Emerson Page and Where the Light Enters

by Christa Avampato

  “You’re gonna break another pair of glasses that way,” said Oliver’s assistant, Kash, as he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “You’ve got a phone call.”

  “I told you to hold my calls,” barked Oliver.

  “Says it’s urgent,” said Kash.

  “Who says it’s urgent?”

  “Won’t give me his name. British accent. Said he knows you’re here.”

  Kash backed away from the door with his hands cocked like fake guns at Oliver, who rushed to his desk and hit the speaker button on his phone.

  “What’ve you got?” he asked.

  “And to think you weren’t going to take my call,” said the man at the other end of the line.

  “I don’t have time for games, Lachlan,” said Oliver.

  “What makes you think I’m playing a game? Oliver, this is serious business.”

  “I’ve gone through this data a million times and found nothing.”

  “Well, I guess you needed a million and one. Or maybe, despite your wit and charm and knack for seeing the vaguest connections that others miss, you just aren’t the right man for the job.”

  “What do you have, Lachlan?” Oliver yelled.

  “Sorry. This one needs to be explained in person,” said Lachlan. “But it’s big. Very big. Meet me tomorrow morning. It’s all going to hang together like one hell of a masterpiece.”

  “Where?” asked Oliver.

  “City Hall IRT station. 7 a.m.”

  “IRT? That station’s been abandoned for seventy years.”

  “Very good, Oliver. You’re catching on. Maybe your ingenuity’s going to save you after all, even if it didn’t save your pretty wife.”

  Oliver was seething now, his chest heaving as he tried to control his temper.

  “How am I even going to get in there?”

  “You’re a genius,” said Lachlan. “You’ll think of something.”

  “I’m not meeting you unless I know you’ve really got something this time.”

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this,” said Lachlan.

  “I gave up trusting you five years ago.”

  “Well, trust me or don’t,” said Lachlan. “But let’s be honest, Oliver. You’ve got nothing and I’ve got something, so I’ve got the upper hand, again. I really do wish I could tell you about it now, but I’m late for a very important date, as they say. And besides, I want to see the blood drain from your face when you see what I’ve got. That’s something I’ve been waiting a long time to see. Till tomorrow.”

  The line went dead.

  “Lachlan!” screamed Oliver. “Lachlan!”

  Oliver pounded his massive fist into his wooden desk so hard that his wedding ring left an indentation. He glared at the illuminated screens that lined his office walls as they glared back at him. What could Lachlan possibly have? And what would it cost Oliver to get it? He sat in silence, staring out the window.

  The world of priceless art and books was seedier than most people realized. A dozen experts, at most, knew the whereabouts of such items. Lachlan was one of those people. The works were often locked away in highly guarded storage units that rivaled the most secure prisons. Nothing was written down. Instead, this small handful of people held the knowledge in their minds of who owned what and where, and they used it to their advantage when people like Oliver and Jasper needed their help.

  A storm was moving in quickly. The ring of Oliver’s phone made him jump.

  “Lachlan, don’t you ever—”

  “Lachlan?” asked Jasper. “Oh, Oliver. Are we back to dealing with him again?”

  “He just called and—”

  “You’ll have to give me the details later,” said Jasper. “Now I need you here.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a visitor today at Stargrass. The scenario we feared the most—”

  A heaviness settled into Oliver’s shoulders, pushing him back down into his chair.

  “Was Emerson there?” he asked.

  “She was, but—”

  Oliver didn’t wait for Jasper’s answer. He hung up and sprinted out of the office.

  CHAPTER 3

  A PORT IN THE STORM

  Skylar, Emerson, and Friday huddled together against the wind as they fought their way along 96th Street toward Columbus Avenue. The harder the wind blew, the closer Skylar and Friday got to Emerson.

  “Who was that woman?” Emerson shouted into the wind.

  “What?” yelled Skylar.

  “Who was that—”

  “I can’t hear you,” said Skylar.

  The howling wind made talking impossible so Emerson’s questions only whirled in her mind. The book she clutched to her chest helped to anchor her attention. Trash cans toppled and rolled into the street in a frightening cacophony. Skylar steered Emerson toward the soft light in the center of the block coming from the Crooked Willow Café. Skylar pulled at the door with all her strength, but it didn’t budge. Several burly men stood up from their tables to help her. Once the door was open, the wind shoved them all into the warmth of the café.

  “That storm picked up so fast,” said Emerson, out of breath and exhausted. Skylar let out a deep exhale.

  “It surprised me, too,” she said. “There was no way we were going to make it all the way home. That wind is too strong.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Emerson. She tried to smile.

  The magic of the Crooked Willow Café momentarily took her mind off Cassandra and the storm that raged outside. The baristas, Truman right in the middle of the pack, were mad scientists using torches, glass beakers, and bubbling vessels of hot water to draw the purest coffee from the beans roasting at the back of the café. This was theater. If she closed her eyes, she felt like she was floating in the rich, intoxicating scent.

  Emerson and Skylar settled into their favorite table in the corner by the roaring stone fireplace. Friday laid down in his usual warm spot on the hearth. Skylar tapped the table and laughed; the quote etched into the surface read, “I am a willow of the wilderness, loving the wind that bent me.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “Sorry, Ralph, but that wind is bending us a bit too much for me to love it today,” said Skylar.

  “Sky, who’s Cassandra?” asked Emerson.

  “She’s just someone who thinks Grandpa gave her a bad deal on a book she sold to him.”

  “So that’s why she feels like he stole something from her?”

  “Yeah,” said Skylar. “Can’t make every customer happy.”

  “Is he going to give the book back to her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe it’s not safe for him to be there alone,” said Emerson. “What if she comes back? Would she hurt him?” Emerson started to stand, and Friday stood up next to her.

  “No, no,” said Skylar. “She’s just a cranky customer. Grandpa can handle it.” She patted Friday’s head, and he sat down again.

  “Then why did you drag me toward the back of the store when she came in?” asked Emerson. “And what did she mean when she said she’d take everything else if she didn’t get what she wanted?”

  “I didn’t want her to direct any of her anger toward you,” said Skylar.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She doesn’t like kids.”

  “It doesn’t sound like she likes anyone,” said Emerson. “How can a book be so valuable that she’d threaten Jasper like that?”

  “It’s a very rare book, one of a kind,” said Skylar. “It belonged to someone she lost a long time ago, and I think she regrets selling it.”

  “Can’t Jasper just sell it back to her?”

  “He doesn’t know who has it anymore.”

  “Well, then, she can’t possibly hold Jasper responsible,” sa
id Emerson. “I’m sure he’d help her if he could.”

  “I’m sure he tried his best,” said Skylar. A lump suddenly formed in her throat, and Skylar’s emotions surprised Emerson.

  Skylar tapped the book in Emerson’s hands. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Jasper gave it to me. He said my mom liked it when she was my age so he thought I’d like it, too.”

  Skylar ran her hand over the cover. “What’s it about?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” said Emerson. “I only had time to read what someone wrote on the inside cover. Look.” She pried open the front cover and showed it to Skylar.

  “‘Keep looking up — The Starlighter.’” Skylar smiled. “Wow. This is a very old children’s book about the magical creature who gives light to the stars every night. I haven’t seen a copy of this in years!”

  “It’s a children’s book?” Emerson asked. “Why would a children’s book have such a fancy cover?”

  “Why not?” asked Skylar. “I’ll order our drinks and then we can look through it. What do you want?”

  “Hot chocolate.”

  “And for you, young man?” Skylar said to Friday.

  “I’ll have a blueberry biscuit and a bowl of water,” Emerson said in a gruff imitation of what she always thought Friday’s voice would sound like if he could talk.

  “Coming right up!” Skylar grabbed her wallet and headed for the counter.

  Emerson wrinkled her forehead as she thought about what Cassandra had said to Jasper. Even though Skylar had brushed it off, Cassandra’s threat left Emerson feeling confused and upset. She pulled out the small notebook and pen she always kept in her back pocket and scribbled down two notes: “Cassandra at Stargrass” and “The Starlighter.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A MEETING OF TWO MINDS

  Oliver stormed through the door of Stargrass as Jasper was clearing his desk and putting everything back in its proper place before closing the shop.

  “What happened?” Oliver shouted. “Where is she?”

  Jasper stood up from his plush wingback chair. “I’m every bit as shocked as you are, Oliver,” he said.

  “Where did she go?” Oliver asked as he furiously paced in front of Jasper’s desk.

  “Skylar took Emerson home—” Jasper started.

  “And what about Cassandra?” asked Oliver.

  “She crossed the street after she left and went down into the subway. That’s all I know.”

  “Lachlan must know something about how Cassandra rebuilt herself and what she’s planning,” said Oliver. “That has to be what he wants to show me tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” asked Jasper.

  “He said he has something big to share with me and that I have to meet him at the IRT station in the morning.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Neither do I, but I don’t think I have a choice, especially not now.”

  “I know you’re fond of working alone, but you can’t this time,” said Jasper. “I’ve got to go with you.”

  “Lachlan won’t stand for that. The second he sees you, he’ll disappear. We need to know what he knows.”

  “I agree, but it’s too risky this way,” said Jasper. “He could be delivering you right into Cassandra’s hands for all we know. She’s a jumble of parts now, Oliver. Some human. Mostly machine. Physically, even you are no match for her.”

  “I find that a bit insulting.”

  “Better insulted than dead,” said Jasper as he sat back down at his desk.

  Oliver sat in the chair across from him. “Truman left her years ago, so who could be helping her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jasper. “No one from the Council’s heard a whisper about her in the past five years. I asked all of them. Have Kash dig deeper and find someone who still has a close connection to her.”

  “No,” said Oliver. “I can’t risk Kash knowing about this.”

  “Do you think he’s still loyal to Cassandra?”

  “I don’t know,” said Oliver. “But I know I have to keep him close.”

  “So you think a swine like Lachlan is telling you the truth and your assistant isn’t?”

  “Lachlan didn’t betray my wife!” Oliver shouted.

  “You don’t know that Kash did either,” said Jasper, matching Oliver’s intensity but not his volume.

  “I know someone did. Someone in that filthy hole Cassandra calls a home betrayed Nora, betrayed me, and betrayed you.”

  “If you don’t trust Kash, then why keep him around at all?”

  “Because I like my enemies where I can see them,” said Oliver. “That’s what you should’ve done with Cassandra.”

  Jasper glared at him but didn’t argue. Oliver got up from the chair, walked over to the standing globe of the world that stood in the corner, and spun it hard several times.

  “I’m sorry, Jasper. It’s not fair of me to say that.”

  “It’s not fair, but it’s true.”

  Oliver turned to face Jasper. “There was no way you could have known,” he said.

  “Of course there was,” said Jasper as his voice grew soft and laden with regret. “For years I knew Cassandra was growing angrier and angrier. I thought what she needed was more space when what she really needed was more support.”

  Oliver flopped back down into the chair, the heaviness returning to his shoulders.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “Emerson has to go into hiding and quickly,” Jasper said. “As soon as we can move her. Until then, she needs to be under constant watch. She can’t be left alone. Not for a moment.”

  “What do you mean move her?” Oliver asked. “Move her where?”

  “The Council will meet tomorrow night to create a plan. I’ve already set it up.”

  “No one’s making any decision about my daughter except me,” said Oliver.

  An emergency alert from both of their phones silenced him.

  “‘Mass rioting and looting at 96th Street and Columbus,’” Jasper read as he looked at the screen. “‘Avoid this area and take cover inside a safe location.’”

  “The Crooked Willow,” said Oliver.

  Without another word, they blasted through the door of Stargrass and out onto the street. A roar of human voices rivaled the howling wind. Oliver sped toward a mob of people a few blocks away. They were carrying baseball bats, lighting firecrackers, and knocking down everything and everyone in their path. A flood of people ran in the other direction, away from the violence.

  Jasper raised his hand high into the air, and the steel doors slammed shut to seal off the front entrance to Stargrass. The sky was painted the color of chaos.

  CHAPTER 5

  HOPE GROWS FROM THE GROUND UP

  Locals and travelers knew the Crooked Willow Café as a crossroads where people from all walks of life were always welcomed as old friends. Anyone could walk through its doors at any moment. It was aptly named for the towering willow tree with a crooked trunk that dominated the center of the café. The willow was covered with twisted vines and surrounded by a shallow ring of running water. Samuel Ohana, the larger-than-life owner of the café, had nailed a hand-lettered sign onto the tree that read: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” —Kahlil Gibran

  Samuel trimmed the new shoots from the willow’s trunk as he made his rounds to greet everyone with his signature wide smile and bear hugs. He reminded Skylar of a Hawaiian Santa Claus in stature and demeanor. He celebrated every day like it was Christmas. Everyone admired his resilience. After his only son, David, died five years ago in what they now called The Struggle, Samuel fell into a depression so severe that he checked himself into a hospital. There he learned about the stages of grief and came across a legend that said a willow tree provides
protection and healing from loss to the person who cares for it.

  After his recovery, Samuel returned home and immediately planted a young willow branch in his backyard. It took root, and within weeks it was growing at an alarming rate. Reporters from across the country came to his house to watch it grow before their eyes. Samuel attributed the confounding growth to David’s spirit, which he believed lived within the tree. The shade of the tree gave him comfort, and rather than keep that comfort to himself, Samuel built the café around it and covered it with white lights that gave the whole room a constant, soft glow.

  From that moment on, the café never closed. It became the only one of its kind in New York that was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Samuel knew firsthand that the hardest hours for grief are in the dead of night when everything’s closed and everyone’s gone home. Samuel kept the café open and the lights on so that no one ever felt alone. If someone couldn’t afford a cup of coffee or something to eat, Samuel provided it free of charge, no questions asked. Here, everyone belonged.

  Once the word got out about his story, people all over the world sent Samuel letters about their own grieving. He started cutting the shoots from the tree’s trunk and sending them to the people who wrote to him. He also sent instructions for planting the shoots and growing their own willow trees. He lined the walls of the café with photographs of these people pictured with what they called their “David Willows.”

  Skylar smiled as she thought about David and how brave he was right to the end.

  “Can I take your order, miss?” asked Truman from behind the counter.

  His hummingbird tattoos, one green and one blue, danced along his forearm as he whipped through drink orders. All of his movements were efficient, sleek, skillful, and purposeful, like choreography.

  “One hot chocolate with a sprinkle of salt. One blueberry dog biscuit with a cup of water. And a triple shot of espresso in a large regular coffee,” said Skylar, and then she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “And I need to talk to you.”