I, too, had thought about that question on the flight from Denmark, knowing that was why I’d been summoned. For eighteen years I have kept the secret, lying to Stephanie, never revealing what I possess nor what I know. Now here I am, inside the childhood home of Martin Luther King Jr., faced with a decision.
“We all made a serious mistake,” Foster says. “Myself included. After Martin died, we grieved him into perfection. That was something he never anticipated. The love and respect people felt easily allowed them to elevate him to a lofty perch. Nearly every town in this country has a street or boulevard named for him. His birthday is a national holiday. To criticize him has come to be regarded as treasonous to the black race. Which is odd, considering that, in his life, he dealt far more with criticism than with praise. We all forgot that his faults, and he had many, only emphasized his humanity. His shortcomings, which we all possess, made him real. He was no saint. But he was a savior.”
“Why are we here?” I ask.
“I’ve lived with the pain of my friend’s death for fifty years, and the pain of my daughter’s for nearly twenty. I don’t want to live with either any longer. I did not pull the trigger when you left my house because I made a pledge to Martin. He gave his life and he asked me to give mine, only in a different way. He wanted me to live to see this day. All right. I’ve kept that pledge. When nothing was ever publicly revealed, I realized that you were keeping that pledge, too.”
We stand in silence for a few moments.
“My daughter never had the chance to experience a full life,” he mutters. “She never knew the joy of raising a child of her own, and that was all my fault. If I’d only made the deal with Valdez and traded the coin for the files, then burned the files, none of it would have ever happened. But I foolishly thought myself capable of controlling events. I thought I was in charge. I thought my refusal was more than enough. How wrong I was.”
I can see where this is headed.
Which has been a long time coming.
“Martin was right about me,” he said. “I was never meant to be a captain.”
“No. You’re a general. He trusted you with the most important decision he ever made. He chose you to make sure it all could be possible. And you didn’t disappoint him. You did exactly what he wanted. And look what you became. A husband. Father. Respected minister. He was right about you. He knew you better than you knew yourself.”
“A part of me wishes I never met him.”
I hear the defeatism and know it’s over. “Are you ready for me to leave?”
He nods. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I wanted to know. I appreciate you coming. Take the tapes and the flash drive and decide what needs to happen on this fiftieth anniversary. You’ve done well so far. I trust you to make the right call.”
No sense arguing, so I retrieve the four items from the side table and head for the door, my footsteps muffled on a thin rug that covers the hardwood.
“Take care,” Foster says.
I stop, turn back, and say, “You, too.”
I leave, gently closing the door behind me. The Atlanta skyline looms a few miles away, lit to the night. Sweet Auburn rests quietly around me. I descend the porch steps and find the sidewalk, turning left, straddling Auburn Avenue. A few cars pass on the street.
I hear a bang.
Deadened by wooden walls.
I stop and stare back at the King home.
Benjamin Foster is gone.
To my knowledge I am now the only one left alive who knows anything. Not a word has ever been heard from Bruce Lael. Dead or alive? No one knows. I still hold the cassette, the two reel tapes, and the flash drive in my left hand.
I trust you to make the right call.
I keep walking, crossing an intersection and reentering the grounds for the King Center. I turn and follow the concrete path around to the rear. A large lit pool with fountains separates the buildings. One, the King Library and Archives, holds the largest repository of primary source materials on Martin Luther King Jr. and the American civil rights movement in the world. All of King’s papers, along with those of the SCLC and other major civil rights organizations, are there. Preserved for all time. So many had tried to silence those voices, but they failed.
I keep walking—no one else is around at this early hour—following the pool toward its far end. After King died he was carried on a farm wagon, drawn by mules, to a local Atlanta cemetery. Eventually, his remains were moved here, to the institute that bore his name, lying alongside his wife, Coretta. Georgia marble had been used to construct their crypt, which sits in the center of the glistening pool, a timeless acknowledgment of the man’s simple southern roots. I stop and stare at the crypt, the white marble lit to the night, and the inscription.
REV. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.
1929–1968
“FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY
I’M FREE AT LAST.”
Sure, there’s been great progress in race relations. The elimination of Jim Crow, the end of separate but equal, school integration, fair housing, equal employment. History has shown that, beyond Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr. did more to bring about social change than anyone in American history. His motivations, though questioned during his life, became clear after death. Without a doubt King walked a fine line between morality and politics. But by and large, he’d been successful keeping to the high road. His legacy is exactly as Foster had said. Hope and curiosity. I’ve read many books on his life and work. Along the way I came across something he once said that seems fitting tonight. A nation or civilization that continues to produce soft-minded men purchases its own spiritual death on an installment plan.
Benjamin Foster had not been soft-minded.
Instead, he’d assumed an awful responsibility, thrust on him by a man who could not be denied.
I wonder what King would think of us today?
The unemployment rate for minorities hovers at three times that of whites. The net worth of an African American is $6,000, compared with $110,000 for a white. The average medium income for black households stays $55,000 or more below that for whites. An epidemic of shocking deaths has given rise to a Black Lives Matter movement, reminiscent of something King himself would have organized. Poverty continues to reign. Little has been done to combat it, which King surely would have found horribly disappointing.
And not just in America.
But around the world.
There is nothing new about poverty. What is new is that we have the resources to get rid of it.
King’s words.
Wise then and now.
I stare hard at the crypt, seeking answers. What would be gained by revealing what I know? Those who oppose King would still oppose him, and those who support him might find their faith challenged. Would they feel manipulated? Used? Or would they recognize the sacrifice he’d made? And that was precisely what it had been. The ultimate sacrifice.
King gave his life, so his message would live on.
And it has.
Every movement requires a hero.
No matter how unlikely or unwilling.
I turn from the grave and see the eternal flame burning behind me. I step close and read the plaque at its base.
THE ETERNAL FLAME SYMBOLIZES
THE CONTINUING EFFORT TO REALIZE
DR. KING’S IDEALS FOR THE
“BELOVED COMMUNITY”
WHICH REQUIRES LASTING PERSONAL
COMMITMENT THAT CANNOT WEAKEN
WHEN FACED WITH OBSTACLES.
That it does.
Many people would agree that history matters. Truth matters, too. But sometimes things are better left unsaid. Revealing what I know would only spread a dense cloud of smoke around an already burning fire, masking the flames themselves.
And that flame cannot be concealed.
To distract in any way from what King helped start seems pointless. Why fuel the naysayers? The work must go one. Sure, battles have been won, but the war is not over. King gave Foster the sole option of deciding what to do when fifty years had passed.
Now that duty is mine.
I toss all four items I hold into the eternal flame.