The Widows of Eden (14 page)

I searched the cable directory for
Singin' in the Rain
with Gene Kelly, or
The Rainmaker
with Burt Lancaster, or even
Finian's Rainbow
with Fred Astaire, but they were nowhere to be found, so I settled on
The Flight of the Phoenix
with James Stewart. It was fine escapist fare, if a tad ironic from a topographical point of view.

Just before I went to bed, I stuck my head through the front drapes to check on the widows. Marion's motor home was still gone, but the other two were parked side-by-side just as they had been earlier in the day. A short, wide man in a yellow knit shirt and a black cowboy hat was standing about five feet from the rear of the white RV with a flashlight trained on its license
plate. I would've called 9-1-1 right then and there, but I could see his Cornhusker-red Cadillac parked under the streetlight at the base of my driveway.

It was Buford Pickett snooping on the widows. He was darned lucky he didn't run into Road Rage.

Men are such boys.

Chapter 15

 

T
HE
P
RINCE
C
HARMING
M
YTH

L
IKE
MOST
TEENAGED
GIRLS
of my day, I fell for the Prince Charming Myth hook, line, and sinker. It's not like I blame Walt Disney, not by himself anyway. I knew going in that Al, my husband-to-be, had faults, but they seemed small enough through the misty lens of my love (although a few of his physical assets remained ironically large). I was even fond of his rough spots. They made him fun and even a mite dangerous, and I was sure that I could polish him up as we raised a family and grew old together.

What a silly young fool I was! Al changed after we got married, but in the opposite direction I expected. Instead of maturing into a devoted husband, he reverted to the peevish, self-centered child he had been before we met. But don't be fooled; I do not take my delusions lightly. A woman never can, especially when there are children in the picture. I clung to the tatters of the Prince Charming Myth for upwards of thirteen years before I finally put myself and my girls out of our collective misery and got a d-i-v-o-r-c-e.

I may have given up my virginity before my marriage, but I lost something of far greater consequence after it was over: my capacity to adore a man. In its place were skepticism and distrust,
which evolved over time into a form of detachment driven by self-preservation. Even when I accepted Clem's proposal, I knew that I could never adore him, but at least I wasn't foolish enough to believe that I could change him either. That's the upside and downside of detachment right there, like two peanuts in a shell.

Then Clem got sick, which put my detachment to the test, and then he tried to buy off Mr. Moore, which was more of a test than either my head or my heart could stand. The upshot was that I couldn't get to sleep that night, no matter how hard I tried, and I tried everything. I counted sheep but quit at a thousand or so. I recalled what it was like to sit through Algebra II class in high school: “If one man drives to the store at twenty-five miles per hour …” When that didn't work, I turned on the TV and watched the Weather Channel, where I learned that the entire eastern seaboard was getting pelted with rain! Finally, in the depths of my desperation, I dragged myself out of bed and took a hot, steaming bath with perfumed salts in it.

That was not a good decision. I woke up like a spring-loaded, size twelve, albino raisin at seven fifteen, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Moore had left my premises without so much as a cup of tea, and that was before I remembered that I was due at the Abattoir at oh-seven-thirty. Luckily, I was soaking wet and stunk like a Texas whorehouse.

I took the fastest shower in the history of womankind, dried and brushed my hair, threw on a running outfit, and dashed upstairs to tell Clara that I had a Circle emergency so I could not fix her oatmeal until I got back. That's not the sort of news a rich recluse likes to receive, but it's easier to deliver when you're pretty sure that you won't get any backtalk. I groveled for a minute anyway, and then I sprinted down to the main floor — to find an empty household. Mr. Moore was gone. The giant buses
were gone. If I had dropped a Q-tip in my kitchen, my daughter Winona would've heard it in Council Bluffs.

That was when my special phone rang. It was Bebe, wondering if a certain person had forgotten a certain meeting. I promised that I would get to the Abattoir as fast as I could and then, since I am a woman of my word, I got in my car and drove over. As it turns out, I could have walked. Hail Mary and Dottie had arrived only a minute or two before I did.

After I had taken my customary seat next to Lo, Hail Mary announced, “This is day one hundred and twenty of the drought and we have a full agenda.” Lily Pickett began to interrupt, but Mary would have none of it. She looked across the table and said, “I know you're chomping at the bit, Lily, and we'll get to you in a second, but I'd like to start with the news from Hereford Haven Ranch. Will you fill us all in, Sheriff?”

Dottie reported, “I got word this morning that Hereford Haven has laid off four hands and they're liquidating a thousand head. For all practical purposes, that means they're shutting down for the season, and we believe it's just the tip of the iceberg …”

Lily couldn't hold herself in any longer. “Buford said we passed the ‘tipping point' at dinner last night. He said it could rain cats and dogs tomorrow and fifty farms in the tri-county area would still go belly up.”

“Fifty? My dear Lord.”

“That's the upside, Wilma. He believes it'll be a hundred or more if we don't get rain in the next thirty days, but that's not the part that scared me the most.”

Lily paused for effect, as if we needed any. “Excuse me,” Dottie declared, “but what in the world could've scared you more than that?”

“He told me that we need to look at this situation the way Clem Tucker would: as an opportunity.”

“Jesus H. Christ! Did I hear you right? Did you just say that Buford sees the drought as an opportunity? Did he tell you that himself?”

“Yes, and he's willing to put our money where his mouth is. The bids on the Bowe place are below fair market, so he's planning to pick up the mortgage himself. He's looking at the Knepper place, too.”

“Long live the king; the king is dead,” Hail Mary moaned. “Buford Pickett has anointed himself successor to the Tucker throne.”

“Clem isn't gone yet, the bastard,” Lily protested. “We can't count him out.”

I was every bit as distraught as my comrades-in-arms, but I couldn't sit there and let them talk about my cancer-stricken Clement like that anymore. “He's not a bastard, Lily,” I said with a little extra authority. “He's a sick bastard. We all need to remember that.”

“I apologize, Wilma. I shouldn't have been so unkind. Did you know that my husband drove down to see your sick bastard of a fiancé last night?”

“He did? Was Marie able to listen in?” Mary asked.

“Pearline did the dirty deed. Clem told Buford to switch his investigation from Mr. Moore to the widows.”

“I should have figured as much,” I observed. “I saw Buford flashing a light on the license plate of one of widow's motor homes just before I went to bed last night.”

Lily shook her head and muttered, “I swear to God; if Clem told my feedbag of a husband to squeeze through the eye of a needle, he'd butter himself up and give it a try.”

I tried to blot it out. I did my best to think of pretty pink sunsets, cute newborn puppies, and sweet, funny songs from
My Fair Lady,
but a wide-screen, Technicolor picture of a short-armed sumo wrestler dressed in nothing but melted butter appeared in my head anyway.

“That's not all. Buford left his briefcase in the front room when he went to the River House last night. It was sitting out in the open, and the boys had gone to bed, so I thought I'd make sure he hadn't left any unpaid bills in it.”

We all nodded our approval. A Circle girl is expected to keep her husband's briefcase neat and tidy. It's a matter of hygiene.

Lily went on. “I found the first draft of a staff reduction plan in it. Buford is going to lay off nine people at the bank on Monday.”

“He, … he's what?” I stuttered. “The drought is barely four months old and those people need their jobs. Why does he have to lay them off so soon?”

Bebe shrugged. “He's not alone, Wilma. If we don't get rain, I'll have to let some people go at the store after Labor Day. How's business at the salon, Lo?”

“Dried up. Mona and I began to cut everybody's hours back two weeks ago.”

Mary smacked the tabletop with such force that it vibrated. “Goddammit!” she cried. “This town will not come apart at the seams while I'm the Queen Bee! We're the Quilting Circle, for heaven's sakes! Did you see your fiancé yesterday, Wilma?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you talk to him about changing the deal?”

“Yes, but I was wasting my breath. I would have done better if I had asked him to make out a check to the Democratic Party.”

“I'm sure that everyone in the room is as stunned as I am. What was his excuse?”

“Clem doesn't believe in win-wins, Mary. He believes he has a better chance to win if the rest of the county loses.”

“That makes no sense to me whatsoever.”

“It doesn't make any sense to me either. I guess that's why he's Clem and we're not.”

“Is there any chance he'll change his mind?”

“None. His mind is set in stone. He likes the deal he has.”

“Which means that Vernon Moore stands to collect seventy-five million dollars. How in God's name can we possibly compete with that?”

“We can't,” Lily griped. “Who else has that kind of money?”

“Clara,” Loretta volunteered casually, like it should have been obvious to everybody — which it should have. “And she can be extremely generous, when she comes out of her shell.”

“And when was the last time that happened?” Mary inquired. She wouldn't have needed to ask except that she was a relative newcomer to Ebb, having been with us only three years.

“At the end of Mr. Moore's first visit,” I replied. “She came down from her aerie to help him save Millet's from Clem. Not only that, she uttered a complete sentence. It was just one, but it had a noun, a verb, everything.”

“Can she be trusted?”

That was an eyebrow raiser. “Who would she tell, Mary?”

“How about Vernon?”

“Okay,” I answered. “That could be a problem. He saw Clara last night.”

“He did? You don't suppose he told her about his deal with Clem.”

“I have no idea. She hasn't said boo to me, but then she wouldn't, would she?”

Mary looked me square in the eye. “You need to set up a meeting, Wilma.”

“A meeting? With Clara? For you and me?”

“Yes, as soon as possible.”

“I can give it a try, but could I ask a question before we take on Mr. Moore, Clem and his millions, and the drought all at once?”

“If it'll advance the cause. What's on your mind?”

“Do we really want to bet on Clara? Pardon me for saying so, but it sounds like we're putting all our eggs in one basket case.”

“Do you have another basket case to put our eggs in? Given the going rate for miracles these days, who else can possibly help us? Does anybody have another idea?”

Dottie winked at Hail Mary like she knew that question was coming, then she replied, “I have one. You two ought to see Clem's sister, but we should invite Vernon over to the courthouse for a little chitchat, too.”

“We've been over this before …”

Hail Mary cut in, “You and Wilma had your chance, Lo. Now it's our turn …”

“To do what exactly?”

“To see if we can get him to change the deal; what else?”

“How? How are you going to do that?”

“I'm a lawyer …”

“Oh, dear God! You're not going to beat on him with a phone book, are you?”

Mary answered, “No, Loretta; that's Dottie's department. I'm trained in the art of persuasion. My job is to persuade people to do the right thing …”

“You. You're going to persuade Vernon Moore to do the right thing.”

“Yes.”

“I can't speak for anyone else in the room, but that strikes me
as a teeny bit presumptuous. Did it ever cross your mind that he's doing the right thing already?”

“By asking for Clem's life instead of rain? Please! How can that be the right thing?”

“I don't know, Mary, but I can add. Vernon Moore has saved this town twice before, and you haven't.”

“So your strategy is to leave him be. Is that it?”

“My strategy is to have faith in the man with the track record. Before you and Dottie throw him in the hoosegow, you might consider doing the same.”

“Oh, I will, Loretta; I will — after he agrees to ask for rain.” Then she looked at me and added, “And Clem's life, of course.”

Save for a few housekeeping items, Hail Mary's halfhearted promise to remember my fiancé concluded the meeting. Lo and Bebe had cleanup duty, so I walked to the exit with Lily again. When we got outside, she opened her red umbrella to protect us from the sun and said, “I'm married to an insensitive, overweight, scourge wannabe, Wilma. What should I do?”

At that moment, I couldn't imagine why a girl would want to talk about anybody except Clem or Mr. Moore. “You're asking me?” I inquired. “About Buford?”

“You're the expert. Who else in this town has as much scourge experience as you do? Oh crap! There I go being insensitive again; I mean sick bastard experience.”

“It's a fair point, I suppose. Are you happy?”