Franklin Affair by Jim Lehrer

penny inside.
    There was absolute silence.
    Clara shook the bowl, moving the contents around.
    After only a few seconds, Evelyn reached down into the bowl and took out the penny, now covered with the ashes of Wally Rush. She held it briefly high over her head, turned back toward the burial ground, stepped down, and walked toward the iron bars.
    Somebody hollered, “Go! Go! Go!”
    The crowd picked up the chant: “Go! Go! Go!”
    Evelyn reached her right hand through two of the vertical bars and, with an underhand throw, tossed the ash-laden penny onto the flat surface of the five-inch-high white stone slab that covered Ben’s grave. There was an identical one next to it for his wife, Deborah.
    The only words were on top of Ben’s:
    BENJAMIN
    And FRANKLIN
    DEBORAH
    1790
    Wally was correct in his letter to R about a much more extensive epitaph Ben had written for himself that he chose not to use. Etched later in a wall behind the graves, it said:
    The Body of
B. Franklin,
Printer,
Like the Cover of an old Book,
Its contents torn out,
And stript of its Lettering and Gilding,
Lies here, Food for Worms.
But the Work shall not be wholly lost,
For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more,
In a new & more perfect Edition,
Corrected and Amended
By the Author.
He was born on January 6, 1706
Died 17__
    Evelyn was a good shot. The penny landed flat and near the center of Ben’s stone.
    Clymer cued the band. It played and the crowd sang:
    â€œFor he’s a Wally good fellow,
For he’s a Wally good fellow,
For he a Wally good fe-ello . . .
That nobody can deny.”
    â€œLet’s hear it for Wally!” someone yelled. It was a kid standing right behind R, probably Wally’s student.
    â€œWally! Wally! Wally!”
    Then, “Ben! Ben! Ben!”
    â€œBen and Wally! Wally and Ben! Ben and Wally!”
    Clymer let the cheering go on a little while and then signaled for quiet, pointed once again for music, and led everyone in the first verse of “America.”
    â€œMy country ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrim’s Pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring.”
    Clymer signaled for quiet again and said, “Listen.”
    From all directions came the sound of bells ringing. How he got all the downtown Philadelphia churches to do this on some kind of cue, who knows?
    R, not a man of emotion and tears, lost control and lowered his head in embarrassment. Not since childhood had he cried in public.
    â€¢ • •
    R was in a loose, informal cluster of people headed south toward the BFU campus and, by invitation, to have food and drink at the president’s house. He was talking to no one, paying attention to no one. His thoughts were elsewhere—on Wally, on how wonderful this Wally day had been, on Clara, on the potential awfulness in the papers from the cloak, and, again, on how these streets once rocked with the noises and smells of revolution and freedom. Ben, regardless of personal sins, was here when the chips were down, and so were Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and, yes, Adams. Even Hancock. America, America! From every mountainside let freedom ring indeed . . .
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œI don’t want to talk now,” he said.
    â€œI just want to give you something.” She pushed a sealed white business-size envelope toward him.
    â€œPlease, Rebecca, I can’t accept anything about your case. It’s all got to come officially through Gwinnett. Leave me the hell alone.”
    â€œWhat’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? . . .
    â€œI’m going to stop here for a moment,” R