“Of course I remember,” Old Bertha said. “He was gone for almost five months!”
“But he came back!” Polly said. “He’ll come back again.”
“You sound like everybody reassuring Titan that Fancy is going to come back,” Old Bertha said. “And we all know that’s not happening.”
“We do NOT know that,” Polly said, sounding appalled.
Cleo bit her lip. Of course, she didn’t think there was much hope Fancy would return, but she was certainly in the camp of lying to Titan. She also remembered when Pappy left last time. It was a few months into their tenure in Fat Chance. The neophytes were just getting the hang of things and were falling into some kind of rhythm, when Pappy suddenly announced he was leaving. He accused the newcomers of settling for just existing instead of pushing themselves to make something of themselves or at least the town. He came back as abruptly as he left, with not a word as to where he’d been. Cleo tuned back in to the conversation.
“Besides, we weren’t a couple last time,” Old Bertha said, bursting into a fresh wave of tears and hiccups. “You don’t think he left because of me, do you? Too much pressure?”
“No!” Polly said with conviction. “Of course not.”
Cleo couldn’t believe this conversation. The Old Bertha she knew was a hardened, no-nonsense senior who had no time for romantic folly. And Polly! Cleo thought back to the Polly who had arrived in Fat Chance with her Goth makeup and sullen disposition. Cleo could hardly reconcile herself to the mature and loving young person who had blossomed not only into a surprisingly nurturing woman, but a genuine artist. Polly’s hats, jewelry, and now her quilts were true works of art. Cleo had decided that when she left Fat Chance—if her attempts at trying to rekindle something with her ex failed, or when Wesley got bored—she might bring Polly’s creations back to Beverly Hills with her. She knew her friends would be wild for Polly’s designs.
“You know what Poet would say about this?” Polly was saying in the kitchen.
Not everything had changed about Polly. She was still boy-crazy.
“I can’t imagine,” Old Bertha said. “Since I haven’t heard him say more than two words strung together since he got here.”
“He only speaks the truth,” Polly said.
“Well, that’ll keep a man quiet, that’s for sure,” Old Bertha said. “I don’t see how that boy is gonna run a wagon train if he doesn’t offer up some salesmanship.”
Cleo lost interest in the conversation. She did a double take when she noticed a piece of folded paper stuck under a vase of flowers on the hall table. Cleo picked it up and studied it. The paper was folded in thirds but wasn’t in an envelope. On one flap was written “Old Bertha,” but the “Old” was crossed out. It looked as if it had been crushed and smoothed out again. Cleo wondered if the person who stuck it in the hall had rejected the idea of delivery, crumpled the paper, then rethought the rejection. She carefully pulled back one of the flaps and saw “Respectfully, Pappy.”
She held the letter to her quickening heart. She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. She wanted desperately to read it, but knew she should race into the kitchen and hand over the letter. She also thought about all the changes Polly and Old Bertha had gone through as a result of living in Fat Chance, Texas. Was it possible she had changed, too?
No, it wasn’t.
She opened the letter, the soft sounds of Old Bertha’s sobbing fading away. When she finished reading, she peeked around the corner into the kitchen. She knew this letter was probably going to make things worse, not better. But withholding the information would be wrong. Even more wrong than reading it in the first place.
Cleo steeled herself for the upcoming drama.
I loathe drama.
She pasted on her bright, practiced smile and walked into the kitchen, waving the letter. Old Bertha had settled down. She and Polly were calmly drinking tea at the scarred table.
“I found this in the hallway,” Cleo said, her tone so chirpy and chipper it might have left knife marks on the walls. She held the letter out to Old Bertha.
Chapter 14
Erinn stood in front of the Boozehound, camera equipment slung over her shoulder. She peered in the immaculate front window. Professor Johnson was in the far end of the saloon/museum, tools spread out around his feet. His head was deep inside a player piano. He reminded Erinn of a car mechanic, focused and searching for the perfect tool. Professor Johnson caught sight of Erinn. She waved and he waved back. She noticed he didn’t signal that she should come in, but she decided, as a documentarian, she could not always wait for an invitation.
She opened the door and slipped inside.
“I see you’re busy,” Erinn said.
“Yes,” Professor Johnson said.
Thud scrambled to his feet, came lazily over to her, received a pat on the head, and returned to the sun-warmed floor.
“I understand you are the one who discovered the mustang grapes,” Erinn said, pulling up the piano bench.
“Yes,” Professor Johnson said, as he continued to tinker with the piano.
“From what I hear, you’re the driving force behind the town now,” she said, knowing that modesty would prevent anything other than another one-word answer.
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I set up my camera while we chat?” Erinn asked.
“I’m a little busy right now,” Professor Johnson said.
“That’s fine. I’ll just go interview someone else.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“When would be a better time?”
“Never,” Professor Johnson said. “Never would be a better time.”
“I see,” Erinn said. “Of course, I will honor that. But there is something to be said for being the first to be interviewed in a situation like this.”
“A situation like what?”
“A documentary is not like a movie,” Erinn said. “There is no script, no agenda.”
“Oh? I’m to believe Michael Moore has no agenda when he’s at work on a new documentary?”
“Point taken. Let’s put it another way. I have no agenda.”
Professor Johnson stopped working on the piano and looked at Erinn.
“I can’t imagine you can possibly uncover anything new about my grandfather and his empire.”
“My goal isn’t a story about Cutthroat Clarence’s empire,” Erinn said. “My goal is to explore his human side. And to see what has become of Fat Chance, Texas, since he decided to leave it to all of you. What have you achieved? Have you been successful? Would Cutthroat Clarence think you were successful? What defines success in society today as opposed to his day?”
“And you think people will find that interesting?”
“I have a nose for what people will find interesting,” Erinn said. “A few years ago, I created a show about pairing wine with junk food. Huge success. Huge.”
“You must be very proud.”
“If you let me interview you, you’ll be able to lay the groundwork for my investigation. Your interpretation of events will set the rest of the story in motion. If you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean. I remember a class in comparative religions at Georgetown,” Professor Johnson said. “The professor asked the class to discuss what they thought about children choosing their own religion.”
“As opposed to . . . ?”
“As opposed to being raised with the traditional beliefs of the family. Even if a child were to investigate other religions as an adult, the core belief system of his or her family would always—for good or ill—be there for comparison. The child’s early religious training would be the basis for any comparative investigation.”
“In other words,” Erinn said, “the child would always compare what she was learning against what she already knew.”
“Exactly.”
“I agree that would be the outcome.”
“So then how do you suggest we proceed with this intervi
ew?”
Erinn mounted the camera on a tripod and set two chairs facing each other. While she insisted it would only take her a few minutes to prepare her notes for the interview, her ministrations were so comprehensive that Professor Johnson went back to working on the piano. Erinn set up a small monitor, but changed her mind, fearing its presence would be too distracting for the interviewee and took it down. With one final look through the eyepiece to assure herself that her choice of a soft-focus background of the player piano was the way to go, she asked Professor Johnson to take a seat.
Professor Johnson took in a breath, then let it out slowly. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and glumly took the chair opposite Erinn.
“Please say your name,” Erinn said.
“My name is Professor Johnson.”
“Do you have a first name?”
“Elwood.”
“Would you spell that, please?”
“E-L-W-O-O-D.”
“And you would like to be referred to as Professor Johnson.”
“I would.”
“Please spell that.”
“Which don’t you know how to spell? ‘Professor’ or ‘Johnson’?”
“It’s not for me,” Erinn said. “It’s for the editor.”
“You’ve hired an editor who doesn’t know how to spell ‘Professor’ or “Johnson’?”
“No,” Erinn said, finding herself a little flustered. “Actually I haven’t hired anybody yet. But . . . never mind. Let’s move on.”
“All right.”
“I understand that you have taken on the mantle of overseer of Fat Chance.”
“Not intentionally,” Professor Johnson said. “All of us in this town are dedicated to making something of it. It’s a lot of hard work and even more focus. The people here . . . are better at the hard work part.”
“But you’re the one rolling the stone uphill?”
“I certainly don’t embrace the Sisyphus analogy. I expect to get the stone over the hill—eventually.”
“But it’s still a thankless task,” Erinn pressed.
“Right now it is,” Professor Johnson admitted. “But somebody has to keep things moving, and I guess that’s me. My grandfather always said, ‘I’d rather be admired than loved.’ ”
“And you?”
“Unlike my grandfather, I don’t really think I have a choice in the matter.”
Erinn felt a wave of sympathy. She knew what it was like to be in the role of thankless leader.
“What is your earliest memory of your grandfather?”
Professor Johnson took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirttail, and deposited them back on his nose. Erinn had trained herself to wait out these silences rather than move on. She suspected that Professor Johnson would have incredible insights once he started talking. She prided herself on having an instinct about these things.
“I was almost two,” Professor Johnson said. “I was being potty trained and went into my grandfather’s study to use the toilet. He poked his head around the door and asked if I needed any toilet paper.”
“Uh . . . ,” Erinn said, suspecting her instincts were getting a bit rusty. “I meant . . . what is your earliest profound memory?”
“Profound memory?”
“Of your grandfather,” Erinn added, just to be clear.
“I suppose you would have to define ‘profound.’ ”
“You define ‘profound,’” Erinn said. “This is about you and your grandfather, not me.”
“I thought you said this wasn’t about my grandfather.”
The momentary twinge of compassion she had for the man passed.
How can Dymphna put up with such a pompous, bombastic know-it-all?
“Oh,” Professor Johnson continued, “I have it. Here is an early profound memory. I can’t guarantee it’s the first. I suppose I can’t even guarantee it’s profound. You’d need to be the judge of that, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you just tell me,” Erinn said though gritted teeth.
“It was my fourth birthday. My parents were still alive, but my birthday party was at my grandfather’s house. Aunt Cleo and Uncle Marshall were there, too. And Uncle Sebastian.”
“Do you mean Sebastian Pennyfeather, your father’s attorney?”
“Yes. Although at four I didn’t think of him as an attorney. He was just Uncle Sebastian.”
“Since he wasn’t a relative,” Erinn said, “why did you refer to him as ‘uncle’?”
“I was four. I suppose some adult suggested it.”
“Go on with your story.”
“My grandfather had bought me a child-sized train set, complete with engine, two cars, and a caboose. He had bought engineer hats for us and he and I rode around the grounds. Every time we came by the adults, Grandfather would toot the ridiculous horn and everybody would wave to us. Even as a small child, I knew the difference between a real train and this contraption. The whole thing was embarrassing. Not just for me, but I felt the grown-ups were embarrassed, too, and were just humoring my grandfather.”
“What happened next?” Erinn asked.
“Grandfather finally turned the engine off. My mother mercifully lifted me off the train and my grandfather looked at me and said, ‘You are too damn serious, boy. You need to learn how to have some fun.’ Then he stomped into the house.”
“That’s a very detailed memory for a four-year-old.”
“I was very precocious.”
“No doubt.”
“Besides, after my parents died and I went to live with Aunt Cleo and Uncle Marshall, my grandfather put me in therapy. So my memories have been analyzed within an inch of their lives. If memories have lives.”
“What did you and your therapists conclude, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“That I’m not a fun guy.”
What could Dymphna possibly see in this man?
The door flew open. It was Wesley. At the sight of the newcomer, Thud sprang up.
“Be careful,” Erinn said as Thud came hurling past her.
Thud rocketed past Professor Johnson and knocked into the tripod. Erinn screamed as the tripod wobbled. It appeared to topple in slow motion. Erinn reached out, but the camera was tilting the other direction. She covered her face and waited for the sickening crash.
And waited.
“You can open your eyes,” she heard Professor Johnson say. “Crisis averted.”
She opened her eyes. Professor Johnson lay on the floor. One of his arms cradled the camera, which lay on his chest, the tripod legs sticking out at odd angles. His other arm was around the dog. Erinn approached them on shaky legs.
“Thank you,” Erinn said. “Thank you so much for catching the camera.” She felt a rush of gratitude and goodwill toward the professor. Perhaps there was something to this unusual man after all.
“I don’t think there’s any damage to the camera or tripod.” Professor Johnson sat up and righted the equipment. “I’m so sorry. Thud is an acquired taste.”
“That’s been said about me more than once,” Erinn said.
“Me too,” Professor Johnson said, sitting up.
Did he actually smile?
Erinn stretched her hand toward the professor.
“I’m all right,” he said. “I can get myself up.”
“I was just going to grab the camera,” Erinn said, righting the tripod.
She noticed the professor’s glasses had flown off in the mêlée. She picked them up and handed them to him.
“One good turn deserves another?” Professor Johnson asked, straightening his glasses.
Erinn smiled. She noticed Wesley still stood frozen in the doorway.
“Good reflexes, kiddo,” Wesley said to Professor Johnson. “That could have been a disaster.”
The three of them stood looking at each other. Did Erinn detect a hint of disappointment in Wesley’s voice that there hadn’t been a disaster?
Chapter 15
Old Bertha walked along the creek t
hat ran behind the stores. She walked past the table at the rear entrance to the Boozehound Museum and Saloon, where Professor Johnson restored artifacts for his museum. Currently, there was a dented brass spittoon, two arrowheads, and something that looked like a rusted wishbone that Professor Johnson thought was a boot spur.
She’d seen him in the drop-dead heat of summer, oblivious to the pelting sun, cleaning and polishing his treasures, preparing for the day when the grapes would be transmuted into wine and the crowds thronged to his saloon—his “tasting room”—and toured his museum.
Old Bertha admired his dedication to a vision that was not in the immediate future. Before she retired, she’d been in the business world. She knew that you couldn’t always be Mr. Nice Guy when you had your eye on the prize and the prize was in the future. Professor Johnson seemed to know this better than the other inhabitants. He was often the odd man out, shaping his vision of the town’s future.
Fernando was behind the café, tossing coffee grounds on his vegetable garden. Old Bertha was highly suspect that garbage of any sort was a boost to vegetables, but she couldn’t argue with Fernando’s cooking, so she held her tongue. She wondered if she should have held her tongue with Pappy.
“Hey, Bertha,” Fernando said. “You okay? Is there anything I can do?”
“Do I smell brownies?” Old Bertha asked, sniffing the air.
“Yes,” Fernando said. “Just whipped up a batch of Mississippi Mud Brownies. If it will put a smile on your face, I’ll bring a plate of them over to the inn.”
“I don’t really have an appetite,” Old Bertha said.
“I understand.”
“But maybe by suppertime, I could have a bite.”
“I’ll have them there by nightfall.”
Fernando went back into the café. Old Bertha stood behind Pappy’s place, two buildings that made up the bank, the jail, and Pappy’s living quarters. Old Bertha blinked back tears as she thought about Pappy caring for his mule, Jerry Lee, and tending his grape arbor, even though he’d practically moved in with Old Bertha months ago. Old Bertha went to the lean-to that served as Jerry Lee’s stall. Jerry Lee looked at her with mournful brown eyes. She reached out and scratched his head.
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 10
