told her, and even though it was late, I headed back to the memorial.

It was time to confront the one and only person who could give me a straight answer.

If Ella knew I was standing up on the marble dais next to the statue of the president, she would have gone into cardiac arrest. National treasure and all that stuff. I was so not in the mood to care. I stood right next to that statue, the framed letter I’d found in one hand and my voice raised so that not even the dead could fail to hear.

“I need to talk to you, Mr. President, and I need to talk to you now!”

It must have been a slow day at the White House. Not two seconds later, he poofed into shape beside me.

“Really!” Honest to gosh, the president’s nose was up in the air. “To think you can disturb the chief executive this way!”

“The chief liar, you mean.” I held up the frame and its contents. “You know what I’ve got here? Well, maybe you don’t. Because maybe you never thought anybody would find it, that nobody would ever know about it.”

He harrumphed in a presidential sort of way. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” I gave him a moment to come clean, and when he didn’t, I cleared my throat and read:

My dearest Lucia,

You have, no doubt, heard of the misfortune that has brought me to this delicate point in my life. The reports are sadly true. I was shot by a man with murderous intent, and though I did not succumb to the attack immediately, I have been most inconvenienced and in much pain. The doctors tell me there is hope, but I watch them as they turn from my bed, their eyes downcast and their expressions somber. They dare not speak the words. They do not have to. I know that I am dying.

Here I paused and looked up at the president. He was as still as that statue over on my left and as pale as the marble floor at our feet. He didn’t say a word so, of course, I had no choice but to keep reading.

I cannot leave this earth, my dear, without conveying to you my last good-byes. Though ours was a fragile and momentary relationship, it has remained as clearly etched upon my heart as if it were the love of a lifetime. I cannot part this world, and from you, my dear Lucia, without imploring of you one last request. Give Rufus . . .

Oh yeah, I admit it . . . I raised my voice here and read slowly and carefully, getting the most I could out of the moment.

Give Rufus Ward Henry my love, and tell him how I do so regret that I was never able to properly acknowledge him . . .

I paused again. After all, this was the big moment.

. . . acknowledge him as being as dearly beloved as are my other sons.

That was where the letter ended, and besides, I think I’d pretty much made my point. His eyes glassy, the president swayed on his feet and staggered back, one hand to his heart.