The Widow's Son

by Thomas Shawver

  Emery tilted his head questioningly. So did I.

  I wasn’t sure anymore where the jokes ended and nutty reality began. Leaving aside the fact that Emery had come to town to cut her throat, Natalie, who could have had her pick of men, seemed totally captivated by a person who had about as much charm as the mathematical equation for terminal velocity. I wondered, not for the first time: Was her ardor an act?

  “There I was,” she said, jumping back into the story, “trying to figure out how to say ‘Hell no’ nicely when he hands me the rose. It was a brilliant move. I take it, of course, and immediately find myself stabbed by a thorn. My thumb is spurting quarts of blood, I’m hopping around the tables, and I drop my order pad into a customer’s crème brûlée. I started guffawing so loud that snot flew out of my nose onto Em’s shirt. Every eye in the place was staring at us by then.

  “Once the giggles subsided,” she said, grasping Emery’s hand, “I thought, ‘Oh, what the hell?’ So I tested him. I said I’d go, but that he’d have to take Claire, too. I thought for sure that would be a deal breaker without hurting his feelings.”

  “Was it?” I asked.

  Emery looked surprised that I would think such a thing. “Of course it was okay by me. More than okay. We had a wonderful time with the family. Even Uncle Lamar was charmed by them.”

  With that bit of extraordinary news, he handed me the Book of Mormon and closed the briefcase. I gave him a receipt, evidence that he had lent me the inscribed Palmyra edition, then shouted downstairs to tell Josie our guests were leaving.

  She and Claire soon joined us at the front door. The pale-haired child was upbeat as she described to me in her forthright manner one of the three books she carried in the crook of her arm.

  It was Irish Earth Folk by Diarmuid MacManus, an odd book that claimed certain woods, meadows, and bogs of Ireland were haunted by fairies and leprechauns, all fallen angels of one sort or another.

  “They are powerful spirits to be treated with respect,” she said, staring into my eyes.

  In that instant she was no longer a child, but an omniscient sibyl, a wise woman of indeterminate age, who seemed to know all my secrets. Sensing my discomfort, she smiled, as if to reassure me. Then she was a girl again, walking after her mother and Emery into an overcast day.

  As much as I wanted to believe Emery had forsaken his macabre oath, I couldn’t help but think that the only catalyst leading him to reject blood atonement was his infatuation for Natalie. What would happen should he ever tire of her?

  Or to the strange child named Claire?

  Chapter 9

  “So what do you think of that girl?” Josie asked over Irish coffee the next morning. We were outside, on our little patio at home, reading the newspapers.

  “Claire’s OK,” I answered evasively. “A little goofy, but what kid isn’t at that age. She seems to cheer up when she’s around you. Why?”

  Josie looked around, pausing, careful in her response. “I really think there’s something unusual about her. Have you noticed how when stressed she constantly combs her hair?”

  I hadn’t, but lots of things women do escape me. After mentioning Natalie’s concern about Claire, I went back to perusing the latest Royals’ batting averages.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled and kept reading.

  “She was hanging around in the science section yesterday and I had my usual chat with her. At one point she asked if she could keep one of the mice she’d spotted in the storeroom.”

  “Mice!” I exclaimed, nearly spilling my drink on the box scores.

  I may have overreacted, but ever since a customer told me that my former barista fed rats (he referred to them as “Irish chipmunks”) on the back steps of Riverrun, I’ve been more than a little sensitive about rodents—and baristas. The glue used in old tomes is tastier than cheese to the vermin and an entire library could be destroyed overnight by a pack of them. Since then I’d developed a nice relationship with a local pest control service. That is, as nice as one can have with twice-a-month visits at two hundred dollars a pop.

  “How many critters did she see?”

  “Seven, but she wisely noted that could change quickly since two seemed pregnant,” Josie said. “She expressed surprise that we hadn’t noticed them, since it was obvious to her. Then she shrugged and turned away, pulling back into her shell.

  “She’s a strange mixture of fragility and strength, Michael, and I’d somehow alienated her. I suggested that we go to the park for some fresh air and she readily agreed. When we got there, I started pointing out birds and other critters.”

  Josie took a sip of coffee, watching for my reaction. Fortunately, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She was always pointing out wildlife whether in our yard, while jogging, or hauling groceries to our car. It was one of those goofy little things Josie did that I found in equal parts endearing and annoying. If I had a nickel for every blue jay, junco, cardinal, wren, hawk, owl, and woodpecker that she urged me to notice, I’d be a rich man. Even richer if you want to count the bugs, butterflies, dragonflies, and other creatures. But I smiled knowingly and nodded for her to continue.

  “Claire felt comfortable with me after that, and began identifying birds that I failed to notice— even an owl that was perfectly camouflaged in a giant pin oak. It was stunning how she beat me at my own game.”

  Josie was really worked up recalling the girl’s uncanny affinity for wildlife, but I had yet to see where this appreciation was headed.

  “Claire wasn’t just pointing them out, Michael; she was communing with them. She’d make this little trilling noise or nod her head or give a little chirp, depending on the species and the creatures’ responses. I’ve never seen a child have such awareness. It was more than being a skilled birdwatcher or a budding naturalist.”

  “Granted,” I said, “she has unusual vibes. Ask anyone at the Celtic Center who saw her weird act before O’Halloran collapsed. But so what?”

  “It’s more than just being different or supersensitive,” Josie insisted. “Claire’s plugged into life in a way that’s different from everybody else. Consider her calming influence among the dying at the assisted living center; her otherworldly singing voice; the constant combing. Even her appearance.”

  “Okay?” I asked, still befuddled.

  Her voice lowered. “Claire Phelan thinks she’s a banshee.”

  This time I did spill my coffee. “What?”

  “This isn’t entirely my idea,” Josie said. “Natalie told me that her pet name for Claire used to be ‘my little banshee baby,’ because of the way she howled when she had to go to bed. The kid started to believe it and went around trying to tame possums, raccoons, bunnies, and any other critters she encountered in the parks. It escalated when Claire was six or seven and began reading up on the faeries—that old book of Irish folktales she brought here the other day was far from the first on the subject. Only lately, however, has Natalie noticed that she has ramped up her fantasies, claiming connections to eerie things most people don’t see.”

  “I thought the traditional bean se, or banshee, came in the form of a shrieking old woman.”

  “Nope, that’s the Hollywood version, making them witchlike. Originally, banshees were thought to be part human and part faeries. They can be young or aged, beautiful or decayed. And here’s another weird thing—they have a great fondness for linen.”

  I remembered how Claire enjoyed doing laundry at the assisted living home.

  “There’s more. Irish legend says that because of their connection to the spirit world, banshees can tell when death is approaching. They are death messengers, ghostly female heralds who exist to guide the departed to the other world with their shrill cries.”

  Josie paused, frowning at my look of skepticism. “All I know is that Claire is differently tuned in to nature, and that she believes she has some kind of gift. Or curse. Facts, Michael. Be aware that we need to keep an eye on this kid. That’
s all I’m saying.”

  “Do you think she could help Feklar?” I asked with a wicked grin. “Maybe she can whisper to the demon cat about the litter box—”

  I stopped when Josie slugged me on the arm.

  “I know this sounds a little crazy,” she said.

  “A little?”

  I stood and stretched. The brilliantly clear sky was the color of the Swede’s shirt, as they say in the Midwest. I was about to go in when I saw a hawk zoom across our yard. At least, I think it was a hawk.

  Chapter 10

  Luck whines, labor whistles.

  I wish I could remember who said that. Had to be Marty Meeks, the same self-righteous prig who scribbled “Good, better, best; never let them rest, until the good is better and the better best” in my high school yearbook. (Last I looked on Facebook, Marty had announced he was leaving his service manager position at Jiffy Lube for “another calling.”)

  I don’t care whether it whines, whistles, or farts; I’ll always take luck—the good kind, anyway—over drudgery and toil. Emery Stagg’s Book of Mormon could sell for a cool quarter million dollars, perhaps more. That meant a hefty commission for Riverrun.

  But, as I’ve often noticed, once you answer good fortune’s knock, prepare for the door to slam on your ass after it crosses the portal. The trick is to hedge your bet while the cards are still hot so that when the inevitable turn comes you land on a goose-down mattress. My plan was to increase the benefits of this windfall by asking Eulalia Darp to assist with the sale rather than try to sell it myself. Not only would her reputation attract higher bidders for the book, but her gratitude for gaining a share of the commission might also assure my admittance to the ABAA. And that meant a gold ticket to future success in the antiquarian business.

  Even so, offering to split fees was counterintuitive. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some objective advice.

  Only not from Josie.

  As much as I trusted her judgment, she had a funny notion that overreaching—whether picking apples or grabbing front-row seats—was rarely wise, often impolite, and sometimes unethical.

  After explaining to her that I needed to prepare a set of books for shipping, I descended to the basement storeroom where I locked the door behind me. Then I opened the steel filing cabinet and brought out the bag.

  It felt somewhat heavier than when I’d last carried it to the table a month earlier. I attributed that to the feeling that had grown ever since returning with it from Ivo Mackin’s mountain Shangri-la—namely, that it had been a tad improper, if not illegal, to remove the mummified head of Captain James Cook from where it had lain for centuries in a cave high above Kealakekua Bay. But the great eighteenth-century explorer had no heirs and I figured I had as much right to it as modern-day Hawaiians whose ancestors had murdered, cannibalized, and kept what was left of him in a basket there.

  Putting those thoughts to rest, I lifted the muslin cloth and proceeded to consult with a mentor who was not only wise, but more practical than a priest—or Josie—when it came to questions of conscience.

  Funny how madness creeps up on you. You see, Claire Phelan wasn’t the only one a little touched by the faeries. I’d spent yesterday morning snidely confronting Emery for his belief in angels and multiple heavens, and this morning expressing amazement hearing about a girl who thought she was a banshee. Yet here I was seeking wisdom from the spirit of a man who had been murdered more than 250 years ago.

  —

  When I returned upstairs twenty minutes later, Josie was waiting with crossed arms and a faint, quizzical smile. Her tongue played with the inside of her cheek.

  She began slowly. “Sooo…What were you doing down there?”

  I pretended not to hear while looking past her at the happy-hour crowd streaming into Café Provence. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds with shafts of silver and gold, highlighting the hair of the women. It reminded me of something Yeats had written:

  …She who had brought great Hector down

  And put all Troy to wreck…

  “Michael?”

  I returned my gaze to her. “Yes, love?”

  “I heard you talking to yourself in your secret lair.”

  “It’s not secret.”

  “It is when you lock the door. So what’s with the yakking to walls?”

  “Just a habit I’ve developed when wrapping books.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since New Zealand. I’m working through some issues.”

  “Is paranoia one of them?”

  “Josie, please. It’s nothing like that. I’m fine. Lots of people talk to themselves.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like who?”

  “Bobo Jenkins whenever he crashes into a ruck.”

  “Your rugby pals don’t count.” She uncrossed her arms and began tapping her fingers on the counter. “You addressed the person as ‘Captain’ and were answering questions as well as asking them.”

  “Was I?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Bevan.”

  Natalie Phelan wasn’t the only one with a temper.

  “It’s a quirk I’ve developed to address some issues.”

  “What issues?”

  “Nothing major. Something to help get me through the day.”

  “Oh,” she said sarcastically. “Is that all? I was under the impression that things were going pretty well for us.”

  “They are, Josie.”

  I put my arms around her and whispered in her ear. “What say we close for the day to celebrate the Book of Mormon deal? Maybe shake a few rafters in our bedroom.”

  She pulled away. “Don’t change the subject! I’m more worried about you than Claire.”

  “No need to be concerned.”

  “Then who’s the captain?”

  Time to come clean. Sort of.

  “Ever see the movie Harvey?” I asked.

  “Yeahhh…” she answered. “Jimmy Stewart talks to an imaginary six-foot rabbit who wears a bow tie. People think he’s nuts—Stewart’s character, not the rabbit.”

  “Right. But he isn’t. It’s what keeps him sane— conversing with his id or something.”

  “Like the relationship little girls have with their dolls?”

  “Or Claire’s fixation with banshees. C’mon, Josie. Try to be serious for a change. The Celts have a long-standing tradition of putting trust in shape-shifting spirits. Superstition is in my DNA.”

  “Well, thank God you only have your chats in the storeroom. You do, don’t you?”

  “Of course. D’ya think I’m crazy?”

  She tilted her head, shut one eye, scrunched up her nose while considering the question. Then, “So what advice did this captain give you—if it’s not too personal?”

  Think fast, Bevan.

  “He said I should marry you before you get cold feet.”

  She stared ahead for a moment. A couple of heartbeats later, the gray-green eyes turned soft and the corners of her mouth slanted upward.

  “Okay, Michael, you’re off the hook for now. Let’s go see about those rafters.”

  And that, for all practical purposes, ended the interrogation on a high note.

  Chapter 11

  Stormin’ Norman Tate was perched on a ladder dabbing gold leaf on a carved sunburst above Eulalia’s front door when I arrived the next morning. Daisy, the golden retriever, sat by the lower rung, observing the flicking of Tate’s wrists as if it were a magical human ritual. So entranced was she that my sudden presence on the porch was barely acknowledged.

  “Back for more punishment?” Tate asked, gazing over his shoulder.

  “I have something to show Miss Darp.”

  He made a final delicate stroke with the tiny brush, then stepped off the ladder.

  “It’d best be a book.”

  “It is. A very important religious book.”

  He looked dubious. “Hope it ain’t one of them German doorstops.”

  I knew what he meant. Every family in the Midwest s
eemed to have a nineteenth-century Bible they believed an illustrious ancestor had brought over from the old country. In fact, most had been printed in Philadelphia by Globe Publishing or the A.J. Holman Company. Called “Salesman Bibles” because the samples were sold door-to-door, their features included Gothic Fraktur typeface, brass clasps on heavy leather boards, and a ten-inch Teutonic cross with a sparkly crown on a deteriorating front. Inside these three-to-five-pound tomes (depending on whether the New Testament was included with the Old), woodblock engravings depicted sword-wielding archangels putting paid-in-full to cringing demons and apostates alike. You can get a pretty good copy on eBay for fifteen dollars.

  “Nope,” I replied. “And I haven’t drowned any ducks in the past twenty-four hours.”

  That got a chuckle.

  “All right. But it best be good as you say, ’cuz she’s crankier than usual today. That’s why I’m outside findin’ other things to do. You go right on in. Last I noticed she be in the back galley eatin’ lunch.”

  Norman climbed back on the ladder and I went through the living room, past the staircase, and into a small, utilitarian kitchen—original wood cabinets, linoleum floor, old refrigerator, older stove. Eulalia sat at a battered round oak table almost hidden beneath a disorderly pile of ledgers and billing statements. I entered just as she spooned hominy from a tin can directly into her mouth. I apologized for the intrusion, but she seemed unperturbed, even pleased to see me.

  “That didn’t take long,” she said, looking at the book in my hand. She put down the spoon and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “What have you brought me?”

  I handed her the Book of Mormon.

  “Palmyra?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Inscribed by Sidney Rigdon to Alonzo Stagg.”

  She raised her eyebrows, peered over her spectacles at me, and opened the book.

  “So it would seem,” she confirmed after a cursory look at the dedication. “Who owns it?”

  “A local man named Emery Stagg. It’s an heirloom with a direct line of provenance.”

  “Is he prepared to sell it?”