Baby, You're a Rich Man

Chapter 19 (last chapter)

"Are you suggesting that you're going to turn me in to the press?" Milford asked me, his eyes wide with fear.

"Oh no, of course not," I replied, a smug grin on my face. "I'm suggesting that you turn yourself in to the press."

"Just leave the man alone," Patty told me sharply.

"He's had his time out of the public eye," I replied. "He's had thirty years of peace."

"The world," Milford warned, "will never believe me. They will never accept that I've been alive all this time. They won't be able to face the truth."

"Is it them who won't be able to face the truth?" I asked Milford. "Or is it you?"

Milford looked confused.

"Face it, old man," I said. "You wanna be the guy in the books. You wanted to die nobly in battle. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And now you can't bring yourself to accept the fact that you haven't lived the life you always dreamed of."

Teardrops formed in the old man's eyes. "I just didn't want to be in the spotlight," he croaked. "I wanted to be remembered, but I also wanted privacy."

In some strange, screwed up way, I could see where Milford was coming from. "I understand," I told him, "but now it's time to make it right."

The six of us—seven including Henry Milford—travelled back to Milford Academy together. We knew that the best place for Milford to begin righting his wrongs was at the school that had made him famous.

Sunday night, an assembly was held in the main hall. Every student in the school showed up just to listen to Milford speak. He told his story in a similar way he had in the Chicago shop, but this time, he was holding back tears as he spoke.

"All you people thinking I was a hero," he finished, "were wrong. I'm a coward. Nothing more, and nothing less."

As he stepped down from the podium, his face sullen and grief-stricken, he probably expected boo's or riots, but instead, after a few seconds of dead silence, the entire school broke out in raucous applause. Apparently the most heroic deed one can do in this life is coming to terms with one's own cowardice.

Monday, Mr. Milford was on national news, along with the six students who had found him. As word about Milford's survival got out, it became normal to see journalists with cameras and microphones following students around from class to class.

"Live from Milford Academy, here is Henry Milford," the reporter announced. "Along with the six kids who had been diligent enough to decipher the hidden messages and clues that had led them to his location. Tell us your names, kids!"

The reporter passed around his microphone, allowing each of us our two seconds of fame.

"Bryan Patterson."

"Ritchie Archibald."

"Mary Clifton."

"Patty Redman."

"Pete Benson."

"Charlie Hamilton."

"So which one of you kids found Mr. Milford?" the reporter asked, claiming back his microphone. I couldn't help but wonder how much grease it had taken to get his hair to stay in the slicked-back position in which he wore it.

The six of us exchanged glances.

"Charlie," Patty said.

"Pete," I followed.