“Yes, because you need a three-foot umbrella. Now shh.”
After the service, Julian got up to look for the man, but he had already slipped out.
“He’s probably at the graveyard,” Devi said, holding a small bouquet of lilies he had brought for Ashton.
“I really don’t want to confront him at the grave of his son,” Julian said.
“Confront him? Why are you always in beast mode? Why not say, hello, Mr. Bennett, nice to see you again, Mr. Bennett. How have you been? Thank you for giving me a job, sir, and keeping me on even when I was derelict in my duties. Why not try something like that?”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Slowly they moved toward the exit doors. “He’s just going to cry,” Julian said.
“You sure you’re talking about him?”
“I really don’t want to speak to you.”
In the small, tree-covered cemetery on the side of the church, Julian and Devi made their quiet way to Ashton’s grave. Ashton’s father wasn’t there. His bouquet of flowers was left propped against the black granite. “Where is he?” Julian whispered, looking around, as Devi laid his lilies down.
On the far side of the cemetery, in a secluded corner under a tall oak, Michael Bennett stood with his wife at another gravesite.
“There’s someone else here he visits?”
“You never listen to me. I told you it looked as if he brings two bouquets,” Devi said. “Maybe someone on his fifth wife’s side?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Are you going to go say hello?”
“I don’t know, should I?” Julian watched the stooped man put down the flowers, leaning on his walker, supported by his wife.
“Of course you should. I’ll wait here. The grave needs weeding anyway. You’re a terrible executor.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Julian walked slowly, reluctantly, through the tombstones, supporting himself with the umbrella. He didn’t want to fall on the uneven ground and break his other hip. The wife meanwhile had left, and Bennett lingered alone under the trees.
Quietly Julian came up behind the old man and stood back at a respectful distance. After a few seconds, he took a tentative step forward, clearing his throat. “Hello, Mr. Bennett. I don’t want to startle you. It’s me, Julian.”
The old man turned and glanced at Julian as if he didn’t recognize him.
“Julian Cruz, your son’s friend, remember? I worked for you for seven years?”
“Yes, of course. How are you, Julian?”
“Fine, sir, how are you?”
Michael Bennett blinked once, his mouth moved, and he said nothing. His gaze returned to the grave marker. Julian’s gaze followed to read the name on the old stone.
FREDERICK THOMAS WILDER
BELOVED “WILD”
1910—1952
Julian reeled. For a moment, to steady himself, he clutched Bennett’s walker with his fingerless hand.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bennett said.
Julian stood without words.
Wild lived. He didn’t die. He lived.
“You knew Wild?” Julian said hoarsely. “How?”
“What could you possibly know about anything,” Bennett said, just as hoarsely.
Julian’s heart thumped heavy and full. “How did you know Wild?” he whispered. “Oh my God!” He gaped at the man. “You’re Michael. You’re that Michael.”
“He raised me,” Michael Bennett said. “He saved me and raised me.”
Julian shook. He turned his head away.
“What’s wrong with you?” the old man said.
“Where did he go?” Julian asked, wiping his face. “We looked for him everywhere.”
“Who is we? Who are you talking about?”
“Sit down with me for a minute,” Julian said, placing his hand on the man’s back. “It’ll be easier for both of us.” Certainly it would be easier for him. He led Bennett to a stone bench under the trees and collapsed on it.
“Did my son tell you about Wild?” Bennett asked.
“No.” Julian didn’t want to reveal to the broken man sitting next to him that Ashton was so disgusted with the way he had been cast off by both his parents that he never spoke about anything having to do with his family unless he was forced to, pretending for all concerned that he had sprung from a cabbage leaf. It was years before Julian found out that Ashton’s father was British, years more before he knew the father was still alive, multiply re-married, and running a successful business. Julian had never heard a word about the war, the Blitz, London, or a man named Wild.
“Who is Bennett?” Julian asked. “Why weren’t you Michael Wilder?” His friend could’ve been Ashton Wilder. Then Julian would’ve known. He would’ve known as soon as he met Wild.
“Bennett was my family name. Wild looked them up after the war. He refused to return me