These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (2 page)

            “As
it should be.” He picked up a silver pen from his desk. “Are you hoping to look
through the archives today or would you like us to look through our collection
for you?”

            “I’d
love to take a look around this afternoon, if you have a few minutes. Of
course, any assistance you could give in finding the papers would be
appreciated, but there’s no need. If it’s not against your policy, I would be
more than happy to search through the files myself.”

            He
turned his palms up for a second. “However you like. Maybe between the two of
us, we can track down what you need.”

             
Truth.

            Her
initial nervousness was starting to subside, especially since he wasn’t as
intimidating when seated. This might not be as painful as she’d expected. He
avoided meaningless small talk, at least.

            “Mr.
Becket, I’ve read everything you’ve ever published. I’m a huge fan.” The moment
the words left her mouth, Henry wished she could take them back. She’d never
uttered the words “huge fan” in her life but for some reason her brain had
thrown that into the conversation.

            “Really.
Were they assigned as coursework?”

            “A
few were. They usually started heated debates. You don’t pull any punches. And
I have to say Preserving Local Narratives Through Historical Newspapers was my
favorite.”

            “Because
you agreed with me that we shouldn’t rely so heavily on first person video
accounts? That wasn’t a very popular article. It went against the current
trend. Everybody loves a video of Grandpappy Joe spinning a tale about life on
the farm back in the day. Nobody wants to wade through land deeds and slave
sale records.” He didn’t smile. In fact, he hadn’t smiled yet.

             “I
agree, actually.” She had her own reasons for not liking the videos. It was
terrible to know when someone was lying about the past and there was no way she
was going to call out someone’s grandmother for embellishing on her family
history. “But you have to admit, we’re in the minority.”

            “I’ve
never worried about being in the minority. You think I should soften my
opinions in the interests of popularity?”

            “Not
at all,” she said. “Being unpopular gives your research an extra layer of
credibility.”

            His
chin went up a bit, as if he were getting a better look at her.  “Credibility
is key, but I don’t go out of my way to be unpopular.”

            “No?
 I thought… I mean, I had the impression you were…”

            He
waited patiently for her to finish.

            “An
old recluse.” The word seemed to echo in the small room.  That’s not exactly
what she’d meant to say but rather than take it back it seemed like a better
idea to try and explain. “There’s never a photo attached to the articles and
you don’t give any public talks. You co-wrote papers with Peter Rondeau and
Walter Kimmelman, who are both in their seventies. You studied under Thomas
LeTours but he hasn’t taught at Emory for years. So I hadn’t pictured you so…” She’d
never wished for a rewind button so much.. “It doesn’t matter, of course. At
all.”

            “Miss
Byrne, it’s true Letours was my doctoral advisor.”

            “Please,
call me Henry.”

            He
paused for a moment, and then went on. “But I wasn’t a traditional student. I
received my degree long distance, through a special scholarship program. A few
retired emeritus professors take on advisory roles.”

             “Oh,
I see. Well, some say nontraditional students like yourself are the way of the
future.”

            “I
certainly hope not.”

            Henry
felt a spike of panic. Most people were like billboards to her, all their
thoughts broadcast in bold type for her to read, plain as day. But with a very
few people, like Gideon, it was like being forced to interpret smoke signals
and she did the best with what she saw.  “So you lived far away from Emory? And
took classes online?”

             “For
such a huge fan, you know surprisingly little about me.”

             “You
know, I’m not sure why I said that. I’m not really a fan.” She sighed. “I mean,
it’s true I’ve read everything you’ve published but I never Googled you, to see
what you looked like or to find out―”

            “I’m
not offended. I’m that way, myself. The modern cult of personality smacks of
hero worship. Enjoying the work of a writer or artist or academic should be
separate from their personal lives. Most people can’t enjoy one without needing
to know everything about the other, down to favorite color and whether the
person prefers cats or dogs.”

             “Yes,
that’s it.” Of course she was curious, now that he was sitting in front of her.
Maybe not about his favorite color, but about his history, his family, his
likes and dislikes. She’d been secretly hoping to know a lot more about him and
now it seemed as if a very clear line had been drawn between working together
and any kind of friendship. 

            “I
received my degrees while I was an inmate at Louisiana State Penitentiary,” he
said.

           
Truth.

            “I
was incarcerated for fifteen years on a capital murder charge, with
premeditation.” His voice was even.

           
Murder.
The word reverberated in her mind. She could easily imagine him as a felon now,
imagine him out of the office and pacing a cell. Fear inched up her spine.
Henry let herself look closely for a moment, the way she never did unless she
really had to, unless she needed know what someone wouldn’t tell her. She let
her eyes roam over him, catching the fleeting changes in his expression, tiniest
details in his posture, his clothing, his desk. Then she closed her eyes for a
second and let it all settle.

            She
opened them again. He wasn’t dangerous. At least, not to her. “You must have
been very young when you were convicted.”

             “I
was old enough to know better.”

            The
rumors made sense now. Rumors always had a seed of truth in them, just enough
to keep the gossip moving from person to person. “You published your journal articles
while in prison and they kept your situation private. It explains why people
say you’re reclusive.”

             “Maybe
they’re partly true. I was released three years ago. I’m sure I could have
managed a conference or two by now.”

            “I’ve
been to a few. They’re fun.” She pushed up her glasses. “I mean, not exactly
fun. Interesting. Lots of people.” He was watching her, brows slightly raised.
“Actually, I didn’t enjoy it at all, but a few of my friends had a great time
so you shouldn’t take my word for it.”

             “That’s
not a very convincing pitch.”

             “I
don’t like to go out much,” she said. “Or, really, ever.”

            “Do
you have a social anxiety disorder?”

            “Something
like that.”

            There
was a short silence. She fiddled with the strap on her watch, wondering what to
say next. She couldn’t reconcile his words with the man she’d imagined,
couldn’t fathom how he’d managed to enroll in college and receive degrees.

             “Well,
I’m glad you came to visit us. And if you ever need me to come to Oakland
Plantation, I’m happy to bring you what you need. After so many years in a six
by eight foot cell, with my day strictly scheduled, maybe I understand a little
of what you feel. The first years out in the regular world took some
adjustment.”

            She
blinked. He thought she had agoraphobia, but she wasn’t quite sure how to
explain that she didn’t mind leaving her office, when in fact, she did. “It was
good that you had a job right away.”

             “It
was the opposite, actually. Nobody wants to employ a convicted murderer. Cities
have bylaws about that sort of thing. Academic institutions can’t risk students
or their parents protesting being taught by an ex-con. Federally supported
sites like Cane River Creole National Historic Park don’t hire felons.”

            “So
how did you end up here?”

            “My
brother lives here. He invited me to stay in Natchitoches while I got on my
feet. After a few months, the curator here decided to retire. There weren’t any
explicit rules about not hiring felons so it was up to the board.” He moved the
pen on his desk a few inches to the left. “No one has complained. Yet.”

            She
could tell he wouldn’t be surprised if someone did, someday. She felt a surge
of sympathy, then shook it off. That’s what happened when you committed such a
horrible crime. You lived with the repercussions for the rest of your life. And
murder wasn’t like stealing a car. A simple apology wouldn’t ever make up for
what was taken.

            Something
in her thoughts must have shown on her face because he stood up. “Do you still
have time for a tour? Or would you like to come back another day?”

            She
understood the subtle question underneath his words. If she had a problem with
him, she was free to say her time was up. “A tour sounds great,” she said,
getting to her feet.

            As
they walked down the hallway, he began to describe the different areas of the
building and how the archives were arranged. Henry nodded, trying to pay close
attention to the details, but fighting the overwhelming feeling of
disappointment and confusion.   

            She’d
dreamed of meeting him for years, and in the past few months she’d dreamed of
the respect she’d gain from working with him. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t
find her satisfactory. She’d never considered that she’d step back from the
chance to work closely with Gideon Becket. All her rosy daydreams of co-written
articles and speaking at conferences faded to gray. He wasn’t the man she’d
imagined him to be. She hadn’t realized how much hope she’d invested in her
plans until they slipped away.

            As
he explained how the archives were organized, she nodded along, a pert smile
fixed to her lips, but inside, disappointment flooded through her. She supposed
that old saying was true: never meet your heroes.

 
                                                          ****

            “This
is a good example of what we’ve collected here.” Gideon opened an archival box
of century old photos and stepped back to let Henry have a look. She picked up
a few by the edge and exclaimed over the faded image of freed slaves standing
on the top step of a rickety porch. He watched her sort through the others,
careful not to leave marks or bent edges. He expected nothing less from a
trained archivist employed by the parks department, of course, but there was something
about her that didn’t seem to fit. It wasn’t that she was startlingly pretty.
It wasn’t the polished heels, or the blond ponytail and bright lipstick combo,
or the male name, or the nervous watch fiddling. It was something else entirely.

            In
prison, being able to read body language could mean the difference between life
and death, between friend or foe. Getting a read on someone had saved his life
a hundred times, and although working in the archives wasn’t dangerous, old
habits die hard. Within seconds of meeting someone, he made a judgement and it
never wavered. But he couldn’t get a handle on Henry Byrne and it made him
deeply uneasy.

            From
her posture and expressions, it was clear that this woman had been more
distrustful of him before he’d told her he was a murderer, than after. He
wasn’t sure what could be worse than a confessed killer, but apparently she had
been expecting it when she walked into his office.

            “―
but that’s my opinion.”

            He
blinked. She seemed to be waiting for a response. Glancing at the photos, he
tried to guess what she’d been saying. “Hm.”

            “Do
you agree?” Her eyes widened a little. She tapped the photo on the top of the
pile. “It’s obvious.”

            Gideon
considered asking her to repeat the question and then said, “You’re probably
right.”

            It
seemed to satisfy her and she turned back to the pictures, carefully replacing
the lid and sliding it back onto the shelf. “Thank you for showing me around.
I’ll gather a list of outbuildings I’d like to research. Could I come in Friday
morning?”

            “Of
course. My archives are your archives.” He cringed inwardly. What a ridiculous
thing to say.

            To
his surprise she laughed. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard from a
historian.”       They stood there for a moment, and he had the urge to ask if
she needed anyone to show her around town. Then he realized he was standing in
front of the door and she was waiting to be let out of the room. He turned and
opened it, waving her through.

            “Thank
you, again. I do appreciate your time,” she said as she passed.