Franklin Affair

by Jim Lehrer

  “Hey, R.” He felt a warm mass against the right side of his body and turned to see the large presence of Rebecca Lee striding alongside him.

  “I don’t want to talk now,” he said.

  “I just want to give you something.” She pushed a sealed white business-size envelope toward him.

  “Please, Rebecca, I can’t accept anything about your case. It’s all got to come officially through Gwinnett. Leave me the hell alone.”

  “What’s in this isn’t about me, dear R, it’s about you.”

  Me? He took the envelope and Rebecca moved off.

  He stuck the thing in an inside coat pocket and kept walking.

  Me? . . .

  “I’m going to stop here for a moment,” R said a few minutes later, to no one in particular, and stepped away from the others toward the front door of a hotel: the Independence. He figured anyone who heard or noticed him peeling off would assume he couldn’t wait a few more blocks before going to the bathroom.

  He already had the envelope in his hand and opened by the time he sat down in an overstuffed chair in a far corner of the lobby.

  GOTCHA! was written on a small piece of white memo-pad paper clipped to two larger pieces of paper, both Xerox copies of print articles.

  The first was of R’s piece that had just run on the Washington Post’s op-ed page. Someone had used a bright red Marks-a-Lot to highlight three or four sentences.

  The second was Timothy Morton’s twenty-six-year-old essay about Ben in Yesterday magazine. It too had red highlighting through some of the sentences and phrases.

  R held one in each hand and read what was under the red markings.

  He had written: “After years of being the least honored of the Founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin is finally getting the attention he deserves.”

  Morton had written: “For years Benjamin Franklin has been the least appreciated Founding Father.”

  There were three other pairings.

  R: “Once he was known mostly as a woman-obssessed man who flew kites, loved the French, discovered electricity, and made up cute sayings while Washington, Jefferson, and the others did the monumental work of rebelling against the British.”

  Morton: “He’s known mostly as the kite-flying, French-leaning dirty old man who created electricity, firemen, libraries, stoves, and aphorisms but left the heavy intellectual and political lifting of the American Revolution to Jefferson, Washington, Adams, Madison, Hamilton, and others.”

  R: “Benjamin Franklin was as accomplished a writer as Thomas Jefferson. He was also a scientist, an inventor, a diplomat, a printer.”

  Morton: “Franklin was a superb writer, inventor, scientist, philosopher, politician, diplomat, and printer. Much is said, for instance, about the magnificent prose of Thomas Jefferson. That’s true. But . . .”

  R: “The failure to erect a monument to Benjamin Franklin on the National Mall in Washington remains a shame.”

  Morton: “Second, they can proclaim that it is a national disgrace for there to be no monument in Washington, D.C., honoring Benjamin Franklin.”

  Me?

  At the end of her citations, Rebecca had scribbled, “Here come the stones! Knock me down and you go too!”

  • • •

  R went directly to Rebecca in the large white tent set up behind the president’s house for the reception. She agreed to go into the house with him so they could talk.

  “No way is this Gotcha,” he said, once they were in the deserted library where the planning for Wally Day began three days ago.

  He thrust the envelope with the papers at her. She did not take them.

  “There’s no case against me here—certainly not plagiarism,” he said. “Yes, I had reread Morton’s piece shortly before I wrote my own. Some of the ideas must have lingered with me. But there was no copying, no stealing. The phraseology is remotely similar but that’s on accident of osmosis. There was nothing deliberate or intentional. And I gave full credit to Morton for his points and ideas about Ben.”

  “Tell it to the judge, Dr. Taylor.” Rebecca was smiling.

  “What judge? What are you talking about?”

  “I may prefer official charges against you through the ARHA.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” R wanted to kill her. Destroy her. Extinguish her. He wanted to beat the life out of her. There, right next to where they were standing, was a foot-high heavy pewter full-body likeness of Ben. He was holding his famous kite. The perfect weapon! Benjamin Franklin Historian Beats Fellow Historian to Death with Franklin Statue.

  R took several long breaths. Let’s not lose it here now, he lectured himself. Let’s not lose everything you are and you’ve worked for because of this woman. Let’s be cool and wise, like Ben and Wally. Let’s talk this thing out.

  “When you say may, what exactly do you mean?” he asked. “I am sure you must know any charges based on these similarities will not go anywhere except into the newspapers.”

  “Exactly, R. Exactly. You probably would never be officially sanctioned, but there’s enough there to trigger publicity that will damage you just as badly as a finding of guilt against me would—probably even more so, because your exhalted position among historians gives you farther to fall.”

  Well, at least she’s honest about that, he thought. At least she admits she’s threatening me with a sham publicity assassination. I really should grab Ben and crack open her skull.

  “Do you watch cop shows on television, or are they beneath you?” Rebecca asked.

  R said nothing. His appreciation of Law & Order was none of her business.

  “Well, to borrow one of their favorite lines, Let me put something on the table,” Rebecca said.

  She really is going to try to blackmail me!

  “I say nothing to anybody at the ARHA or anywhere else about the Morton similarities. I agree that they’re not much and it’s most unlikely anyone else will pick up on them. I found them because I was looking for something. There is special software for catching this kind of stuff now, did you know that? At any rate, in exchange for my silence, you see to it that the Gwinnett committee treats me fairly—and softly.”

  R reached over and grabbed the Ben statuette. He turned it around and over a few times.

  He counted to ten, eleven, twelve—and said, “In the words of Ben, in the guise of Poor Richard, ‘The most exquisite Folly is made of Wisdom spun too fine.’ ”

  “Yes or no to my offer? Going once, going twice. . . .”

  “ ‘Man’s tongue is soft,

  And bone doth lack;

  Yet a stroke therewith

  May break a man’s back.’

  “Next thing we know you’ll be walking around in a Ben suit too,” Rebecca said, her face brimming with confusion—and, it appeared, a sudden drop in self-confidence.

  “ ‘It is better to take many injuries than to give one.’ ”

  “I won’t do anything or say anything until I hear from you, R, OK? Clearly you’re feeling the strain of Wally’s death—and possibly other things.”

  “ ‘Haste makes waste,’ ” R replied.

  “Also, for the record, may Wally rest in peace or not, I am going to take a close look at Ben Two,” Rebecca said, and she left R alone in the library, still holding the metal statuette of Ben.

  SEVEN

  R returned to the tent to say some quick farewells before leaving to proceed with what he had believed might be the stormlike onset of a serious breakdown—of his life as well as his mind.

  The only good sign was that he was on the verge of huge bursts of laughter, not of tears. There he’d been, pondering the murder of a blackmailing plagiarist with a statue of Benjamin Franklin while reciting bits of wit and wisdom from Benjamin Franklin, until recently the least appreciated of the Founding Fathers.

  Funny? Yes, very funny.

  There in front of him stood Johnny Rutledge, the man of BFU Press and the obsession with William’s mother.

  “I may call you so
oner than I thought,” R said to him. “Maybe in the next day or so, if that’s all right?”

  Johnny Rutledge said anything R wanted was terrific with him. But he gave R a look of annoyed curiosity. What are you up to? was the message.

  R found Elbow Clymer in a circle of people, all of them rejoicing in the success of Wally Day.

  “You were right,” said R. “Wally deserved a public sendoff. It was perfect.”

  Clymer thanked R for his help and support.

  “Sorry about the size of the crowd, though,” added R. “You didn’t make the twenty thousand target—not by a long shot.”

  Clymer, as he had done at the first meeting, motioned for R to come with him for a private word.

  “Yes, I did,” Clymer whispered as they walked, smiling the same way he had this morning when R raised the subject. It was as if he had just eaten something delicious—and secret.

  He guided R over to a TV set that had been set up in a corner of the tent.

  “I have this cued to the proper place on the tape.”

  A local television reporter was standing in front of the iron bars at the Franklin grave site. People could be seen milling about behind and around him.

  Said the reporter, “A Philadelphia police spokesman estimated the total crowd for this Wally Day celebration and memorial at twenty-one thousand five hundred people.”

  “That’s total nonsense,” R said to Clymer.

  “The official police estimate is all that matters.”

  “But it’s not true. There weren’t more than a thousand people out there—if that many.”

  Clymer put a shushing finger to his lips. “Who cares?”

  “Wally would.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Who knows that twenty thousand were really there for Ben’s funeral?”

  “That’s part of the historical record.”

  “Now, now, R. You of all people should know better than to rely on something like that. Can you really rule out the possibility that some Philadelphia cop in 1790 didn’t want to do a favor for his hero Ben Franklin just like one today might do for his hero Wally Rush?”

  Who was it who said, History is nothing more than the accepted lie? thought R. Whatever, the historical television record for Wallace Stephen Rush will reflect forever that 21,500 people turned out on April 21, 2003, to mourn his passing.

  Blocking R and Clymer’s way was Harry Dickinson. “I’ve had an idea for a new book,” he said to R. “The title: Ben Three. There was Ben One and Ben Two and now comes Ben Three.”

  “Sorry, Harry, but maybe you didn’t notice: The author of the first two is now a bowl of ashes.”

  “You write Ben Three.”

  “Great idea!” Clymer said.

  R tried to shake off what he’d heard. “That wouldn’t work. What would it be about?”

  “What was in your Post op-ed—which was very good, by the way—only more. It would be about the ever-changing state of regard for Ben, but also about the knowledge and research, the growing interest, and the work Wally did. Describe in detail what happened today on the college green and just now at the burial ground: the ashes, the penny, the whole bit. See it as an update, an account of the latest news from the American Revolution and the remarkable life of the amazing Benjamin Franklin, of Philadelphia and London and Paris and the world.”

  R said nothing.

  Clymer said, “I can’t think of a better way to launch the new center—”

  Harry interrupted to press his case to R. “Only you could write this book, R. Wally’s protégé—and, according to what Clymer here just told me, maybe even his successor, with, as he says, a new center. I might be able to get you a nice advance. Think about it, and we’ll talk seriously in a few days. OK?”

  R smiled and nodded. “I’ve got to run.” And he meant that literally. He really did want to race away from Harry and this tent and these people and his own life as fast as he could.

  Harry wasn’t finished. “You’ve already written a couple of books, haven’t you? Ben’s life at Craven Street and something about Ben and his bastard son, William. I’ll give them a quick read.”

  “Our own BFU Press published them,” Clymer said. “I’ve read them both and they’re terrific.”

  “Do you have a committment to BFU Press?” Harry asked.

  R said he had talked to them about his early presidency project, but there was no contract. Johnny Rutledge had told R he might publish such a book, but only if R could work Ben into it as a player.

  “Maybe we do a two-book deal, R. You do Ben Three for me; I do the presidency thing for you.”

  Now Harry was done. He said goodbye to R and Clymer and headed off toward the bar for more vodka.

  From across the tent, R saw Clara headed his way. In a sudden burst of words, R said to Clymer, “I accept your offer to create the Wally institute on Ben.”

  R did not hug men and did not like being hugged by them, but here he was returning a warm one from Elbow Clymer. “What a day,” said Clymer. “What a day indeed!”

  Clymer took something from his coat pocket and handed it to R. “Take this,” he said. It was a key. R recognized it immediately as the key to the front door of Gray House.

  “It’s yours—the house, the possessions, everything—to use as the first offices of the Wallace Stephen Rush Center for the Study of Benjamin Franklin.”

  R took the key.

  Clara arrived as Clymer, his show of happiness continuing to escalate, turned to greet another guest.

  “I thought you only did women,” said Clara dryly.

  So, in addition to having long beautiful legs, she was funny? Not up to Samantha’s quality but clearly in the same league. Maybe . . .

  “We just closed a fantastic deal—and then some,” R said, the words fluttering out of his mouth like butterflies. “We’re going to build an institute dedicated to research on the life and legacy of Ben.”

  “That’s great,” said Clara, without enthusiasm.

  “That means you can cancel that interview in Eastville tomorrow,” said R. “I want you to be part of my team.”

  Her face broke out into a Clymer-like smile. The dislike and distaste she showed at Brasserie Perrier suddenly vanished. She reached out and pulled R to her. It was a warm embrace, and he returned it.

  “I shoot from both sides,” he said.

  They agreed to meet in the morning at Wally’s house to talk more.

  “Speaking of Wally,” R said, “where’s the sugar bowl?”

  “I stuck it on a table inside the house,” she said, “but it’s empty now.”

  “Empty?”

  “I tossed his ashes out little by little on the walk back from the burial ground. He’s out there somewhere in the Philadelphia air.”

  R resisted a temptation to hug her again—and longer. But as Ben wrote in one of his almanacs:

  If Passion drives,

  Let Reason hold the Reins.

  • • •

  R was sitting on a bench in the sculpture garden at Penn’s Landing, near where William Penn came ashore in 1682 to establish what he originally called his Greene Country Towne and later Philadelphia. Now the landing area was part of a narrow concrete-covered riverbank separated from the historic part of downtown by a freeway. It was home to a ferry dock, a Vietnam War memorial, maritime museums with dry-docked old warships, a condo, and a thirty-story hotel, among other things.

  Without a thought, R had simply come out of Elbow Clymer’s party tent and turned east toward the river.

  He was breathing hard as if he had run the full six blocks. He was also sweating and feeling the urge to throw up. Or to throw himself into the Delaware. Or to go back to 30th Street Station and board a train to someplace. To where? Certainly not Washington or New York or Boston. Maybe a small town in Maine or Kansas or Idaho, where nobody could find him. He could change his name and get a job in a service station. Or as a short-order cook. Or a printer’s apprentice like Ben. Are there still real
printshops? Samantha couldn’t flush him if she couldn’t find him. Rebecca couldn’t destroy him. Neither could he help destroy her. He couldn’t take Clymer’s job offer and hire Clara. Or write Ben Three.

  Or find out for sure if Ben had William’s real mother killed.

  He looked up and left to the Benjamin Franklin Bridge that connected Philadelphia and Pennsylvania to Camden and New Jersey. He thought of Ben and Billy—the great man and his illegitimate son, William, the royal governor of New Jersey who remained loyal to Britain during the Revolution. It was a decision that caused a ferocious breach with his father that never healed. R had become fascinated by this father-son tragedy that ended with Ben’s decision to cut William off from love, money, and dignity. Ben had taken the boy directly from birth and raised him, nourished him, pushed him, protected him. Taken him from birth where? From the womb of what woman? R, like all previous historians of the Ben-Billy story, had to tread lightly through these kinds of questions, primarily because there was no solid verifiable information on William’s birth. One theory put out by Ben’s enemies held that the mother was a servant woman named Barbara who worked in the Franklin house. Another maintained it was Deborah who gave birth, but because she and Ben were not yet considered married under common law, she helped raise William as her husband’s illegitimate son rather than claiming him as hers.

  R felt the Gray House key in his pants pocket.

  Maybe he would delay the final phase of his breakdown and, before disappearing into the waters of the Delaware or the wilds of Maine, Kansas, or Idaho as a short-order cook, do a little more work as a historian—as Wally’s literary executor.

  • • •

  Somebody had left a few lights on, so he hollered “Hello!” several times before making his way to his final destination—Wally’s library. Nobody answered. The place was empty of all living things.