The Widow's Son

by Thomas Shawver

  We were a half mile or so from reaching the parking lot entrance of Adam-ondi-Ahman when a shot rang out and the back window exploded. Anguished cries engulfed the Chevy as the shattered glass spattered over Natalie and Claire. I pounded the steering wheel while uttering a string of obscenities and floored the accelerator. The car leapt forward and I thought for a moment we were out of range, but a second burst soon destroyed a front tire.

  The tortured sound of flayed rubber slapping against the side panels accompanied the car’s violent swerve to the left while I struggled with every sinew to maintain control. But there was no stopping two tons of skidding steel going sixty miles per hour on a loose gravel road. The car smashed through a rail fence, hurtled over an embankment and rolled twice before landing on the driver’s side in a splintering crash of metal and glass.

  Radiator steam poured from the hood. The pungent odor of gasoline filled the interior. Blood trickled from an ear as I fought to clear my head. A heavy groan from behind brought me to my senses. I slid from behind the steeling wheel and shifted my body to peer into the back.

  Natalie, her right forearm dangling unnaturally, lay crumpled against her daughter.

  “Can either of you hear me?” I asked softly. “We must get out. Now.”

  Natalie’s body stiffened. She moaned, “How…Claire?”

  A few heartbeats later we heard a stoic voice whisper: “I’m okay. I…I think.”

  “Good girl,” I said, while stretching up to reach the rear door handle. “You’ll have to help me get your mother out.”

  The latch clicked, but the door didn’t budge.

  The growing pool of gasoline at my feet provided all the motivation I needed to try again. Bursting with adrenaline, I braced my feet against the floorboards and shot upward, ramming my shoulder against the door panel directly under the lock.

  I heard something crack. Instead of my collarbone being broken—given the pain resulting from my effort, that was my first thought—the noise was of metal or plastic jolted loose within the door. A slight tremor reverberated throughout the framework of the car. Then, as I reached again for the door handle, a sudden shift of balance made the effort unnecessary.

  The effect of my weight slamming into the door had tipped the Chevy so that it landed right-side-up. The resulting impact opened the door and, after climbing out, I gently reached under Natalie’s shoulders. Ignoring her desperate groans and with Claire helping from behind, we eased her from the car. I held her upright as she struggled to stand by herself. The bottom half of her dress was soaked with gasoline.

  I looked into her tense white face. Her eyes were fathomless at first, but soon the blankness left and she held my gaze.

  “Buck up, woman,” I hissed. “Your arm is broken, not your legs. We’ve got to move.”

  Natalie, her mouth clamped shut, took a tentative step, then another, and we scrambled into a field of sunflowers before she collapsed in agony.

  Although it seemed like an eternity, less than a couple of minutes had elapsed since the crash and, while free of the fire danger, we hadn’t made it to the cover of trees. To confirm our perilous situation, a new round of bullets zipped through the yellow petals near my head.

  “Run, Claire,” I urged as we ducked among the sunflowers.

  “Not this time.”

  “You must,” I said.

  Another round buzzed over our heads like mad hornets. It only made her more adamant.

  “I’m not leaving her this time.”

  I nodded in resignation. There would be no more miracles. The girl lay protectively by her mother while I crouched in front of them, knife in hand, and waited for the avenging angels.

  —

  Some say hope is only a gentler name for fear, but I’ll take it anytime over despair. When times are at their rawest, I’ve always been willing to grasp at any shadow, especially now when I heard sirens wailing in the distance.

  I saw the rotating sapphire and red lights of the highway patrol cars a few minutes later. They were a quarter of a mile away, speeding in the direction of the altar. I dashed for the road just as the first cruiser barreled over the rise. I leapt into the road desperately waving my hands. Three more cruisers sped past without slowing, but the fourth slid to a stop in front of me.

  Squinting over the glare of the headlights, I saw Trooper Buzard behind the wheel.

  And Josie Majansik riding shotgun.

  Chapter 33

  If the axiom is true that marriages are best made of dissimilar material, the union of Emery and Natalie promised to be everlasting. Still, Josie tells me I shouldn’t have said it at their reception. I reminded her that wit is an essential element when giving the Best Man speech.

  “There’s a thin line between wit and insolence,” my beloved said.

  “It got a laugh.”

  “A laugh. One. From Natalie, not Emery.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Oh, Bevan. You may have grown tall, but you’ve yet to grow up.”

  I took that as a compliment.

  —

  It seemed like everyone in the Irish community had nothing better to do that August afternoon than come down to the Celtic Center to watch a Jack Mormon exchange vows with a lapsed Catholic. Kansas City paddies weren’t the only ones in attendance, however.

  There was the usual contingent of Riverrun Irregulars and a scrum’s worth of ruggers; the latter enticed by rumors of free food, booze, and sprightly Irish dancers. Joe Tuitama arrived with a basket of fruit and fifteen flower-bedecked relatives who promptly settled in a circle and chattered among themselves in Samoan. Opposite them in a far corner of the library under a Celtic cross, Buford Higgins and Trooper Buzard yukked it up over God knows what—probably the $900 traffic ticket I had yet to pay, pending appeal. It seems Buford had once taken Lenny Buzard upon his wing when the trooper was just a sixteen-year-old hell-raiser who’d spent time in juvenile detention. Good thing, too, since it was Buford who confirmed Josie’s bona fides to Buzard when she flagged down the latter’s patrol car for help.

  Emery’s parents had returned to Utah, but not before giving the couple a new convertible as a wedding present.

  Not surprisingly, Emery’s other relatives were conspicuously absent. Uncle Lamar had died from loss of blood soon after being scooped off the altar at Adam-ondi-Ahman. As for the Danite boys, Seth and Jacob sat in the Daviess County jail awaiting trial for kidnapping, murder, child endangerment, and a dozen other counts. They were represented by a public defender, no one in their extended families wishing or able to pay for their defense.

  It’s not as if they were missed for the wedding.

  At one o’clock a bell was rung and the crowd took their seats. Sandra Epstein played “Red is the Rose” on her flute as Natalie and Emery walked hand in hand to the front of the room.

  On the one day when most women indulge in excessive dress—jewelry, makeup, and fancy lace—Natalie had chosen the opposite. With her arm encased in a fiberglass cast, it would have looked ridiculous to parade in a traditional flowing gown. But I think she would have chosen this understated look no matter what. It fit the change in her.

  The only adornments she wore were tiny, imperfect natural pearl earrings. Her pale blue dress with its subtle V-neck and delicate cap sleeves fit her tall, lissome figure beautifully—Barbara Scanlon, a seamstress in Parkville, had personally seen to that. Natalie’s auburn hair lay curtained over her shoulder in a gentle braid. Her skin was radiant and fresh, the freckles across the bridge of her nose adding a charming definition to her rosy complexion. There was no flamboyant nail polish today— just simple, open hands reaching out to Emery.

  As stunning as her outfit was, the feature most striking was her expression of complete and utter joy.

  The ceremony conducted by a Unitarian minister was as touching and dignified as it was brief. In contrast to the radiant beauty standing beside him, however, Emery looked like death warmed over. It wasn’t because of his injuries
—he was close to a full recovery—but from the sheer horror of being the center of attention in front of two hundred people.

  When I mentioned this to Josie, she whispered, “On the contrary; I find such diffidence extremely attractive in a man, particularly one so bright. I also suspect a sexual dynamo lurks beneath that shy facade.”

  She followed that with a dart aimed at my ego—something about “envy being another form of praise.” Then, as if to prove her point, when the “I dos” were exchanged and the pronouncing done, Emery swept his bride into his arms and planted a kiss on her that made even me blush.

  Some people have no sense of shame.

  —

  While Josie and I stood in line for wedding cake, a ruddy-faced man with a chest like a pouter pigeon and enormous hands introduced himself to us. His name was Ezekiel Larsen, the caretaker at Adam-ondi-Ahman, whom Emery had made a special point to invite.

  “It grieved me to learn of the trouble you experienced on our grounds,” Larsen said, with only the slightest emphasis on the “our.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his business card. “Please consider a return visit under more favorable circumstances. We try our best to maintain a tranquil atmosphere of peace and quiet reflection.”

  Voices don’t always match faces, but Larsen’s did. Both were warm and inviting.

  After thanking him and apologizing for whatever part we played in bringing notoriety to such a sacred place, he assured us the Church was grateful that we had thwarted an unspeakable crime.

  “By the way,” Josie added, “we were impressed with the young missionary we met when we first arrived at the property. She was obviously dedicated to her job and very helpful to us.”

  Larsen looked perplexed. “She? You mean the lad, don’t you? Willy Tanner, from Utah?”

  “Oh, no,” responded Josie. “It was a young woman, absolutely. She had lovely blond hair tied back with a red cloth and was picking up litter along the gravel road. I distinctly remember her long blue skirt, which struck me as a little odd for such a hot day; but she looked very official, if not somewhat distant.”

  I chimed in: “It was getting dark and she cautioned that the gates would soon close. But when I asked where we could find Tower Hill she seemed to take on a different persona and didn’t hesitate to give directions. She even advised there would be a full moon that night.”

  The caretaker’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’ve had no women on mission this year— only Willy and another young man who didn’t start until this month.”

  The color rose in his cheeks. “Furthermore,” he said, his voice rising, “I’m certain that Willy Tanner would never have brought a female guest to the property during his mission service. We have very strict rules about that. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Josie and I exchanged looks. There was no point in trying to convince him.

  Starting to reach for a slice of cake to give to him, Josie asked, “Chocolate or vanilla?”

  “Neither, thank you,” he replied, patting his ample stomach. “Now, if you folks will excuse me, I’m off to congratulate the newlyweds.”

  Josie picked up a piece of vanilla after he’d gone.

  “What just happened here?” she asked. “I remember that girl as if I saw her yesterday.”

  “Beats me,” I said. “All I know is that we could use a drink.”

  “You go ahead,” Josie told me. “The last thing I want is for my mind to get any fuzzier.”

  —

  Wandering to the bar, I saw Renata Wormington, the curator at the Spencer Library. It was the first time I’d seen her since we’d met at the scene of the fire in Lawrence.

  She thanked me for helping recover at least some of the books Mr. Tate stole from Eulalia Darp, adding, “God only knows what he sold over the years.”

  “I was just trying to stay alive. What did you find at his place?”

  “Some interesting books were packed in his tiny apartment, but few were particularly outstanding. Most involved Native American history. The values ranged from five hundred to a thousand dollars, with a few notable exceptions. There was a very nice two-volume, third edition of Manners, Customs, and Conditions of the North American Indians by George Catlin, for example, and a nice association copy of The Vanishing American by Zane Grey, which the author had inscribed to his niece. Tate even kept a Chippewa Bible. I wonder how things might have been different if Eula had shown him more appreciation.”

  Remembering how the evil brute had ordered me to dig my own grave, I thought Ms. Wormington was being a tad generous. But it didn’t seem the right moment to suggest Stormin’ Norman was the last person to deserve a helping hand.

  “I’m glad what survived will go to the Spencer,” I said instead.

  “Yes, we should be grateful for that.” She sighed. “But it tears me apart thinking of how much was lost in the fire.”

  After the barkeep had poured our two pints, Renata suggested that I join her in a corner.

  “I heard you recovered the inscribed Book of Mormon. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I was certain it had been lost in the blaze.”

  “What does Emery Stagg intend to do with it now?”

  “He’s agreed to sell it to the Harold Lee Library at BYU for two hundred thousand dollars. He feels it’s the least he can do for the trouble his family has caused.”

  “He’s not exactly giving it away.”

  “Yes and no. He and Natalie are keeping ninety percent, but giving $20,000 to the Celtic Heritage Center.”

  “What about your commission?”

  I smiled. “Renata, after all that’s happened, that’s the last thing I care about having. Call it my wedding gift to Natalie and Emery.”

  “Well, maybe I can add a little more sunlight to your day.”

  I held her pint while she fussed around in her purse, finally pulling out an envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  “The copy of a letter I sent along with Eulalia’s endorsement for your admittance to the ABAA.”

  “Eulalia’s endorsement?”

  “Yes. The dear old thing gave it to me—while asking me to endorse you as well—the day before she died. You know how meticulous about those things she was. You’ll be getting official notification from the Board next week.”

  And that kind of news had me floating on a cloud into the main room where Aidan Delahunt was serenading the newlyweds with a beautiful rendition of Van Morrison’s “Irish Heartbeat.”

  I found Josie, held her by the waist, and together we mouthed the words sung by the troubadour:

  “Oh, won’t you stay,

  Stay a while with your own ones

  Don’t ever stray

  Stray so far from your own ones

  ’Cause the world is so cold…”

  —

  The song ended with champagne and all manner of toasts and congratulations, but before people began filing out, Emery walked onto the low stage—the very one upon which Liam O’Halloran had danced his last.

  For a moment, he appeared discombobulated. His head dipped and his thoughts seemed to desert him. After gazing at the throng for an interminable minute, however, he summoned Natalie and Claire to his side. Clearing his throat, he thanked everyone for coming, and proceeded to say what was in his heart to the hushed crowd:

  “Getting what you most desire is never easy. You constantly explore options that you think you need to obtain happiness—a good career, a fine house, a belief in something. But what we truly want visits us only in our dreams…”

  Emery seemed to draw life from his words. After pausing to catch his breath, he resumed in a voice that had deepened and grown stronger.

  “I always yearned for a family to call my own. For one reason or another, however, it eluded me. Fulfillment, I thought, must lie elsewhere. Years passed and the dream was replaced by a far less noble obsession. I’d forgotten it, but the dream did no
t forget me.”

  Then, spreading his arms around his new wife and stepdaughter, Emery bestowed a blessing upon them that managed to clog the tear ducts of even the ruggers in the audience.

  “Natalie, Claire, mo chuisle, mo chroi, is tu mo ghra.” Irish for “my pulse, my heart, I love you.”

  “What did I tell ya?” Josie said, her voice quavering as we headed from the Center to our car. “Natalie’s the lucky one.”

  Chapter 34

  September arrived and the Aspen Ruggerfest loomed—not to mention our own upcoming nuptials.

  All things considered, life was looking rosier than a Laplander’s bottom. Not only had everyone I cared about survived, but Emery Stagg’s rare Mormon book had been recovered, along with my reputation. I was about to become a member of the Antiquarian Book Association of America with all the honors and privileges that entailed, and I wasn’t required to sell a fourth of Riverrun’s inventory overnight just to stay afloat.

  And lest one forget the complication involving my familial relations, even that seemed to have worked itself out.

  Surprised as Alice Winter was to discover that my daughter Annie batted for the other team—Alice’s phrase, not mine—she was thrilled that the kids could remain close and still keep Mark’s paternity a secret. It didn’t matter that maintaining that last fantasy was like putting retreads on tires sure to come off five thousand highway miles later; it satisfied everyone for the time being.

  “Yes, life is good,” I muttered in our upstairs bedroom as I packed cleats, mouth guard, surgical tape, Icy Hot gel, shorts, and Vaseline into my rugby kit bag.

  Josie looked up from her suitcase that held an assortment of nylon stockings, lacy silk undergarments, and a bridal garter.

  “What’d you say, darling?”

  “I was thinking how lucky we are.”

  “We sure are.” She stuffed a pair of hiking boots next to her high-heeled shoes, then asked: “Did you confirm the time with the minister?”