The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  As soon as Mr. Moore left the ranch, Clem instructed Pearline to fetch him the house phone. She was only able to hear half the conversation that followed, but I’ve been able to piece the rest of it together since. I may have had to fill in the odd gap, too, but that’s something all of us writers have to do from time to time. I hope you understand.

  The first thing she heard was, “Buford, this is Clem Tucker.”

  Once upon a time, Buford Pickett was Clem’s number two man. Some say he was Clem’s hatchet man, but he became the general manager of the local branch when Clem took over the National Bank of the Plains up in Omaha. That’s another way of saying that they grew apart. He replied, “It’s nice to hear from you, sir. How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit, Buford. How the hell else would I feel? You’ll never guess who just came by the River House to have a chat.”

  “Vernon Moore.”

  “You got the news?”

  “From Lily last night. He had dinner with the colonel of the state police up in Lincoln. Did you hear about that?”

  “No, but I’m glad they’re getting along. Since you’re so well informed, do you know why I called?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “Then listen up. I need you to drop whatever you’re doing and take another stab at finding out who Vernon Moore really is.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but how can I do that? I lost my research associate when the bank was absorbed by NBP. They’ve got a whole department up in Omaha. Why don’t you call them?”

  “Pay attention, Buford. You have experience with this matter; I want you to handle it. John Smith will help. He’s good at fieldwork.”

  “But sir …”

  “This isn’t a discussion. If you’re too busy, I can send one of those MBA whiz kids down from Omaha to run your shop for the rest of the week. How would that be?”

  Buford Pickett is a balding, middle-aged man with a belly the size of Arkansas and the most pitiful taste in clothes you ever saw, but he is no country bumpkin, and only a country bumpkin would be stupid enough to refuse his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. He said, “Can you at least tell me why you’re doing this, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Confidentially, I just made Vernon a proposition that could end up costing me a boatload of money. Before I go through with it, I need to know who he really is, once and for all. And don’t give me any bullshit about World War II, either. I want hard, verifiable facts.”

  “Hard facts have never been easy to come by when Mr. Moore is concerned. It sounds like the state police won’t be much of a help this time either.”

  “Then you’ll have to get creative, Buford. I’ll expect a progress report tomorrow night. Are we clear?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Tucker. Since I have you on the line, can I ask a question?”

  “As long as you keep it neat. Shoot.”

  “How much do you think the Bowe place is worth?”

  “Rufus Bowe’s place?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Why in God’s name are you asking me? I’ve been out of the business for three years. When have you ever needed my help with a valuation anyway?”

  “The auction closes on Friday, sir, but we have only two bids and they’re way too low. Neither will cover the mortgage balance.”

  “Can you spell ‘drought,’ Buford?”

  “Yessir, I can.”

  “How about ‘aquifer depletion’? Can you spell that?”

  “My spelling isn’t the problem, sir. If I can’t find another bidder, the branch will have to book a loss on the loan.”

  “Okay, so now we’re down to brass tacks. How many more of your mortgages are in the same boat?”

  “I’m sending out a dozen foreclosure notices at the end of the month, rain or no rain. I’ll probably mail another twenty at the end of August.”

  “If that many of your farms are in trouble, how much profit do you expect to net this year?”

  “None, sir, obviously.”

  “Well, then. If I was you, I’d be thinking about cutting my losses.”

  “But I am, Mr. Tucker. That’s why I thought you might be interested in picking up the Bowe place. I’d break even on the roll-over if you paid seventy percent of fair market.”

  “Jesus, Buford! I’m on death’s goddamned doorstep. Even if I wasn’t, I’m a banker now. I’d rather buy scabs and boils than one more acre of friggin’ farmland. In case you haven’t noticed, nobody else wants it either; not in the middle of a goddamned drought. You need to start cutting your losses, and right now. Do you get my meaning?”

  “Yessir, I do. What you’re saying is very clear.”

  “Good. Are we done?”

  “Yes, sir. It was a pleasure to talk to you again, just like always.”

  Chapter 6

  THE WISHBONE DEFENSE

  EBB IS USUALLY such a colorful little town, but it was all shades of brown during the drought: the land, the trees, the buildings, the people, even the air. Dust particles stuck to everything, especially pant-legs and shoes, and they were so darned fine that they had the confounding ability to pass through shut windows and doors. I had to dust and vacuum nearly every day.

  Beryl Williams came to the front door while I was vacuuming the Persian carpet in my parlor. The years had been kind to that old rug, but not to her. Her spindly gray hair had passed thin and proceeded on to sparse, deep lines marked her cheeks and forehead, and purplish age spots dotted the paper-thin skin on her hands. Even in the summer, she wore a lavender, hand-me-down cardigan over hunched, tired-out shoulders.

  Long ago, Beryl’s son fell out of the bed of his daddy’s pickup truck while they were turkey hunting in the Sand Hills out west. The fall knocked him out cold and made him vomit afterwards, but her husband wouldn’t go to a doctor until he got a turkey to bring home. By then, the poor boy had suffered permanent brain damage. He spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in the hospital and never returned to school. After his parents split up, a cousin gave him a job at his auto repair shop, where he acquired the nickname “Flathead.” In later years, he drove the town snowplow and did odd jobs for the fire department, but he never left his mother’s care.

  “Can you come in for some tea?” I asked.

  “Oh no,” Beryl replied. “I mustn’t stay. I dropped by to have a word with Mr. Moore. Is he in?”

  “Not at the moment. Can I give him a message?”

  “I was hoping he could see my boy. Do you think he would?”

  “It’s not up to me to say what Mr. Moore will or won’t do, but I’d be happy to inquire on your behalf. Would that be alright?”

  “That would be very nice, Wilma. Thank you.” Just before she turned to leave, Beryl reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out a pretty red apple, which she handed to me.

  That was so sweet, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was a line of Beryls and Connies and Danas and Caseys that stretched two-by-two from my front door to Main Street. One of Dot’s deputies was directing traffic around the procession, and street concessionaires were selling lemonade and cotton candy and big straw hats to ward off the sun.

  I closed the door and turned on the phone just long enough to call Hail Mary Wade, the Queen Bee, but she wasn’t even remotely interested in Beryl and my sad tale of woe. She had just heard about Mr. Moore’s “Clem-or-rain proposition” from Lily Park Pickett, who had heard it from Marie Delacroix, who had heard it directly from Pearline O’Connor. Since I’d been out of touch all morning, it was a fierce shock to me. After Mary filled me in, we determined that I would confirm Lily’s report with Mr. Moore, and then we would let the Circle board of governors decide what to do.

  Mr. Moore showed up in my kitchen while I was slicing apples for two crumble-crust apple pies: one for Beryl and one for my guests. I put down my paring knife and said, “I am so relieved to see you. We have to talk.”

  He gave me a kiss on the cheek and sat down at my table. “Relieved? About what? Have your friends stopped calling about the dro
ught?”

  “It’s just the opposite, Mr. Moore. I can’t turn on my phone or check my e-mail anymore. People are even coming to my door. They all want to talk to you, and not just about the weather. Most have other problems, too. What can I tell them?”

  “I apologize for being so much trouble, Wilma. Would you like me to find a room elsewhere?”

  “Good heavens, no! You’re right where you belong. I just need a little direction, that’s all. What do I tell these people?”

  “Perhaps I’m the one who needs direction. What would you like to say?”

  “I know you can’t fix everybody’s particular problem, but can I at least say that you’re going to pray for a good, old-fashioned gully-washer? That couldn’t do any harm, could it?”

  Mr. Moore thought it over for a while, then he said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Why?” I asked innocently.

  “Because I made a deal with Clem.”

  I laid my hand across the top of my bosom and exclaimed, “A deal? With my Clem? What kind of deal?”

  “I promised that I would ask for rain or his life at the end of the week. The decision could go either way, so I can’t say for sure that I’ll ask for rain.”

  I shook my head, which I’ve done a lot around Mr. Moore over the years. “My gracious Lord. Clem made you an offer, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much? How much money did he offer to pay you?”

  “We didn’t discuss specifics, but I agreed to consider his request.”

  “I can’t believe you’d take Clem’s money, Mr. Moore. That’s not like you. That’s not like you at all.”

  Mr. Moore frowned. “I haven’t agreed to take a penny, Wilma, but his money could prove to be a factor in my decision. Besides, I thought you wanted me to help him.”

  “I do, but not this way. Can’t you just forget about the money and pray for rain and Clem’s life?”

  He replied, “Do you ever keep the wishbone from a chicken?”

  That’s like asking a country girl if she takes a pocketknife on a first date. “Lo and I have a home-and-home series, but you know what? Ever since you brought her back, she seems to get the big piece all the time.”

  “Then why risk losing, Wilma? Why not pull both ends of the wishbone yourself? Aren’t you sure to get your wish?”

  “But, but … It’s not the same thing, is it?”

  “You’re right; it’s not. Uncertainty is the spice of life, and a deal is a deal.”

  “You won’t change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Oh dear!” I moaned. “What am I to tell the Circle?”

  “Tell them what I’m going to tell Clem: to have faith.”

  “I’m supposed to tell them to have faith?”

  Mr. Moore became reflective for a minute, then he said, “Clem believes that God abandoned him somewhere along the way. That’s no way for anyone to feel, especially a man who may be terminally ill. Between now and the end of the week, I’m going to try to sell him some faith. Perhaps you can sell some faith to the Quilting Circle, too.”

  “The women of the Circle have plenty of faith in God, Mr. Moore. It’s their faith in you that has me worried.”

  “Don’t. If their faith is in God, which is where it belongs, then I’m off the hook.”

  Some people are good at starting conversations and others are good at ending them. It is my impression that I have a talent for the former and Mr. Moore is a kung fu black belt at the latter, so I did what any good hostess would do: I fixed him a ham sandwich. While he ate, I rolled the dough for the pie shells and we talked about Winona, my younger daughter. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Council Bluffs, just across the river from Omaha, but her marriage is more like an uneasy détente than a loving alliance. I wonder how much longer it can last.

  Near the end of his lunch, Mr. Moore said, “Have you seen Silas the Second lately?”

  I believe I mentioned that Silas II built the Come Again after the Civil War and has haunted the place on a irregular basis ever since. “He stopped by last spring when I had the air-conditioner replaced, but I haven’t seen boo of him since. Maybe he doesn’t care for the heat.”

  “I’m sympathetic. Is there some way we might be able to induce him to visit?”

  “I can’t say, Mr. Moore. As I recall, you tried a note last time, but that didn’t work. Silas is normally more interested in the Come Again itself, as if he is keeping track of his investment. If I was to add a bathroom or put up new siding, I’m sure he would show up.”

  “I don’t suppose you can think of something a bit less substantial?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but maybe your widow friends will draw him out. Every Tucker in the line has fancied himself a ladies’ man. Maybe old Silas will take to them.”

  “Maybe so,” Mr. Moore agreed. He thanked me for his meal — he has always been the politest person — and then he went off to see Laverne and Loretta. After he was gone, I put the pies in the oven and phoned Hail Mary to corroborate Lily’s report. I should have seen it coming; she called an emergency meeting of the Quilting Circle board of governors.

  LORETTA WAS WEARING blue denim jeans and a pink knit top that revealed an inch of midriff when she met Mr. Moore at the door of the Angles House. I swear: Calvin Klein patterns his jeans after her bottom. It’s a tad irritating.

  “Hello, Lo,” my famous lodger said cheerily. “Can Laverne come out and play?”

  “In this heat? Don’t be silly. Come on back. She’s having an after-school snack in the kitchen.”

  Laverne was eating a peanut butter sandwich at a little, green turtle table next to the kitchen counter. When she saw her other father, she jumped up and yelled, “I said you were coming but Mommy made me finish my sammich!”

  Mr. Moore picked her up and gave her a huge hug. “She just wanted me to herself for a minute. How was school today, sweetheart?”

  “It’s only preschool. Can you stay? Mommy has a meaning.”

  “I got a call from Hail Mary Wade not two minutes ago,” Loretta explained. “She’s convening an emergency meeting of the board. I don’t suppose you know why.”

  “I don’t, but I’d be thrilled to sit with Laverne, even grateful.”

  “Nice try, Vern, but you’re not getting off the hook that easily. The meeting is about you. According to Hail Mary, you’ve made some sort of pact with the devil. Is that right?”

  “Hmmm. I did reach an agreement in principle with Clem, but it’s personal. I can’t see why it would be worth an emergency meeting.”

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard that you agreed to ask for rain or Clem’s life at the end of the week. That’s from two separate and unimpeachable sources, by the way. The same two sources say that Clem offered you a king’s ransom, and not for rain.”

  “That isn’t quite right, Lo. Clem and I discussed money, but only briefly. No sums were mentioned.”

  “But the rest of the story is true.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Why? You were never a slow-witted man, Vernon Moore; don’t start now. The people in this town have faith in you. If they hear about your deal with Clem, they’ll be mystified. They’ll be hurt; they’ll be afraid you abandoned them when they needed you most.”

  “How about you, Loretta? Is that how you feel?”

  “Well, you can file me under ‘mystified,’ darlin’, that’s for sure. I have no idea why you’d make a deal like that with anybody, much less a man like Clem Tucker. Even Wilma is baffled, and he’s her Fiancé in Perpetuity. What do his illness and his money have to do with the county’s need for rain?”

  “They just do. That’s all I can say.”

  “Well, it’s a heck of coincidence, that’s for sure.”

  “A coincidence? How?”

  Loretta never went to college, but she reads incessantly and she has the vocabulary of two English professors. She said, “‘Clement’ is a word, Vern. It means �
�fair’ or ‘mild,’ as in the weather, but we need rain, which is ‘inclement’ weather. This deal is a clash of perfect opposites: Clement, or inclement. Was that intentional, or not?”

  “They’re just words …”

  “Can we play, Daddy?” Laverne pleaded. “I have a big, pink castle in my room. You can take it apart and put it together again, like a puzzle.”

  Mr. Moore gave his daughter another squeeze. “There’s nothing I’d like better, sweetheart. When will you be back, Lo?”

  My best friend heaved a deep sigh, then she said, “It’s an emergency meeting. It could last one hour or six. I’ll give you a call if we haven’t adjourned by five.”

  “No problem.”

  “Laverne can have juice while I’m gone, but no pop or junk food. Is that clear, soldier?”

  Mr. Moore saluted. “Yes, ma’am. You can count on me, ma’am.”

  Loretta bent down and gave Laverne a kiss. “See you later, alligator.”

  My little goddaughter replied, “After a while, crocodile.”

  She is the sweetest child.

  Chapter 7

  THE CIRCLE PURCHASES AN UMBRELLA POLICY

  THE HEAT IN NEBRASKA is generally accompanied by intolerable humidity, but that was not the case during the season of the drought. The downtown air was as dry as old bones, and deathly quiet because the bugs and birds had migrated to Mississippi. It was the only summer in living memory that you could drive down a Hayes County road without getting bug juice all over the windshield. Instead, your car got covered in dust.

  My panama hat notwithstanding, I practically melted into a puddle on my walk to the Abattoir, where we hold our Quilting Circle meetings. If you have ever had a job in the meatpacking industry, you might be aware that “abattoir” is a pretty French word for slaughterhouse. We bought the place for pennies on the dollar after Old Man Jenkins declared bankruptcy and remodeled it for our purposes. The general meeting area is where the main floor butchery once was. A conveyor belt used to run across the ceiling and some of the old hardware is still in place. We hang Christmas lights and ornaments from it during the season.