Free The Widow's Son by Thomas Shawver Page B

questions when it came to the women in my life—it’s one of her many fine qualities—and, after ushering Alice out of the shop (with a fifty-dollar check for the institute), she ushered me back to the area where a bladder-relieved Emery Stagg awaited.

Chapter 8
    “You look a little peaked,” Emery observed, pouring himself another cup of java. After a lifetime of abstinence the man had clearly become an addict. “Anything wrong?”
    “It’s nothing, a slight matter of wind. Cabbage for dinner last night.”
    His eyeballs shifted briefly upward in an expression of bemused sympathy.
    Whether it was my sign of discomfort or his relief at being finally able to unload his dark secret to someone besides Natalie, Emery relaxed and became more personable. Before returning to the tale of indoctrination at his uncle’s camp, he prattled on about the joys of engineering. Obviously, he was the kind of guy who could no more stem his natural curiosity in science and mechanics than he could stop breathing.
    “I remember being five years old,” he said, “and wondering how everyday products worked. If something didn’t, such as a loose bicycle chain, I looked for the simplest solution to the problem, not stopping until I solved it. I still find myself imagining how I might redesign a toaster or trash compactor to work more effectively. The trouble is that one idea invariably leads to another until my version expands into an entire kitchen or industrial recycling unit. Hours later I realize I’ve wasted an entire Sunday on something that will never be produced.”
    “You must like your job with Becker Systems,” I said.
    “I do. Certainly, it’s more than a paycheck. At least for now. But I can do soils engineering with my eyes closed. My real interest is with fluid dynamics, the physics of geological processes. Dr. Becker lets me fiddle with some open-source programs from time to time. I’ve created a program that models the complex flows of air and water…”
    This went on for an extra ten minutes before the lecture ended with the arrival at the shop of Natalie and her daughter. The girl looked around anxiously, but brightened when she saw Josie coming toward the counter with an armful of books.
    “It’s Princess Claire!” Josie proclaimed, equally happy to see the kid sidling up to help her.
    Natalie viewed the warm exchange with barely disguised jealousy, to which the two were oblivious. The pair headed downstairs, and I heard Claire squeal with delight when Josie mentioned having recently seen a fox in our garden.
    “ ‘Princess Claire,’ my arse,” Natalie murmured to herself, shaking her head. Then, noticing Emery and me, she pasted on a smile.
    “How’s it going, boys? Solved the world’s problems yet?”
    “Not quite,” I said. “Emery was telling me how he and his two cousins got pulled into this blood atonement thing.”
    “Lamar Stagg was a piece of work, wasn’t he?”
    Emery frowned at her. “My uncle has his faults, but —”
    “Faults? Jesus, the guy is a sadistic nutcase! Why don’t you get to the nitty-gritty, Em? I’m going to say good-bye to Claire—that’s if Majansik will let me—then I must return to the Center. The cast for the Bloomsday play is coming in to rehearse at three o’clock and I have to get twenty scripts printed. Don’t forget to show him the Bible—or whatever the hell it is.”
    With that she followed the sounds of Josie and Claire’s laughter downstairs.
    “Where was I?” Emery asked when she had gone.
    “You’d placed your hands on the bones of your ancestor as part of the initiation,” I prompted.
    “Yeah, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “The next day my aunt returned and surprised us with a party. No mention was made of the ceremony the night before. The cars that had brought the witnesses were gone. After the cake and ice cream, Lamar made a little speech. He was a far different man from the night before. Now, he spoke of love and goodwill,