The Widows of Eden (32 page)

Given enough time, I might have rooted to the spot, but Pearline called me to the kitchen phone. It was the Queen Bee, who may have been the last person on Earth that I wanted to talk to at that moment. “Wilma, you old fox!” she said. “I just heard from Lily that you and Clem tied the knot last night. Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” I sniffed. “I'm thrilled.”

“You might have warned us, girl. We would've had a proper bachelorette's party at the Abattoir: cheap wine, chocolate fondue, Chippendale dancers, all the deadly sins.”

“I had no idea that Clem was going to repropose, Mary. I wore black to my own wedding, for Christ's sake! Do you suppose that's bad luck?”

“A black dress? For the bride? How could that be bad luck? I heard that the widows left this morning. Did you have a chance to say bon voyage?”

“We said our bon whatevers last night after the ceremony. Why?”

“Flathead didn't show up at the firehouse this morning.”

“He didn't?”

“Beryl's not home either. It wouldn't be such a mystery except that Virgie saw them walking up your driveway around six a.m. It seems that Beryl was carrying a stack of paperbacks and Flathead was pulling a suitcase.”

“They were not!”

“It's an eyewitness report, Wilma. Dot sent a deputy over to Beryl's an hour ago. Their closets were half empty and the fridge was as clean as a whistle.”

“Oh my! Do you know where they went?”

“No, but I thought you might. The widows were staying with you.”

“Nobody said boo to me, Mary.”

“Not even your famous lodger? Did he mention anything this morning?”

“Uh uh.”

“Then Dot'll have to file a missing persons report. She just checked in, by the way. I take it that Vernon and Clem are done trying to outmaneuver each other.”

“They're all done, Mary.”

“I don't mean to be indelicate, but I need to know: did they reach an agreement or not?”

I sighed deeply. “You can relax. There was no deal.”

After a second, she replied, “I'm sorry, Wilma, but I was afraid that's what you'd say.”

“You were? How come?”

“The jet stream moved again. The storm front has turned due south and is picking up steam. It's expected to make Omaha by midnight.”

“It is? What are the odds that we'll get rain in Hayes County?”

“Back to fifty percent and rising. Now they're saying we could get as much as half an inch by Saturday night.”

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “It's happening. Mr. Moore is bringing the rain after all.”

“Hold on a minute. My AA just stuck her head in my door.” Mary came back on the line half a tick later. “Marta Kimball stopped breathing at Connie's flower shop not fifteen minutes ago. The EMT team got there in no time, but they couldn't revive her. Doc Wiley just pronounced her dead at the scene.”

I am not a Catholic, but I genuflected anyway. “May she abide in heaven. That poor woman was never a particle of herself after Dean passed away.” Then my mind bounced from poor Marta to my new husband, and in less time than it takes a hummingbird's heart to skip a beat. “I have to go, Mary. I have to check on Clem.”

The door was shut when I got to his office, but I took a deep breath and just plunged on in. Calmly, he said, “I know we're man and wife now, but I'd appreciate it if you'd knock. I could've been in the middle of a long-distance conference call.”

“I'm sorry, honeypot. I will from now on.”

“Thank you. I saw the sheriff escorting Vernon off the lot. Is he under arrest?”

“Not so far as I know. Dot said he has an appointment with the lieutenant governor.”

“The lieutenant governor! That liberal turncoat bastard! What in God's name is Vernon selling him?”

“How would I know? I thought he might have said a word to you.”

“Well, he didn't, but I can guess. We just spent thirty minutes debating the fate of the family farm. That man is a goddamned relic; he was born in the wrong century. Wait a minute; I take that back. We don't really know what century he was born in, do we? Did he tell you that we concluded our business?”

“He said to check with you,” I replied, as if I wasn't already in the know. “How did it end up?”

Clem sat back in his chair and opined, “You have to give the man credit. He was gracious in defeat.”

“Gracious in defeat? I thought you were trying to make a deal.”

“We went over this before, Wilma. Every business deal is a contest; there's winners and losers. I told you Vernon was going to lose last night. You shouldn't be surprised.”

“But what about your cancer?”

“Please! I'm not that stupid. He fixed me up at the beginning of the week.”

“He did? Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Why do you think I'm feelin' so much better?”

“Then did you offer him any money, any at all?”

“Why in hell would I do that? He wasn't asking for money; he was asking me to throw half my legacy down a goddamned rathole. Given his purposes, a few million here or there wouldn't have amounted to a wood tick on a coon's butt anyway.”

“But …”

“No buts, Wilma. If Saint Vernon is a straight-shooting man of God like everybody seems to believe around here, then he
needs to quit putting his hand out and start calling in the rain. Last I heard, the forecast was down this morning.”

“That's not right, honeypot. The odds jumped up again — right after Mr. Moore left with Dottie.”

“They did?”

“The weatherman says we're looking at half an inch this weekend, maybe more.”

“Well, I'll be damned, Wilma! I'll be damned! I'm going to make it.”

“You are?”

“Hell, yes. If Vernon Moore can bring the rain, then he sure as hell can cure a chicken-shit case of cancer.”

Isn't it strange how two separate grown-ups can get the same exact news and react in opposite ways? I see Democrats and Republicans do it all the time, but I had forgotten that husbands and wives do it, too. Clem was reassured by the imminent arrival of rain, but I was petrified by it. All I could remember was Mr. Moore saying, “A deal is a deal, Wilma. I'll ask for one and not the other.”

Would a man of God lie about something so important?

E
ARLIER
ON
, I
EXPLAINED
to you that rich folks do not use telephones like normal folks. Well, they don't go to hospitals like normal folks either. That afternoon, Clem and I drove up to Ebb in the Porsche, with the top down and the air conditioner running full bore, while John Smith followed in the limousine, which was stuffed to the gunwales with suitcases, hang-up bags, and briefcases — all Clem's. It was all I could do to keep the man from bringing golf clubs and a sidearm.

When we got to the Come Again, Clem went upstairs to retrieve Clara while I went to my room to pack a bag. To my surprise, I found a suitcase on top of the bed that had already
been filled with all the clothes I would need. Sitting right next to it was a large white box tied in blue ribbon. Inside, I found a greeting card with a photograph of a giant sea turtle named “Harriet” on the front. That's right, a sea turtle. The description overleaf said that Harriet had lived in an Australian zoo until the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy-five.

A note was written on the opposite page:

Dear Wilma:

Please accept this gift as a small token of our thanks. It's a day late, but the box is borrowed, the ribbon is blue, Harriet was magnificently old, and the hat is quite new.

I hope to visit again someday. In the interim, please don't hesitate to call.

Best wishes,

Marion Meanwell

Underneath the card was a brand new panama hat with a red Paisley band. Not only did it match my official Quilting Circle parasol, it fit my curly locks perfectly.

I made a few strategic additions to my suitcase and added a makeup kit, and then I donned my new panama and met Clem and Clara in the parlor just as John Smith was pulling up to the porte-cochere. He had picked up Louise Nelson, Hank Wiley's nurse, who was riding up to Omaha in the limo with Clara.

Here's a wardrobe safety tip: don't wear a panama hat in a Porsche convertible with the top down and a madman at the wheel, even if the madman insists that his perfectly engineered wind guard will prevent it from flying off. You are riding in a Porsche, and panamas are impervious to German-made wind guards. What isn't obvious about that? I hunkered down low, but I reached for the brim too late. The wind snatched it from my
grasp as Clem accelerated onto I-80 at a dreadful rate of speed and John Smith, who was doing his darnedest to keep up, nearly flattened it as it flew by. I wanted to go back but my sentimental husband said, “We're not turning around, goddammit! I'll buy you another one.” My “something new” was last seen heading south toward the border, and Panama.

We picked up the first signs of the cold front as we crossed the Platte River midway between Lincoln and Omaha. The clouds were on the edge of the horizon, but I could tell that they were tall and purple, which was a sure sign of rain as long as the jet stream didn't change its fickle mind again. Clem pulled off the highway at the next rest stop to powder his nose while John guarded the Porsche and watched the top put itself up. It was the first time I had had a moment to myself since Mr. Moore had left, so I gave Loretta a call on my police phone.

“Are you en route?” she asked.

“We're almost there. I just lost my brand-new hat.”

“Your new what?”

I told Loretta about Marion's note and my recently departed wedding gift, but she was more interested in Harriet. “That turtle was thirty at the beginning of the Civil War,” she said. “Do you suppose that Marion was trying to tell us something?”

“It's a possibility, but I've seen prettier critters in my day. If that's the price of longevity, then I'll have to think about it. Did you hear about Marta Kimball?”

“Yes, bless her soul. She would've been the first to admit that she was ready to go. Here's a question: do you send flowers to a bereaved florist?”

“That's a tough one, but I'll leave it to the Condolences Committee, if you don't mind. I suppose you heard about the deal. I would've called myself but it was all I could do to get Clem ready for the hospital.”

“I got the word from Hail Mary. I'm so sorry, Wilma. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can pray,” I replied. “That's all any of us can do anymore.”

That's when it hit me; it must have been my forty-first revelation of the week. The only reason we pray to God for divine intervention is because the men who have the means to help us don't do it. If Clem had given Mr. Moore the money, then hundreds of Hayes County farmers would have made it through the year, no matter what God did with the weather.

A long time ago, Mr. Moore said there were four kinds of people: the weak, who need help from others to get by; the self-sufficient, who help themselves; the strong, who help the weak; and the pathetic, who take from everybody. On the rest of the trip up to Omaha, I tried to decide which definition fit Clement best. I didn't want to be unfair to a man who had cancer, but the only category I could eliminate was “the strong.”

Mr. Moore had tried his best, but he had failed to rehabilitate my husband. The realization made me very sad.

Chapter 38

 

M
Y
K
INGDOM
FOR
A
H
ERSHEY
'
S
B
AR

T
HE
WAKE
-
UP
CALL
from the hotel desk arrived at the undignified hour of six a.m. I could have rolled over and slept till noon, but Clement was due at hospital admissions at seven sharp. He beat me to the bathroom, so I put on a white cotton robe and threw open the curtains to get a tenth-floor panoramic view of the Omaha weather. Dark, mean-looking clouds filled the sky, raindrops streaked down the window in long diagonal trails, and a gale-force wind was blowing sheets of rain across the parking lot.

My heart nearly stopped. It was exactly like the day that Mr. Moore had saved Loretta. I yelled out to Clem, “The heavens have spilled over, honeypot! It's a monsoon; a deluge!”

He didn't respond, so I rapped on the bathroom door and opened it a crack. “Are you okay?”

My husband was facing the mirror in his striped shorts and a farmer's tan, meaning his face and arms were brown as a berry but the rest of his skin was as pallid as mozzarella cheese. In the reflection, I could see two tiny pieces of tissue stuck to his chin by red dots of Tucker blood. “I cut myself shaving, goddammit! You'd think a man could shave his own face in the morning.”

“Do you need a Band-Aid? I brought some.”

“No, I don't. I need three scrambled eggs on toast, hash browns, half a dozen strips of bacon, and a pot of fresh coffee.”

“You can suck on ice chips, honeypot, but that's the limit. Doctor's orders. I'll get a bucket from the machine as soon as I get dressed.”

“I suppose a bucket of fried chicken is out of the question.”

“It is unless you want to vomit all over the doctors and nurses who are trying to fix you up. I hear that's frowned upon in operating circles.”

“How about a Hershey's bar?”

“How about I bring Nurse Nelson in here, with you in your shorts?”

That's how it went all morning. I tried my darnedest to get my husband ready to meet his surgeon, but all he wanted to do was eat. If it hadn't been for Louise, I doubt that I would have gotten him past the restaurant in the lobby. When John Smith pulled up in the limo, Clement said, “Take me to a pancake house. There's one on Dodge about thirty blocks west of here.”