The Widow's Son (7 page)

Emery's voice suddenly altered as if he were having an out-of-body experience—for all I know, maybe he was. Whatever the case, I have no doubt that what I heard next were the exact words declared to him and his two cousins.

“ ‘There are sins that men commit for which they cannot receive forgiveness in this world, or in that which is to come, and if they had their eyes open to see their true condition, they would be perfectly willing to have their blood spilt upon the ground, that the smoke thereof might ascend to heaven as an offering for their sins; and the smoking incense would atone for their sins, whereas, if such is not the case, they will stick to them and remain upon them in the spirit world…There are sins that can be atoned for by an offering upon an altar, as in ancient days; and there are sins that the blood of a lamb, or a calf, or of turtle dove, cannot remit, but they must be atoned for by the blood of man.'
 
”

Emery reverted to his regular voice to explain. “I'd heard the blood atonement speech before, but until then it had always been mentioned as a parable or a theoretical principle, like the gruesome penalties of the Old Testament that no one took seriously anymore. Now, however, I understood that everyone standing before us in that chamber meant to apply this chilling doctrine literally.

“We next heard three taps of a cane on the floor, followed by a different tapping in response and the ringing of a bell. A new voice commanded the three of us to join hands and recite the old Mormon oath.

“ ‘We and each of us,' ”
we began,
“ ‘do covenant and promise that we will not reveal the secrets of this…'

“ ‘
Investiture
,' the voice cued helpfully.

“
 
‘…investiture. Should we do so, we agree to have our breasts cut open and our hearts and vitals torn from our bodies.'
 
”

Cripes,
I thought. And this time I really did shudder.

“My uncle then declared:

“ ‘Behold the chosen three, each born of the Covenant to the sixth generation of our forefather Alonzo Stagg, a most noble Saint, yet who failed in his sacred duty to protect the Prophet Joseph Smith and whose soul cannot rest until the final seed of the great betrayer Thomas Ford is destroyed.'

“We were told to bow our heads while hands from behind us removed the blindfolds. I thought we were to pray. Instead, we stood gazing into an open coffin. It held a skeleton fully clothed in well-worn boots, brown dungarees, a yellowed white shirt with string tie, and a black felt hat. Two candles at each end of the coffin illuminated the scene, their flickering shadows creating an illusion of movement by the bones.

“Denny whispered a prayer and Porter muttered an oath. Then a voice, deeper even than my uncle's and far more chilling, filled the room:

“ ‘I am the body and suffering spirit of your great-great-grandfather, Alonzo Stagg. I was the Prophet's bodyguard, but failed to protect him from Thomas Ford, who by lies and treachery led Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum to their martyrdom. For that I vowed to kill him and for my seed to destroy his seed to the sixth generation. Seven years after the murder of the Prophet, Thomas Ford met his fate at my hand. Thus endeth my part in retribution for my negligence and his great sin.'

“Hands upon our shoulders guided us to the left to gaze into another similarly lit coffin in which lay another skeleton dressed in clothes from a different era. A different voice, higher in tone and less sure of itself, spoke from behind us.

“ ‘I am the earthly remains and heavenly spirit of your great-grandfather Charles Stagg. Of his ten sons by his fifth wife, Martha, I was chosen to continue the sacred weeding of the betrayer's seed. Thomas Ford had two sons and three daughters. The sons became cattle rustlers in Kansas and were caught by vigilantes. The first was tried and hung for his crimes, but the second son attempted to escape. I pulled him from his horse and slit his throat. Thus endeth my part in retribution for my father's negligence and Thomas Ford's great sin.'

“I feared that the bones in the next coffin to be shown would be that of my beloved grandfather. Instead, it was the grand-uncle to the three of us, a man who had sired twelve children and worn out four wives before dying in bed on top of a fifth. The raspy voice portraying him was that of a brittle old man.

“ ‘I am the earthly remains and heavenly spirit of William Stagg, son of Charles Stagg, grandson of Alonzo Stagg. I was chosen for this sacred duty when my cousin George Reed died of the influenza epidemic. A surviving daughter of Thomas Ford had three children. Julia, the firstborn, died during the same epidemic that took my cousin. Her sister, Katherine, became a Catholic nun. The third was named Louise. She married and produced two male children. I fulfilled my duty by killing the nun as she worked alone in the pantry of her church. Her throat was cut and her blood spilled upon the ground. Because she was a good and holy woman, I pledged five hundred dollars to our temple in her name and performed the endowment ceremony on her behalf so that she might enter the heavenly kingdom of the Saints.'

“We were turned again to stand in front of an empty coffin behind which stood Uncle Lamar in his white flannel garments with a cowl over his head. He held a lit candle in one hand and a butcher knife in the other.

“ ‘I am the great-grandson of Alonzo Stagg, grandson of Charles Stagg and son of Llewellyn Stagg. I was taught in the Danite Bond, initiated into this sacred and most mysterious order by my uncle William. The betrayer Ford's great-granddaughter Louise married Bertrand Delaney. They had two children, James and Theodore Delaney. I chose James for atonement, first wounding him with an arrow shot from my bow as he hunted in Alaska's Denali National Forest. I slit his throat and spilled his blood upon the earth. Thus endeth my part in retribution for my great-grandfather's negligence and Thomas Ford's great sin.'
 
”

“There followed another grim tale of assassination, then another turn that completed the circle so that we once again faced the bones of Alonzo Stagg, the man who had uttered the original curse. A dozen hooded men now stood behind his coffin. Each held a candle and a butcher knife. I wondered if my father was among them, but all my instincts told me he would not be part of this cabal. Uncle Lamar spoke for the others.

“ ‘One of you will be called upon to remove the last seed of the betrayer Thomas Ford. His great-great-grandson, Theodore Delaney, has produced a son named Stephen and a daughter Natalie, who is presently ten years of age. The boy is an unsuitable target as he is mentally defective. The girl, however, is healthy, and is to be released from this earthly coil upon reaching her majority. The duty entrusted to you is unpleasant, but necessary. Should you fail, the efforts of all who have come before will be for naught. Your punishment and shame will attend to you and all your seed.

“ ‘Hear now our decree. Porter Grint, descended from Porter Rockwell, is the chosen avenger. Should he be unable to complete his task because of illness, death, or other circumstances, Dennis Dietz will be called upon. Similarly, Emery Stagg will be Brother Dietz's alternate.

“ ‘Place your hands upon the heart of Alonzo Stagg and take the oath of blood atonement. In so doing you will purge your ancestor of his shame and free all the Fords, living and dead, of the enmity that has cost them an afterlife in heaven.'

“We placed our hands on the bony chest and repeated the oath. As if we had a choice.”

Emery, in another breach of Mormon edicts, had been drinking coffee from a thermos bottle all this time and called time-out for a bathroom break. I went over to the counter to see how Josie was faring.

“There was quite a rush for a while,” she reported. “Nothing I couldn't handle. You might want to look at the fourteen-volume set of Oscar Wilde's works that Kieran Hennessey brought in. It's the 1908 limited edition signed by Robert Ross. Could be worth something.”

No kidding, I thought. Ross, the longtime editor and literary executor for Wilde, had secured the copyrights for the writer's estate and was responsible for resurrecting his literary reputation. This extremely rare set was personally handed out by Ross to four hundred of Wilde's friends at a banquet held eight years after the author's lonely death in Paris. Depending on condition, it could be worth three thousand dollars.

“Also,” she said, “Muldoon wanted to know where you stood on Scottish independence.”

“Doesn't he know they voted and his side lost?”

“Humor him. He's in the medieval section.”

“Think I'll take a peek at the Wilde books first,” I said.

I had just opened the first volume when Alice Winter charged into the store like a termagant from hell, scattering customers in her wake.

“A word, Bevan! I
demand
a word with you!”

I rushed from behind the counter.

“What in God's name is the matter?” I whispered, sidling up to her. “You're upsetting the clientele.”

“To hell with them. We have to get this settled.”

“Get what settled?”

“You know damn well. Your daughter, my son.”

Josie appeared then, quietly suggesting that the two of us take our discussion downstairs. This took some of the flame out of Alice's eyes and, after asking Josie to tell Emery I would return shortly, we headed down the stairs.

I'd barely stepped off the last step when Alice snatched me by the collar and stuck her face in mine.

“I told you a month ago that Annie is not to see Mark,” she hissed, squeezing the back of my shirt as if it were a noose.

“Then I suggest you tell your son to cancel his trip to Aspen.”

This went over as well as you'd expect, leading to a stamping of feet, gnashing of teeth, and everything else short of a dagger in my ribs.

Finally, she calmed down enough for me to get a word in without setting off another eruption.

“You, of all people, know how headstrong my daughter is, Alice. Even if I wanted to interfere—and I don't—she'd never listen to me. Why do you suddenly hate her?”

Alice released her grip and turned away. Her shoulders heaved and the next thing I heard was an anguished cry. She turned back to me with a look of utter despair.

Impulsively, I took her in my arms and, using her childhood nickname, asked, “What is it, Pigeon? Really? We've been friends far too long for this to come between us.”

“You know I could never hate Annie. I'm happy for what she's been able to overcome.”

“Then what is it? Is it me?”

She sighed heavily. “In a way, yes.” Then, as if coming to a momentous decision, she said, “I don't suppose you've forgotten our last night together.”

“When? You mean before I returned to Camp Lejeune? That was nearly a quarter century ago.”

“Yes.”

“Vaguely,” I replied. Then, scanning my memory bank further, I said, “It was my last day of holiday leave. I recall our parting was rather bittersweet.”

A slow flush crossed her face and her eyes turned hard.

“That's one way of putting it,” she said. “Your Christmas present to me was to say you intended to marry someone else.”

I searched her expression for a hint of where she was going with this. I'd thought the matter had been settled long ago. She and my late wife, Carol, had even become friends.

“Yeah. We were both pretty miserable that night.”

“Not as miserable as I was.”

“It had been a long time coming, Pidge.”

“Would you please not call me that anymore?”

“Sorry. But as I recall, you'd been seeing Tim. Our affair was over by then.”

Alice looked up at me slyly.

“Not entirely,” she said.

No doubt you've already guessed where she was going with this. But you can't imagine the shock I felt. Suddenly, the years peeled away and I recalled us sitting before a log fire on the veranda of her father's penthouse apartment. A heavy snowstorm had turned the shopping district into a Norman Rockwell postcard. A hundred feet below us, the Spanish-tiled buildings were silhouetted in brightly colored Christmas lights and the sidewalks bustled with thousands of holiday shoppers.

I'd put off giving her the news of my engagement until my final night in Kansas City and I had brought along a couple of bottles of wine for Dutch courage. Alice and I had been hurling recriminations concerning each other's infidelities throughout the week, but that evening, probably because she sensed what was in the air, it had been like old times when we were just kids who happened to be good friends.

Finally, I put all doubts to rest by telling her of my intent to marry Carol, the daughter of a British colonel I'd met at Camp Lejeune. After an awkward silence, we shared old stories and munched popcorn between voluminous sips of Pinot Noir. It had gone as well as I'd hoped, but when the time came for me to depart, our favorite song, Simply Red's “
Holding Back the Years
,” came on the radio.

As has been previously noted, Alice hid a remarkably passionate nature under that wholesome peaches-and-cream exterior. My head was swimming with drink at the time, but I remember how the song had caused us both to blub tears of nostalgia and how she, while heaving those wondrous bosoms, declared how the “new girl” must be wonderful; and how I responded that “she'd have to be to replace you”—which did not help my case in the least because it set the waterworks flowing again—and then we were clutching each other and she reminded me that her father was out of town and—oh, shit!

Math is not my strong suit. But the frantic calculations I performed twenty-some years later in the basement of Riverrun would have put Alan Turing to shame as I counted the months from that last coital union with Alice.

The tyke arrived in September.

She soon confirmed my worst fears. She had discovered she was pregnant with Mark, she told me, the following month—on Martin Luther King Day, no less! She'd been intimate with Tim before that night, but ever practical, she'd had the foresight to have sex with him on New Year's Eve, ten days after our tryst. It provided a convenient cover for her wedding to him four months later—a shotgun event that her father never forgave poor Winter for supposedly causing.

“Why so sure it was me?” I asked, feeling a curious mixture of shock, incredulity, and delight. After all, it's not every day you wake up to find a twenty-one-year-old son in your bassinet; and I couldn't have found a better one than young Mr.—er—Winter.

“Mark's an only child,” Alice answered, “and it's certainly not from a lack of Tim's efforts—or mine—to have another.”

I'd watched Mark grow from a hyperactive little kid through surly adolescence and growing maturity in high school and never noticed a Bevan resemblance. I rarely saw him after he went off to college. But now, recalling the young man I'd seen the previous day at the law school, I'll be damned if it wasn't like looking in a mirror half a lifetime ago. For one thing, he was a couple of inches over six feet; slightly less than my height, but close enough. Then there was that widow's peak and the Bevan floppy earlobes and—Christ! How could I have not connected the dots before?—his feet were at least a size fourteen.

My fraternity brothers hadn't called me “L-Body” for nothing.

“Does he suspect anything?” I asked.

“No one knows except for us. I expect you to keep it that way. Don't even think of attempting a DNA test.”

Those last words were accompanied by a glare that would have frozen mercury.

“But that's not fair to either of those kids. They have the right—”

“Screw their rights! The truth is too much for any of us to bear, Mike. Think of what this would do to Tim if he should ever know.”

She had a point there. My former law partner wasn't currently on my list of favorite people, but the one thing the Winter marriage had going for it was their deep affection for Mark. Add to that the fact that Tim was the only father—and a damn good one at that—the boy had ever known. Who was I to pull back the curtain from a lifetime of parental devotion and love?

Of course, all this was nothing compared to the effect on our two kids if they actually decided to engage in…Ah, Christ! What a mess.

I gave a little cough. Then raising my chin with the noble gravity of Sydney Carton when he faced the guillotine, said, “All right, Alice. Mum's the word.”

“And you'll discourage your daughter from seeing him?”

“Of course. I'll do everything I can, even if it means they both end up hating me.”

“Thank you, Mike.”

She smiled, patted me on the cheek and we headed up the stairs.

In response to the puzzled look that Josie gave us, Alice took her by the arm and asked, “Do you suppose Riverrun would be willing to contribute five hundred dollars to the Institute for Noetic Sciences?”

That's Mrs. Winter for you—always on the make for the less fortunate.

Josie knew better than to ask too many 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.