Coming Home to Greenleigh

Chapter 6

When the phone on his desk rang, Shawn was tempted not to answer. Deep in the middle of a pleading that he was trying to compose, he knew that another distraction would make it impossible for him to regain his train of thought. The phone purred insistently, and Shawn could tell from the double ring that it was an outside line. Not many people had the phone number for his direct line, so he decided with a sigh that it was probably worth answering. He finally found the phone under an overturned case book.

"Shawn Waterstone."

"What the heck takes you so long?" His father sounded annoyed.

"Sorry. I couldn't--" He left the sentence dangling, not wanting to admit that he couldn't find the telephone under the mess on his desk.

"Listen. I'm at the factory. Bob Stewart just stopped by."

"Your chess buddy." Shawn's gaze wandered over to the book case, noting that one of his books was missing. Why don't people tell me when they borrow things, he thought, irritated.

"Right. Well, I'm sending him over to you."

"Me?" His attention focused back on his father. "Why?"

"You know. His problem."

"His problem." Shawn repeated the words, not understanding.

"You know." His father's voice took on an impatient tone. "Look, I can't stay on because the dye on number six isn't coming out right. I told him you could see him this afternoon."

"Dad, you need to let me know when you send people my way," Shawn said, grumpily looking at his watch. "I'm tied up this afternoon."

"What?" There was a roar of machinery in the background as someone opened the door to his father's office and shouted something.

"Shawn! Hello? Gotta run!" His father hollered briefly at him and hung up without waiting for a reply. Shawn replaced the receiver, noting with distaste the pizza stains from the previous night's dinner. He'd gotten into the habit of working late and eating in, and the custodial workers were clearly too terrified to move any of the mess on his desk. They hadn't cleaned the telephone. Shawn swiped at the stains with his sleeve, succeeding at smudging them further and adding a small splotch of red to his cuff. He cursed.

Bob Stewart? What on earth? Shawn frowned, going over to the bookcase to inspect the space where a book had been removed from his collection of encyclopedias. He remembered his father's comments a couple of weeks ago about Bob Stewart and his wife having marital problems, but he didn't practice family law, so he couldn't conceive of why Bob Stewart would come to see him. Perhaps it was a town selectman thing. Civic duty of one kind or another. Maybe even a charitable function. It was getting into fall, after all, and to the extent that Greenleigh had any social activity at all, it would usually take place in conjunction with the holiday season.

Shawn continued to scowl at the bookcase. He hated it when books were missing. Why don't people ask, he muttered, stalking over to the door. He flung it open and stormed down the hallway to the men's room, hoping to do something about the tomato stain on his sleeve. A couple of youthful-looking clerks stopped dead in their tracks in the hallway, gawking, and fled when he turned his sour gaze upon them. What's their problem, he thought.

When he returned to his office the door was shut. He was in even worse spirits than before, having succeeded not only in smudging the tomato stain further but in soaking his entire sleeve. He had rolled it up in the bathroom, but it was dripping wet and clung clammily to his arm. He then had to roll the other one up as well in order to prevent the inevitable questions about why he would roll up one and not the other, and why roll up sleeves on such a chilly day anyway? He wondered if he should just wear his jacket all day and forestall the questions. If he wasn't careful one of the matrons in the office would offer to wash, dry, iron, and starch the shirt for him. He scowled and pushed the door to his office open, slamming it shut behind him.