The Forgotten Girl (21 page)

Mr. Shaw shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

“No, I can’t see them? Or no, there aren’t any letters in the first place?” Jason asked.

“No,” Mr. Shaw said. “No means no.”

“I was hoping if I saw the letters, I might understand where
Logan’s been all these years,” he said. “I thought you wanted your lawyer, Colton Rivers, to find him so he could make sure he gets what’s coming to him in the will.”

Mr. Shaw shook his head. He tried to say something else, but the words didn’t seem to come. He waved his right hand around in the air as though punctuating the words that refused to form. Jason even leaned closer, but no sound emerged. A stream of spittle crept out of the corner of Mr. Shaw’s mouth. Jason leaned over, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed the mess away.

“Did Logan’s mom get letters from him?” Jason asked.

Something, likely the mention of Logan’s mother, snapped the man’s posture into a more rigid position. He suddenly possessed an energy and strength that he hadn’t displayed during the rest of Jason’s visit.

He shook his head. “No.”

“She didn’t?”

“Not important,” the old man said.

“Are you saying Mrs. Shaw isn’t important?”

Whatever will had infused the man’s spine with iron for those few moments drained out of him just as quickly. He slumped lower in the wheelchair, and his head sat heavier on his shoulders. His eyes grew unfocused in such a way that Jason thought he was on the verge of falling asleep.

“So he didn’t send any letters to his mother?” Jason asked, unable to let the matter go.

Mr. Shaw turned to Jason, his eyes a little less glassy. “No letters for her,” he said.

But the old man looked spent. Jason could only imagine the morning and afternoon he had been through. The police showed up and informed him that his son was really dead. Then Jason, someone he hadn’t seen in twenty-seven years, showed up and
started asking more questions. Jason felt ashamed of himself for pushing the old man at all, even as he realized he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. He needed to know something. Anything.

“Did the police ask to see those letters?” Jason asked.

“She left,” Mr. Shaw said.

“Who did? Who left?”

The old man struggled to make sounds again. He shook his head.

“Mrs. Shaw?” Jason asked. “Logan’s mother? She left?”

“Yes.”

“She left before Logan did,” Jason said. “Long before.”

The old man remained silent.

“Did the police see those letters that Logan sent?” Jason asked.

“Never cared,” Mr. Shaw said.

“What’s that?”

“Never cared,” he whispered. His voice seemed to be fading. Jason leaned in. “His mother. Never cared.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said. “I didn’t really know her that well. She wasn’t around much.”

“Never.”

Pauline appeared in the doorway. Jason felt like he’d been caught doing something wrong, pushing the old man too hard and bringing up unpleasant memories of the past. Jason knew a little about aging parents—and he understood that the past might be all the old man had to remember.

“Maybe Mr. Shaw needs to get some rest,” Pauline said.

“Of course.” Jason stood up. He reached out to shake Mr. Shaw’s hand and felt the man’s papery skin. Mr. Shaw’s grip still retained some strength, a surprising amount. “Thank you,” Jason said. “I’m sorry if I kept you too long.”

Mr. Shaw held on to Jason’s hand a beat longer than would have been normal. They locked eyes.

“Never cared,” the old man said again.

And then Pauline was there, gently guiding Jason out of the room.

Pauline walked with Jason out to the front of the house. When they reached the foyer, she tapped Jason on the arm and pointed toward the kitchen. Jason didn’t ask any questions. He followed her, and Pauline said, “Just sit tight here a second.”

He still didn’t ask any questions. He looked around the room. It was immaculately clean and out-of-date like the rest of the house. A gold fleur-de-lis pattern covered the wallpaper, and in the corner sat a shelving unit covered with decorative plates that Jason felt certain Mr. Shaw hadn’t chosen. The appliances did look new. They were all stainless steel and gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine. Jason imagined that Pauline spent a good deal of her time polishing them, whether they ever became dirty or not.

It took a good twenty minutes for Pauline to return to the kitchen, and Jason had waited so long he worried that she’d forgotten he was still in the house. She breezed back into the room, wiping her hands with a paper towel, and apologized for the delay.

“He needed to be put in bed and changed,” she said. “He naps a lot.”

“I see.”

“He’s not incontinent, you know,” she said as though she wanted to defend Mr. Shaw. “He knows he has to go. He just can’t walk to the bathroom. That’s why he has to wear diapers.” She seemed to be waiting for some response, and when Jason didn’t say anything, she added, “He has a catheter as well. It makes him prone to infections.”

“I’m sorry if I kept him awake or disturbed him,” Jason said. “He seems to not understand what happened to Logan. Or is he . . . being stubborn?”

“Who knows?” Pauline said. “He never thought that boy was dead. Never.”

“I have to admit I didn’t think he was dead either,” Jason said. “Maybe I’m a bigger fool. I don’t have old age or an illness as an excuse.”

“You have the same excuse as him,” she said. “You loved Logan. You didn’t want to believe he was gone.”

“You sound like you thought he was dead all along.”

Pauline threw her paper towel away and then came over and sat across from Jason. She folded her hands and rested them on the table. “I’m not really paid to have an opinion around here,” she said. “Unless it’s a question about getting a stain out of the carpet or who to call if the gutter falls down. You know what I’m saying?”

“You were expected to be seen and not heard?”

“Mmm-hmm. But just because I didn’t express my opinions doesn’t mean I didn’t have them.” Her eyes narrowed, as though she were sifting through distant memories. “I didn’t really know what to think when Logan didn’t come home that night. He’d just graduated from high school. I know some kids take trips when that happens. Not my kids, but kids like Logan do. They go to Florida or Myrtle Beach or wherever. And he was always talking about leaving town and living somewhere else. I think
he used to say that just to irritate his father. The man may not say much, but he does love his son. He wanted him here, in Ednaville. He’s been alone a long time.”

“So you thought Logan just ran off?”

“I did. For a time, I figured he was out of town somewhere, living the high life. He’d come back someday when he ran out of money or got tired of fending for himself. It would be like the Bible. You know, the Prodigal Son? His father would welcome him back with open arms.”

“And kill the fatted calf?”

“Exactly. You paid attention in Sunday school, didn’t you?”

“Rarely, but I remember that one. I’ve had experience with someone coming back home after a long absence.”

“I see. Well, then Logan never showed up. Never called. Nothing. I know they sent an investigator out there a couple of times. Hell, once Mr. Shaw even got on a plane and flew out there to follow up on some lead. It ended up being nothing. If you ask me, that was just someone stealing money right out of Mr. Shaw’s pockets. At some point, I think something broke inside of him. Maybe it just hurt him too much to get his hopes up all those times and have them dashed. He stopped mentioning Logan at all. But I knew they weren’t ever going to find that boy.”

“How did you know that?” Jason asked. “You said, for a time you thought he’d come back. What changed?”

Pauline stood up. She walked over to a built-in desk. She upended a penholder that sat on its neatly organized top and a small, silver key fell out. She fitted the key into a lock in the desk drawer, slid it open, and brought out a small bundle of what appeared to be letters. She came back to the table and dropped them in front of Jason.

“Are these what you came to see?” she asked.

The bundle contained six or seven envelopes, which were tattered as though they’d been ripped open quickly. Everything was held tightly in place by a rubber band.

“These are the cards from Logan?” Jason asked.

“Not all of them. The police took most, but I held a few back. I couldn’t stand the thought of Mr. Shaw losing everything he thought came from his son.”

“You’re not worried about getting into trouble?”

“Please.”

“I’m the one who told Detective Olsen about them.”

“I don’t think they really care too much what I do. I think they’re more interested in playing Sherlock Holmes with their dead body in the woods, you know? So I thought I’d let you see them.”

“Thank you.”

“You grew up with Logan. You went to school with him a long time, right?”

“You know that.”

“Well, I’ll let you look those over. I have some laundry to put in. When I come back, I want you to let me know if you see anything strange in there.”

She stood up and left the room. Jason didn’t care. He’d been fighting the urge to rip the rubber band off ever since she’d dropped the letters in front of him.

*   *   *

The cards were not arranged chronologically. The first one he picked up was from 1995, according to the postmark, nine years after they graduated from high school. The card came from Salt Lake City, Utah. The postage stamp showed an image of Mount Rushmore. Jason noticed right away that the address—Peter Shaw’s address—had been generated by a computer. Someone
entered it and printed a label, then affixed it to the front of the envelope. There was no return address.

Jason removed the birthday card for Mr. Shaw. The front showed a forest scene with an embossed caption that said, “For a special father.” Jason opened it up and inside there was some syrupy verse, no doubt written by a starving poet trying to make a little money on the side. At the bottom Logan’s name was signed. Jason stared at the signature for a long moment. Who printed an address label on a computer when sending their father a birthday card? And on what planet would Logan even get his father a sappy card?

Jason flipped through the others, checking postmarks and dates. The postmarks came from various places in the country. Arizona and New Mexico, with one from Denver and a couple during 1999 from Chicago. The cards arrived for the same occasions—Mr. Shaw’s birthday and Father’s Day, which both fell during the summer. Jason noticed there were none for Christmas or Easter. There were never personal messages or greetings in the cards. Just Logan’s name, and Jason almost immediately realized what Pauline was talking about. A couple of the cards had handwritten addresses, which only raised Jason’s suspicions.

He studied the writing, trying to remember clearly what Logan’s looked like. He felt confident it didn’t look like the signature before him. In grade school, they had had a particularly uptight teacher who liked to criticize the way Logan made the “L” in his name. No matter how much she rode him, Logan never could—or never tried—to make it the way it looked on the chart above the chalkboard. His “L” was always tilted almost to the point that it was horizontal. The writing in the cards seemed familiar, though, almost feminine. The person had tried to copy Logan’s tilted and horizontal “L” but didn’t get it exactly right.

Jason thought:
Chicago, 1999.

He’d seen that “L” before. The other times it had much more flourish to it. The person copying Logan’s handwriting had tried to tone it down but couldn’t quite. Not completely.

By the time Pauline came back into the kitchen, Jason was looking through the cards again. She sat down across from Jason. “Well?”

“I wish I’d seen all of them,” he said.

“If wishes were horses . . . I can’t promise you that Mr. Shaw doesn’t have a stash of them somewhere else. But he’s a neat and orderly man. He tends to keep his things organized.”

“Why are they just sitting in the kitchen like this? Doesn’t he have a study?”

“All I know is I’ve come into the kitchen a couple of times over the years—I’m talking twice maybe—and I’ve found him sitting at that desk over there looking at these cards.” She tapped the stack again. “When I came in and saw him doing that, he hurried and put them away, almost like he was embarrassed.”

“He probably was if they made him feel emotional.”

“Exactly.”

“And you asked me about school because you figured I saw Logan’s handwriting a lot when we were growing up.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen a lot of his tests and quizzes and papers and other things. You’d know his handwriting pretty well. Even after all these years.” Pauline wore a satisfied smile on her face. She had proved her point. “So what do you think now that you’ve seen these cards?” she asked.

“It’s not Logan’s handwriting,” Jason said. “It’s similar, but I don’t think it’s his.”

“Are you sure?” Pauline asked, taking on the role of detective. Jason wondered if everybody he met wanted to question
him about something. “Hasn’t it been a long time since you’ve seen his writing? And do boys really notice such things?”

“I’m sure,” Jason said. “Jesus, we were best friends. We studied together. I know. And I’m guessing you’re positive it’s not Logan’s writing either, or you wouldn’t be asking me. It seems a little too feminine.”

“I didn’t think it was his, but I wanted a second opinion.”

“I have a more important question—why doesn’t Mr. Shaw know that it isn’t Logan’s writing? Or does he know it isn’t?”

Pauline took her time answering. She seemed to be giving the question a good going-over in her mind before she spoke. “I’ve wondered about that. It’s not something that can be attributed to his illness, because these letters started arriving a long time ago. And, like I said, he never acted like he thought Logan was dead. He had the chance to file a missing persons report many times over the years, and he didn’t. When the police came, he insisted that Logan was still alive. That’s why he hired the investigators eventually, to prove them wrong.” Pauline stopped speaking and held up her index finger. She tilted her head toward the other side of the house, the side where Mr. Shaw’s bedroom was, and listened. She shook her head. “I have to listen carefully. Sometimes he tries to get up. I forgot to bring the monitor out here with me.”

“So he just chose not to believe that Logan was dead. He chose not to recognize that this wasn’t his son’s handwriting.”

“Denial is a strong force,” Pauline said, as though she knew from experience.

“Could he just not recognize Logan’s handwriting?” Jason asked. “He was a pretty detached father when I used to come around here.”

“I know he seemed that way. But he cared about Logan a
great deal. A great deal. He always got the boy the right birthday presents. He always knew the things he was interested in. He got him to the doctor’s and the dentist like clockwork. He could have handed that stuff off to a nanny or a new wife, but he didn’t. I think he just didn’t want to or couldn’t accept that the boy was really dead. He couldn’t get it into his head. Logan was all he had left.”

“What about that?” Jason asked.

“About what?”

“Logan’s mother.”

Pauline made a snorting noise. “What about her?”

“You don’t like her?”

“I have to admit, I don’t really know her. I started working here not long before they got divorced. But she never seemed that interested in the boy. When she came around here, and that wasn’t much, she had her nose in the air. She didn’t have much time for me, of course. But to not be totally involved with your boy? What’s going on there?”

“Did she ever see these cards?”

“I don’t know. For all I know, she’s been getting Mother’s Day cards the whole time.”

“But she’d see that the handwriting wasn’t Logan’s. She’d have to. A mother wouldn’t be that far out to lunch.”

“Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn’t.”

“And why didn’t she file a missing persons report?” Jason asked. “I would guess any relative could. Maybe anybody can. But certainly his mother could do it. If Mr. Shaw was in denial, then wouldn’t Mrs. Shaw be able to file a report and get the police asking questions?”

“If you’re looking to me to explain all of these things, then you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Jason placed his finger on the stack of cards. “Can I take these?”

“No, sir. I couldn’t bear to take them away from that man, even if they are fake. He might ask to see them someday, and if I couldn’t produce them, it would break his heart.”

“That’s fine.” Jason stood up. “Thanks for your help.”

Pauline didn’t stand. She looked up at Jason. “You know, the former Mrs. Shaw still lives about an hour from here, over in Barker County. She’s remarried. Her name is Mrs. Tyndal now.”

“Elaine, right?”

“That’s right. You could go ask her yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there any chance you recognize that handwriting?” Pauline asked.

“Why do you ask that?”

“You had a strange look on your face, like you knew something but didn’t want to say. Are you going to let me in on the secret?”

“I have to ask someone else about it first,” he said. “The way things are going, maybe we’ll all know a lot about it
soon.”