Six Years

I hit the “about” page. It was blank. It didn’t list a home, a school, an occupation, any of that. The only thing that had been filled out was “in a relationship.” He was, according to this, in a relationship with a woman named Marie-A

I rubbed my chin. Marie-A

That was what I did.

When her page came up—when I saw Marie-A

Benedict carried her picture in his wallet.

Oh man. I swallowed, sat back, caught my breath. Now I got it. I could almost feel Benedict’s pain. I had lost the great love of my life. Benedict, it seemed, had done the same. Marie-A

She wasn’t African American. She was, well, African. Marie-A

This fact was, I guess, interesting, albeit in a not-my-business way. Somewhere along the way, Benedict had met this woman. He had fallen in love with her. He carried a torch for her. What that could possibly have to do with his visiting Kraftboro, Vermont . . .

Hold the phone.

Hadn’t I, too, fallen in love with a woman? I, too, still carried a torch for her. And I, too, had been up in Kraftboro, Vermont.

Was Kevin Backus Benedict’s very own Todd Sanderson?

I frowned. That felt like a stretch. And wrong. Still, wrong as it felt, I needed to investigate this. Marie-A

Now what?

I clicked on her pictures, but they were set on private. No way to view them. An idea came to me. I hit the back arrow until I was on Kevin Backus’s page again. His photographs were not set on private. I could see them all. Okay, good. I started clicking through them. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I expected to find.

Kevin Backus had his photographs in various albums. I started with the one simply titled “Happy Times.” There were twenty, twenty-five pictures of either my boy Kevin with his main squeeze, Marie-A

Too much?

Facebook loved to torture ex-loves by keeping them front and center. You couldn’t escape your exes anymore. Their lives were right here for you to see. Man, that sucked. So this was what Benedict did at night—tormented himself. I didn’t know any of this for certain, of course, but I was pretty sure that was how it played out. I remembered that drunken night in the bar, the way he carefully took out the well-creased photograph of Marie-A

“The only girl I’ll ever love.”

Benedict, you poor bastard.

Poor bastard perhaps, but I still didn’t have a clue what this meant or how it related to Benedict’s recent visit to Vermont. I clicked through some more albums. There was one titled “Family.” Kevin had two brothers and a sister. His mother appeared in a number of photographs. I didn’t see any sign of a father. There was an album called “Kintampo Falls” and another for “Mole National Park.” Most of the photographs there were shots of wildlife and natural wonders.

The last album was called “Oxford Graduation.” Curious. That was where Marie-A

The photographs in this album were considerably older. Judging by the hairstyles, clothing, and Kevin’s face, I would say at least fifteen, maybe twenty years earlier. I would bet that these photographs predated digital cameras. Kevin had probably sca

My hand was shaking. I grabbed the mouse, managed to move the cursor so that it hovered over the image, and clicked. The photograph grew bigger. It was a group photograph. Eight people, all in black graduation gowns, stood with big smiles on their faces. I recognized Kevin Backus. He stood on the far right next to a woman I didn’t know. Their body language suggested that they were a couple. In fact, as I looked closer, it appeared that I was looking at four couples on their graduation day. I couldn’t be sure, of course. It could have been that they were just lined up boy-girl, but I didn’t think that was all.

My eye was immediately drawn to the woman on the left. It was Marie-A

Man, I got it, Benedict. I really, truly got it.

Marie-A

At least, not at first.

He, too, was African or African American. His head was shaved. He had no facial hair. He did not wear glasses. That was why I didn’t recognize him at first. That was why, even when I looked hard, I couldn’t be sure. Except it was the only thing that made sense.

Benedict.

There were only two problems. One, Benedict hadn’t graduated from Oxford University. Two, the name underneath the picture didn’t read Benedict Edwards. It read Jamal W. Langston.

Huh?

Maybe it wasn’t Benedict. Maybe Jamal W. Langston just looked like Benedict.

I frowned. Yeah, right, sure, that made sense. And maybe Benedict just happened to be carrying a torch for a woman who had long ago dated a man who looked just like him!

Dopey theory.

So what other theory did I have? The obvious: Benedict Edwards was really Jamal W. Langston.

I didn’t get it. Or maybe I did. Maybe the pieces were finally, if not coming together, all on the same table. I googled Jamal W. Langston. The first link came from a newspaper called the Statesman. It was, according to the link, “Ghana’s oldest mainstream newspaper—Founded in 1949.”

I clicked the article. When I saw what it was—when I read the headline—I nearly screamed out loud, and yet, at the same time, some of those puzzle pieces were starting to come together.

It was Jamal W. Langston’s obituary.

How could that be . . . ? I started reading, my eyes growing wide as a few of the puzzle pieces finally started to click into place.

From behind me, a tired voice sent a chill straight down my spine: “Man, I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

I slowly turned toward Benedict. He had a gun in his hand.

Chapter 27

If I’d been ranking the many surreal moments I’d been experiencing in recent days, having my best friend point a gun at me would have just elbowed its way into the top spot. I shook my head. How had I not seen it or sensed anything? His eyeglasses and their frames were beyond ridiculous. The haircut almost dared me to question his sanity or personal space-time continuum.