The Widow's Son

by Thomas Shawver

  She sighed, then reached over for a file, skimmed the top page, and turned back to me.

  “Don’t think me unfair. Your refusal to divulge a colleague’s secrets is admirable. And you’ve been highly recommended by Charles Walsh, a person whom I value highly.”

  She sighed and placed her eyeglasses on her forehead. “Because I still wish to help you, let’s try this a bit differently. Tell me about books you have acquired other than through the Book and Bell windfall?”

  “My acquisitions have been rather modest, I’m afraid.”

  For the next twenty minutes, I related tales of my few significant finds in ten years of scrounging through attics and cellars for quality used books. I described my research to verify an obscure first of A Yankee in Canada by Henry David Thoreau and told her of my happy discovery of a complete series of Arthur Rackham illustrateds at a neighbor’s garage sale.

  “I have firsts of Ian Fleming’s later Bond novels; the full body of work of George MacDonald Fraser; and some Irish Renaissance writers such as Lady Gregory, George Russell, and—”

  “Any Yeats?” she interrupted. “Joyce perhaps?”

  “Only later editions.”

  “I see. ‘Modest’ certainly was a fair description of your achievements, Michael. If you ever hope to pursue and secure the kind of books for which the rich and powerful eagerly compete—and, therefore, pay handsomely for—adequate funds and courage are not always enough. What you have so gratuitously received from Ms. Wilkes is a beginning, nothing more. You’ll need more than that for the ABAA. To be a treasure hunter—and isn’t that what we all are?—sometimes means becoming a pirate. It will take all the cunning, patience, and knowledge you can muster to anticipate where a rare bit of history might manifest itself.”

  Her dark eyes were soft now that they weren’t shielded by the glasses; I felt a sense of kinship. She flipped to the second page in her file.

  “I also did a little research on your background before you became a bookseller. I understand you practiced law?”

  “Yes, until I was disbarred for allegedly misappropriating a client’s funds.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “A corrupt district attorney had it in for me.”

  I studied Proust’s picture again, realizing how lame those words sounded.

  “I see,” she said with a little cough. “And wasn’t there a more recent arrest?”

  My God, she was thorough and exacting; her reputation for detailed research was only too accurate.

  I looked at her directly and confessed details that she already knew.

  “I was once thought to have murdered a colleague.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I noticed Norman Tate had stopped tapping his watch.

  “Charges dropped,” I added.

  “How convenient.”

  “Even received a commendation.”

  “Fascinating. I don’t recall that made it into the papers.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Pity.”

  She sighed again as she reached over to pat my hand.

  “I hope you can appreciate my situation, Michael, but I have to uphold ABAA standards as well as my own. I cannot support your admission.”

  Bitterly disappointed, but not surprised, I sat for a moment taking in the pristine copies of rare books, each carefully shielded from sunlight through their artful arrangement on the shelves. They were not just objects to Eula, but testaments to the greatness of mankind. She was doyenne of a noble profession responsible for preserving nothing less than the combined wisdom of all humanity.

  Yes, Eulalia Darp had her standards. And I wasn’t up to them.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” I said, rising to leave.

  “Don’t give up, Michael. Trust your instincts, but aim higher. Should you happen to acquire something interesting in the near future perhaps we might chat again.”

  “Something interesting” would have to be along the lines of a Shakespeare first folio if I hoped to have a productive audience with this maven of the book trade.

  As he led me to the door, Norman Tate cautioned me to never buy any ducks.

  “Why not?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Because with your kind of luck they’d jus’ drown.”

  Chapter 3

  There was plenty of the morning left, but given my state of mind after the meeting in Lawrence I’d be as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle if I returned immediately to Riverrun.

  It was a nice day and being around the campus had me feeling nostalgic. Remembering that Alice Winter had mentioned that her son, Mark, was taking summer classes at the law school, I decided to drop by Green Hall to say hello. Mark responded immediately to my text and we agreed to meet at the student lounge in twenty minutes.

  Lest you think I get a kick out of interrupting fledgling barristers during their onerous studies, my reason had a real purpose. And it wasn’t just to encourage him in his career path. I fancied him as a potential son-in-law.

  The idea wasn’t so far-fetched.

  My daughter, after surviving a tumultuous experience with drugs, had spent five months at a rehab center in Lawrence. During that period, Mark, who had known Anne in high school, had been extremely supportive, even cutting law classes to check on her when she seemed particularly down. By the time Anne returned to the University of Colorado to complete her master’s degree in theatre studies, it seemed to Josie and me that a spark had been lit between them.

  Mark’s mother, however, was gobsmacked when, a month earlier, I mentioned the visits.

  “Mark?” she’d asked warily. “I didn’t know he was seeing her.”

  “Yeah, almost every day,” I’d responded, surprised that she wasn’t aware of this. “He brought her doughnuts, flowers, even used to play his guitar for her. I’m beginning to think there’s even the possibility of a budding romance. I guess he sees some of the same things in her that you do, not to mention that she’s beautiful and adventurous. Your son’s no dummy.”

  “Romance?” A cloud seemed to cross her face. “Please say you’re joking.”

  “I’m not, Alice. He was wonderful to her—”

  She shot a look that could have melted a bucket of diamonds.

  “Listen, you,” she said slowly, tonelessly. “Keep that…that…tart from my boy.”

  The muscles in my jaw tightened and I made a vague sound in my throat. But before I could form words of protest, Alice had stormed off, spouting something about a “chip off the old block.”

  Now, it was true that my daughter’s wild-ass reputation left something to be desired, but Mrs. Winter’s virulent reaction left me more puzzled than angry. It didn’t fit the gentle and dignified woman I’d known since grade school and who, until that moment, had expressed only admiration for Anne’s courage in combating addiction. It was all the more shocking because Alice was normally the epitome of Junior League propriety; a gentle lady who, when not soliciting money for Haitian orphans or slinging hash with volunteers at the City Union soup kitchen, could be found organizing bingo parties at the local assisted living center.

  It simply wasn’t fair. Now that Anne was off drugs, she’d lost that alien, strung-out demeanor; and while she still retained the aristocratic bearing and hint of a plummy accent from her Mayfair London upbringing—all thanks to her British grandparents—the last vestiges of Sloane Ranger snobbery were gone. Equally lost, I fervently hoped, was her affinity for hell-for-leather risk taking.

  Whether Alice’s cosseted son was mature enough to handle the female Bevan spitfire was another thing, however.

  The last time I saw Mark Winter was during his junior year in college. He’d had the easy manners of a young man rather full of himself, but not obnoxiously so. In some ways—looks particularly, but also by his knack for guileless charm—Mark reminded me of a young Cary Grant before the actor encountered Mae West.

  As an adolescent Mark had never given his parents the misgivings that Anne had supplied me with in
buckets, but for the longest time he had a lazy attitude that bugged the hell out of them. It was never my place to say anything. I figured the ever-demanding attitude of Tim Winter had a lot to do with it. Once the boy left for college, he apparently shed the mopiness, excelling in his studies while serving as president of his fraternity and lettering in baseball.

  Such attributes, noble as they are, don’t exactly prepare one for dating a firecracker with Vogue model looks who had nearly married Robert “Long Bob” Langston, a notorious Hollywood libertine.

  I hoped to see if the young man was not only in the running for my daughter’s affections, but also up to the formidable task of corralling her.

  —

  Green Hall sits in a flat plain on the west side of campus. Built in the late seventies, it’s a five-story glass and limestone building of nondescript architectural significance that has none of the charm of the law school’s former nineteenth-century Corinthian-columned home atop Mount Oread. The newer structure’s one saving grace—in my eyes at least—is that it stands next to Allen Field House, a college basketball Mecca.

  The student lounge was packed with students sprawling on chairs and sofas when I entered. I spotted Mark among a tense group gazing at a bulletin board with the latest test results. He was one of the few who looked genuinely pleased.

  He was exactly as I’d remembered him from two years earlier; a little fuller in the face perhaps, but just as handsome. Like Michelangelo’s David, he was broad in the shoulders and long in the flanks, with a mop of curly hair cut slightly long. His large brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and long dark lashes gave him a slightly roguish look. His upper lip was slightly narrower than the lower one, so when he smiled, which seemed to be often, you got the full dental assault.

  Having seen what he wanted, Mark broke away from the cluster of students gathered around the board and made his way toward me with an outstretched hand.

  “It’s great to see you, Mr. Bevan.”

  “And you, Mark. Classes going well?”

  “I’m glad to have Civil Procedure behind me, but it turned out okay. You want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. How are you doing otherwise?”

  “Well, Torts…”

  “I mean socially.”

  “Fine,” he said, looking somewhat puzzled.

  We both stared at our feet for a few awkward moments before I spoke again.

  “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”

  “Sir?”

  “For checking on Annie—when she was at the Allen Rehab Center. It meant a lot to her that you made the effort. For me, too.”

  Mark’s blush said it all.

  “It was my pleasure, Mr. Bevan. As a matter of fact, we remain in touch.”

  “Seriously? I mean, anything serious?”

  His smile widened as his face grew redder. “No, nothing like that. But I’ll see her in Aspen when my classes end next month. She wants me to guide her up the Maroon Bells.”

  I thought I knew what else that meant, but before I could say anything, he pleaded, “Don’t tell my folks. Okay? Mom wouldn’t approve.”

  My expression told him I knew it wasn’t because she feared either one would topple off the mountain.

  “I’m afraid that cat’s out of the bag,” I said. “When I mentioned to her that you guys seemed to be getting pretty close, she didn’t take it very well.”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s not like Mom to be so closed-minded about Anne. Even my dad doesn’t have a problem with it.”

  “Your mother needs more time,” I suggested unconvincingly. “At any rate, I’m delighted that you and Anne are interested in each other—as friends or whatever.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bevan.”

  “Mike.”

  “Sir?”

  “Call me Mike. Makes me feel younger.”

  I left him shortly after that, filled with joy in the knowledge that, for once, something seemed to be going right in the personal affairs of my daughter.

  Silly me.

  Chapter 4

  I was in a much better mood after that, but before returning to the shop I decided to take another look at the books Ted Follis had donated to the Celtic Center. Seeing all those bright, ardent students at Green Hall had rekindled fond memories of my days on Law Review at Northwestern. A leisurely hour or two sorting through the works of great Irish writers and patriots was just what I needed to restore my belief that I hadn’t been a fool to give up my law career.

  I also wanted to check on Natalie Phelan’s state of mind after O’Halloran’s tragic demise three days earlier. Even under normal circumstances, the redhead could be energetic and delightfully witty one moment, then retreat the next into a shell of silent brooding for no particular reason—a potent mixture of Maureen O’Hara and Edgar Allan Poe. I’d seen enough of my mother’s struggles with manic depression to recognize that Natalie was a prime candidate for a breakdown.

  Josie and I had gotten to know her when she served as a manager next door at Café Provence. Divorced and the sole support of Claire, Natalie struggled with old student loan debts. But she was smart as a whip and the very definition of “multitasker,” who never did one thing if she could accomplish four at the same time. We had helped get her the job at the Celtic Center when the president of its board mentioned to Josie that he had fired their executive director and was desperate to fill the spot.

  It turned out to be a good match. Natalie, who had a degree in finance to go with her natural pluck and ability to charm the socks off the meanest Scrooge, held the line on expenses while adding cultural events to make the Center more relevant. But with Union Station’s continued popularity, rents had risen, so she spent three fourths of her time scratching for contributions. The local Irish community, a generous bunch when the plate was passed at Mass, was tight as a tick outside church doors, albeit for good reason—it’s hard to press Catholic parents who are paying thousands a year for private school tuitions.

  Thirty-five years old, Natalie was gorgeous. Besides having the emerald eyes of a Druid princess, high cheekbones (sprinkled with just the right amount of freckles), and shimmering auburn hair that cascaded down a swanlike neck, she possessed the kind of willowy, athletic body capable of spiking volleyballs through a hardwood floor.

  It was a little before noon when I walked into the Center. A middle-aged volunteer sat at the front desk chomping on a tuna fish sandwich while reading a Maeve Binchy paperback. She looked up, licked a dab of mayonnaise from her lower lip, and nodded toward the conference room.

  I thanked her and walked across a frayed carpet to a pair of open sliding doors. Directly opposite the entrance to the boardroom was a wall featuring three rows of Irish crests that represented the family names of those who had contributed generously to the Center.

  On the north and south walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with a few sets of tooled leather bindings behind the glass cases. Nice stuff, but no match for what I hoped to find in Ted Follis’s cardboard banker boxes.

  Natalie and her daughter sat facing each other at the end of a long oak table close to the south wall. Claire, wearing her school uniform, gazed in silence at her mother, who was giving her a quiet but heated lecture.

  The pale-haired child looked pensive, but not particularly concerned by the admonition. I assumed the speech was about her performance at school. Natalie had mentioned once to Josie that the principal had threatened to hold Claire back a grade for what the school psychologist had described as “behavioral idiosyncrasies.”

  It certainly wasn’t for lack of intelligence. During weekends and school holidays she could be found at a table in the front of our store devouring books from the history, science, and even philosophy sections. Josie had cultivated her trust by suggesting titles such as David Lindberg’s The Beginnings of Western Science and listening when the young teen seemed particularly vexed about something. But we hadn’t seen her at the shop since the beginning of summer.

  I’ve mentioned Clair
e’s long, wispy hair, which was almost white, and the pale skin that seemed to scarcely cover the blue veins in her forearms. She was slender to the point of being anorexic and small-boned. She was reserved as well, but none of these things made you think she was delicate.

  In fact, there was an odd self-assurance about her as if she saw things through those piercing dark orange eyes that other people couldn’t. She had some boyish features—a strong brow, jutting chin, and small hips. The same characteristics, viewed from a different angle, however, could seem very feminine, even beautiful. To that extent there was a lot of her mother in her. But something else, too. Her father must have been an interesting-looking man.

  Claire attended Ursuline Academy, a Catholic girls’ school, at great financial sacrifice to Natalie. To help her mother with the costs, the fourteen-year-old worked three evenings a week at an assisted living home where she collected and washed soiled bedsheets. According to what she told Josie, she loved being among the old people, particularly when she could comfort those about to die.

  The Phelans lived in a rented single-story bungalow just east of Troost Avenue, behind Rockhurst University. The neighborhood had two sides to it—one moderately poor, the other moderately well-to-do. The part nearest the college was populated by caring families who were clean and gentle and well mannered. The other was rougher—dark alleys, the rat in the road, mysterious, vaguely threatening, shabby houses sheltering wife-beaters.

  It was on this unpleasant side where Claire had been raised. It was also two blocks from where I’d lived before my grandfather rescued me from my abusive dad.

  I was thinking of this when the girl’s head turned slowly and she locked her X-ray eyes on mine. Natalie, having followed Claire’s gaze, jumped up and rushed over to me.

  “Michael, darling!” she gushed as she seized my arm. “I’m so glad you weren’t scared away after the O’Halloran fiasco.”

  “On the contrary. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Oh, bosh. I’m fine. Major catastrophes I can handle; it’s the paper cuts that get me down.”