During that week I spent a few days with Morgan Richmond and his wife and then got settled into my new apartment once the painting was complete and all my old furniture moved in. It was so refreshing to be living independently again and to be living among my own things in a place I could call home.The very day I moved into my new place I had received an invitation from Bill to accompany him and Morgan Richmond two days hence to the meeting that we had discussed. The day before the meeting I got a call from the Chairman of the umbrella group. She had heard about the tragedy of my personal experience when I ran afoul of the ill-conceived slavery laws. She wanted to know if I would be willing to give a short presentation in front of this meeting recounting the highlights of my experience. While I am not a shy person, the idea of telling such an intimate personal story in front of a crowd was daunting to say the least. My resistance melted when she assured me that what happened to me. Not if he willfully refused to see it forhimself. It was just too painful, too much like self-flagellation, toomuch like self-pity. If she started down that path, she'd never stop.She'd lash herself to ribbons in a fury of self-loathing."Tell me," he repeated softly. His breath warm in her chilled ear. "I'mwaiting."But Marcia vigorously shook her head no.Walt unzipped his coat and removed from inside a bouquet of flowers, pinktulips, he'd been shielding against his body. At first Marcia thoughtthey were for her. Instead, Walt stepped forward towards the gravesite towhich their apparent random wandering had brought them. But upon casuallyreading the inscription on the stone Marcia realized with a shock thatthere was nothing random about the destination at all. The name engravedinto the stone beneath the carved angel: Amanda Watson.Marcia said nothing, too stunned, too respectful of Walt's grief, as hestepped forward and knelt in the damp grass before the memorial, layingthe tulips on.
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