The Man From The Old Posters Knew My Other Name

June knew him from the poster above the ticket window.

"You're North," she said.

"Len Mercer when I'm buying groceries."

He gave her a small bow. Then he looked at me.

"I watched that speech from the back. I wanted to get the paper before I opened my mouth."

I held out my copy beneath the awning light.

Len read it twice.

"He charged them for the film?"

"He said I took the money."

"Those are two different things."

"Try telling the room."

He tapped the cardboard box.

"I brought my old agreement. Thought we'd have a nice evening talking about bad haircuts."

June looked between us.

"What third coat?"

"Something at home," I said.

She pulled her hand away.

"Everybody keeps talking like I can't hear."

The rain made a steady little roar above us. I bent so she could see my mouth.

"You're right. There are things I should have told you. First, we need to get dry."

Len followed us to the diner across the street. It had no music playing, and June chose the booth farthest from the coffee grinder.

I counted my cash before ordering three hot chocolates.

Len noticed. He paid without a speech.

His box held photographs, a folded work coat, and a thick envelope with a string around it.

The agreement inside was dated twenty-two years earlier. Three people had signed it. Leonard Mercer. Dale Benton.

And Ruth Harlan.

My name before I married June's father.

"Read the paragraph marked five," Len said.

It was plain enough. The three performers owned the show recordings together. A public screening needed written permission from all three. Any fee also needed all three signatures.

"Did you sign anything this week?" I asked.

"I gave permission for a free benefit screening. So did Dale. I sent my letter to the hall office."

"I gave Curtis mine at the shop. Free screening. No fee."

June stopped stirring her drink.

"Why did they need your permission?"

I watched steam rise between us.

"Because I was in those matches."

"Like holding signs?"

"Like wearing the third coat."

She stared at me.

The waitress arrived with crackers we had not ordered. She set them beside June and left us alone.

"Latch never talked," June said.

"That was part of the act."

"Latch wore a mask."

"Also part of the act."

Len smiled into his cup.

"Your mother could make six hundred people stand up by turning her head."

"Three hundred," I said.

"On a rainy night."

June did not smile.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

There were easy answers. I had been busy. The tapes were old. It had never come up.

None of them were fair to her.

"After your dad died, I put a lot of things in boxes," I said. "I thought I was making life easier. Then I got used to leaving them there."

"Did Dad know?"

"He sold tickets at our last show."

She looked down at the agreement again.

"You should have told me that."

"I know."

Len waited until she picked up her spoon.

"Curtis wasn't our promoter back then," he said. "His uncle ran the hall. Curtis carried chairs and learned where the money drawer was."

"He knew who I was," I said. "He just thought nobody else would care."

My phone buzzed on the table.

It was a message from the shop.

Do not enter the premises. Your position is terminated. Final wages will be mailed.

June read my face.

"We have to move?"

"Our rent is paid through this month. Tonight we go home. Tomorrow I look for work."

I said it as firmly as I could.

Len slid a clean napkin toward me.

"Write down what happened while you remember the words. Times, names, all of it. I'll do the same."

So we sat under the diner lights and wrote. June added her own sheet.

At the top she put: I was holding the bell.

Then she paused.

"Can I write what I thought?"

"Write what happened first," I said. "Then what you thought."

At home, I opened the closet beneath our stairs.

Behind the winter blankets sat a green trunk. My husband had painted a small white latch on its lid, years before June was born.

I set it on the kitchen floor.

The lock still opened with the little key on my sewing scissors.

June knelt beside me as I lifted the lid.

On top lay a gray coat with three brass buttons.

Under its collar, stitched in my own crooked hand, was the name she had only seen on posters.

LATCH.