The Widow's Son

by Thomas Shawver

“I know this place can provide plenty of those, but you’re doing a great job. Mind if I take another peek at the Follis collection?”

  “Go for it!” she urged, drawing close enough for me to detect the scent of cinnamon in her hair. “Are the books of any real value?”

  “Hard to say until I’m able to dig into the rest of the boxes. From what I’ve seen so far, however, it’s promising.”

  Her nostrils flared a little and she tightened the grip on my arm. “How promising? The Center is six months behind in rent and the bank is threatening to call our loan if we don’t start reducing the principal. Simply paying interest isn’t cutting it anymore.”

  I furrowed my brow just enough to show my hesitancy at guessing, followed by my normally tried-and-true stall tactics.

  “Yesterday I noticed a religious tract by the Protestant Archbishop of Armagh, dated 1631, and a nice work by Edmund Burke. Then there was a charming Darby O’Gill and the Good People that included an inscription by the author, Herminie Templeton Kavanagh. It was the McClure Company edition dated 1903, making it a true first and not the Reilly and Lee reprint…”

  Natalie’s eyes glazed over—a common occurrence among listeners when I start prattling about rare books or rugby union football—but when her fingernails began to draw blood from my arm I cut to the chase and gave her what she wanted to hear: “If there is more such gold in the other boxes, I can see my appraisal going into six figures.”

  That stopped the glazing.

  “You’ll think this blasphemous, Michael, but I intend to recommend that the board sell the collection if fund-raising doesn’t improve.”

  I winced. “God, don’t even think it. It’s not necessary if the bank considers the books sufficient collateral.”

  She regarded me with a narrow smile before purring, “Then I presume your valuation will be generous.”

  The air got cooler as I realized my mistake in prematurely suggesting a figure. It didn’t matter whether I’d mentioned hundreds of thousands of dollars or twenty-five. It was foolish and unethical to set a client’s expectations without having done a complete evaluation of the stock.

  I began to retract my earlier statement as to the presumed value, but Natalie wasn’t listening. She had something else on her mind now.

  Releasing my arm, she turned to her daughter. “Honey, could you give Mr. Bevan and me a few minutes?”

  The girl rose, performed what seemed to be a curtsy in my direction, and drifted from the boardroom.

  “I’m really worried about her,” Natalie confided when we were alone. “She’s become so withdrawn. She seems to enjoy only being around older people. And that caterwauling! The episode before poor O’Halloran died was just one example.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being too critical? I find it refreshing that a girl her age respects the elderly. Plus, Claire certainly has a remarkable voice.”

  “Bullshit. It’s creepy the way she hangs around the dying. Crooning them on their way to eternity! She never sang so much as a nursery rhyme until six months ago.”

  “Have you taken her to a doctor?”

  “If you’re referring to a shrink, I did. He said it’s an adolescent phase she’s going through.”

  “He’s probably right, Natalie. We were all a mess at that age.”

  “This is different. I don’t recognize my child. Despite her isolation, I don’t even think she’s unhappy. But something has poisoned her soul.”

  Natalie was prone to saying things like this—a dark power always lurking about, waiting to strike when one is happiest. It comes with red hair, I suppose.

  “Has anything happened to disturb her?”

  A peculiar stillness came over Natalie’s face. “Possibly. I recently mentioned to her an upcoming change in our circumstances.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Emery Stagg and I are getting married.”

  I tried not to look shocked, but it was impossible. Lately, I had seen them dining together at Café Provence and once or twice discussing something while strolling through the bookstore, but the two were total opposites. Whereas Natalie was a lissome Celtic goddess, as good with a joke as with a song, her fiancé appeared to me to have all the charisma of a speed bump.

  When he first entered Riverrun Books two years earlier there had been nothing notable about Emery other than that he looked like a pair of pliers. He was slightly less than six feet tall and lean, with sandy brown hair too dull to be properly described as blond that was cut in what used to be called a flattop. His thin face was characterized by sharp, angular features. An upturned nose deviated a half inch to the left; thin lips turned down at the corners; and closely spaced walnut-colored eyes carefully studied the world behind nondescript wire-rimmed glasses. I sensed he was physically tough, but also sensitive to perceived slights. The guy had “lonely childhood” written all over him.

  Everything about him seemed practical and functional. There were no adornments, no wasted words or actions, no fiddling or fussing. He dressed simply and consistently in a white button-down shirt, black trousers, skinny black belt, dark gray socks, and brown Hush Puppy Mall Walkers. Offered a cup of coffee by Josie his first day in the bookshop, he politely declined, stating that caffeine was off-limits for a Mormon. I recall him having only two expressions at the time: a questioning gaze and purse-lipped indigestion.

  All this combined to make him appear distant or disconnected, and the impression was magnified by his somber presence. I decided he was somewhere on the high end of the autism spectrum, as socially awkward as he was intellectually astute.

  In those days Natalie was waitressing part-time at Café Provence while trying to finish her business degree at Avila College. I noticed that when she was on duty a different Emery Stagg emerged. She must have seemed completely alien to him with her gaudily painted fingernails, dangly earrings, piles of jewelry, and long, scarlet hair done up differently on any given day, but he obviously found the contrasts irresistible.

  He would borrow a mathematics book from our shop, take it into the café, and pretend to read it until she arrived at his table to take an order. Then an amazing transformation would occur—his melancholy face would turn into one of fawning appreciation, like a puppy anticipating a biscuit from its mistress. If she left to serve other customers, his eyes followed her with a gleam that was a weird cross between adulation and guilt.

  Perhaps, like me, Emery had been intrigued not so much by Natalie’s adornments as by the subtle melancholy in her eyes when she wasn’t bounding through the restaurant, bantering lightheartedly with her customers, creating good cheer at each table.

  But I’m guessing.

  What I knew for sure was that apart from the fact that they shared high IQs, Natalie was everything Emery was not—extroverted, comfortable with everyone, volcanically spirited, willing to take risks and laugh off mistakes. She had always shown him polite consideration, but I never dreamed there could be more to their relationship.

  “Congratulations,” I managed to mutter after Natalie found it necessary to repeat the wedding announcement. Then I hastily followed with the only compliment that came to mind: “He’ll be a good provider.”

  Rather than thanking me, she went to close the conference room doors, then returned to the table where I had taken a seat next to a stack of books from the Follis collection. Leaning over, she took my hands in hers.

  “I know you don’t think much of Emery. I suppose no one does, other than those who respect his work at Becker Systems. But I adore him.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “He has poise, an air of competence, and a resolute calmness.”

  “That sounds fine for a curriculum vitae, but not a life partner.”

  Her face flushed at my bluntness.

  “Because he’s not vulgar, nor a snob. He’s not commanding or powerful or masterful. Because he’s not…”

  “All negatives. Do you love him or not? When you’re alone with him, does he tak
e off his face to reveal his mask?”

  “How very droll, Michael. Certainly, he’s not like any man I’ve ever known. He’s quiet, but he likes to laugh with me. He’s smart, but not arrogant. He’s protective, but not smothering. And he’s open. He’s willing to grow and change; causing me to improve, too. I like that. I love him because he makes me think.”

  She might have been describing quantum theory; this was utterly inexplicable to me as I had no idea there was anything remotely interesting in Emery. All I saw was a boring guy who didn’t respond to my attempts at bonhomie. He didn’t find me charming and the feeling was mutual, so I assumed that everyone saw him as I did. How could he have such appeal to a firebrand like Natalie?

  “Makes you think? What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “His perspectives are different,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t really explain, but I find myself reliving our conversations and thinking about things in new ways. I don’t know, but it feels healthy. And we have fun exploring things together.”

  “Things?” I tilted my head, squinted one eye and gave her a look pretending I conjured them making love. “How veerrry interesting.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, grow up, Mike! He’s a loner, and he hasn’t plugged in much to the world—movies, TV, books, music, and so on. I get to introduce him to the things l like, and he does the same for me, explaining his engineering and some of the odd things he thinks about.”

  She shook her head and grinned at me. “Now, mind you, he’s wrong as often as any man. But he’s willing to admit when he’s wrong. That’s not something you often see among members of your gender.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “Ummm, okay,” I said. “I’m just surprised you’d go for a…” I almost said”milquetoast,” “er, fella like him. After all, he’s not like your ex-husband, right?”

  Whomp!

  Natalie Phelan slapped me about as hard as I’ve ever been smacked by a woman—with the possible exception of Sister Mary Agnes Aquinas.

  Have I mentioned that the redhead had a temper?

  “Don’t you ever mention that bastard again, Bevan!”

  “What bastard?” I managed to utter while my tongue fished for loose teeth. “I never met the guy.”

  The emerald charcoals in her eye sockets dimmed, but continued to smolder. Her mouth spouted an apology that, when it finally came out, almost sounded sincere.

  “I met Sean Phelan when I worked at a bar in Boston,” she quickly added. “He was a charmer off the boat from Donegal with a quick wit and raucous laugh. But ‘Take what you can, when you can’ was Sean’s motto. The bastard married me for a green card. In return, he gave me Claire, a broken cheekbone, and damn little else when he left us for New York.”

  She paused to take a breath. “And you’re right, damn it. The first thing that appealed to me about Emery was that he seemed as far off the charts from Sean as I could find in a man.”

  The fire in her eyes dimmed. She placed a hand under my chin, lowered her face, and kissed me, lightly, on the lips.

  “I’m sorry, Michael.” This time it seemed genuine.

  “No harm done,” I said, and then risked getting smacked again. “Aside from Emery Stagg not being like your thuggish Hibernian, what else do you see in him?”

  “He’s not only extremely smart, but also considerate. I felt sorry for him at first. His painful shyness, the halting way he spoke, was pitiful. A cloak of sadness fit him far better than his clothes. But it meant he was an introvert. Being an engineer, he tends to see everything in absolutes. Ask him if a glass is half full or half empty and he’ll say it’s too large by a factor of two.”

  “I know the type. Either something needs to be fixed or it will need fixing after it’s been used a while.”

  “That’s him for sure,” she said with a laugh. “I’d encountered boys like him through my math classes at Avila. I’m not one to be ignored and it amused me to find that they barely noticed me at first. So I worked to befriend a few of the shyer ones. They sure came in handy when I needed help with calculus.”

  I looked at her without saying anything. She was going to have to do better than suggesting that Emery was a great math tutor to convince me why she was so smitten by the guy. And, soon enough, she did.

  “Emery is different from men like you,” she continued, “but I knew early on that he wasn’t simply a tech dweeb. I sensed something hiding within him, a secret that he kept buried but would reexamine at times; kind of like Frodo and his ring. And that smile! It contains the whisper of a laugh that, when upon appearing, transforms him into a handsome prince. Maybe because it was so rare, I found myself figuring out ways to coax it out more often.”

  “Well, I, for one, have yet to see it. How’d you manage to nab the first grin?”

  “Quite by accident, really. After serving him the Provence salad, with its soft-boiled egg on top of the greens and frisée, I reached across his plate to fill the water glass when his hand shot up to grab my wrist.” She shivered at the memory. “I’ll never forget the surprisingly electric sensation I felt at his touch. He dropped his arm as soon as it became apparent why he had done it—to prevent the outlandishly fancy lace of my cuff from being drenched in the dressing—and then he showed that elusive, enigmatic smile.

  “He apologized, explaining that he didn’t want me to ruin my costume. Costume! I’d spent an hour trying to decide on that outfit. But on reflection I realized he understood me completely; more than any man—or woman, for that matter—ever had. Yes, it was a costume, fit for a pirate queen. And I laughed out loud.”

  Natalie lapsed into silence after that, but I knew there was something else she needed to say.

  “Your outburst against me a few minutes ago wasn’t because I mentioned your ex, was it?”

  She stood, tilted back her head, and swept back a long auburn tendril that had drooped over an eyebrow.

  “Not entirely,” she answered. “I’ve a lot on my mind these days what with Claire, finances, preparing for the Bloomsday celebration…”

  “And something else?”

  She nodded.

  “When Emery first came to Kansas City, Mike, it was with the sole intent to murder me.”

  Chapter 5

  Now, if you know anything about my earlier travails, you’d understand that my first thought upon hearing that was to scurry out the side door muttering excuses about a suddenly remembered dental appointment. But I’m a sucker for a woman’s tears. And Natalie Phelan, who, despite her occasional black moods, I’d never so much as seen snivel, had just become a gushing Niagara of woe.

  “Jesus, when did you learn that?” I asked, once my saliva ducts unjammed.

  “Last week.” She sobbed. “We’d just finished preparing our wedding announcement. Emery wanted no secrets between us. He said it involved something my ancestor did to Joseph Smith.”

  The significance of the name didn’t register at first. After all, there were ten Joe Smiths in the Kansas City phone book alone. Then it struck. “The Mormon?”

  “Yes,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “I knew that I was a descendant of Governor Thomas Ford of Illinois, but I had no idea some Mormons held him accountable for their founder’s death.”

  “But that was nearly two hundred years ago! What does that have to do with you now?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No kidding. Have you gone to the police?”

  “Why would I, since it was him who admitted it? Despite my initial shock, I never felt threatened. You’ve met Emery. He’s not capable of violence.”

  “Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother surely felt the same about him.”

  She looked at me levelly; there were no tears now. “I trust him, Michael.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. But Natalie did.

  “Would you talk to him? He doesn’t have any friends other than a few colleagues at work. Perhaps you can bring him out of his shell.”

  When I hesit
ated, she urged, “He trusts you.”

  “But I barely know him.”

  Not about to let me off the hook, Natalie Phelan appealed to what we both knew I couldn’t resist. “If it helps,” she said, “he also has a remarkable book he’s prepared to sell. Please, Michael. Say you’ll see him at your shop in the morning.”

  And, like an idiot, I looked into those luminous green eyes and said, “Sure, why not?”

  —

  The Emery Stagg who entered my store the next morning gripping a battered briefcase had changed slightly from two years earlier. For one thing, he’d added a little paunch at his belly, no doubt from the beer and wine I’d seen him imbibe on occasion with Natalie in the bistro. I suspect he was testing the teachings that had been drummed into him by the Church of Latter-day Saints, but he sought to lessen the heresy by treating his experimentation with alcohol as if it were a science project. He’d let his hair grow longer, too, combing the strands straight back from his high forehead.

  Despite these changes, however, Emery retained the look of one slightly adrift in public, like a letter delivered to the wrong address. And for all of Natalie’s attempts to liberate his conservative fashion sense, he hid the tortoiseshell glasses she bought him in a sock drawer and remained steadfast to the old white shirt/black trouser uniform of the day, as if it was one less decision to make every morning. In short, Emery Stagg still looked and acted like what he was when I first met him: a civil engineer specializing in water and sewage treatment systems who felt far more comfortable among flocculation filters than people.

  Approaching the counter that morning he looked concerned to find Josie standing next to me.

  “Hiya, Em,” she called out cheerfully, instantly attuned to his unease. She tucked a pencil behind her ear and made a show of gathering up a bundle of papers to clear space next to the computer. “Why don’t you two get comfortable in the alcove. Mind if I join you after I finish these accounts?”

  He drummed his fingers on the counter, considering.

  “Okay, I guess,” he finally answered.

  Emery followed me to a quiet section of the shop between the philosophy and poetry sections where we settled into green leather wingback chairs.