The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “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?”

  “No.”

  Tell me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t get the sense that she had even a pinch of adoration left, assuming she had any to start with. “But you have two fine boys, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  The picture of a naked, buttered Buford reappeared involuntarily in mind. I shuddered and went on, “Then his job is done, but I wouldn’t throw Prince Charming out the door just yet. I’d wait till the weekend at least.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Vernon Moore is in town, Lily. The Vernon Moore. We can sit around the Abattoir all day plotting this or that, but it won’t amount to a hill of beans come Friday afternoon. He is going to do whatever he is going to do, and it won’t be what anybody expects; not you, not me, not Lo, not Clem, and certainly not Hail Mary Wade. None of us have a clue.”

  “Are you sure, Wilma?”

  “Heck no, but it’ll all be over in three days. What have you got to lose?”

  Chapter 16

  GOD’S DILEMMA

  JOHN SMITH WASHED Clem’s black limousine
in the front courtyard of the River House every Wednesday and Saturday, come hell or high water, or nearly no water. He customarily wore black from head to foot, but he removed his shirt for the purpose of washing a car in the blistering sun. As a consequence, the ladies of the household became familiar with his pectorals and abdominals, but from a purely admirational point of view. He kept himself in fine physical condition, I have to say.

  When Mr. Moore pulled up to the house in his blue Mustang, John put down his hose and walked over to open the door.

  My famous lodger emerged and said, “It’s good to see you, John. Given your presence, would I be correct in assuming that you and Clem have ironed out your differences?”

  “We did, Mr. Moore. Thanks for your advice.”

  “You’re welcome. Would I also be correct in concluding that Clem is ignoring the ban on washing cars?”

  “Laws like that are made for little people, not Tuckers, but if using a few extra gallons of water is the worst he ever does, I expect I’ll be able to cope. Are you here to see him?”

  “Yes. How’s he doing today?”

  “He’s officer material, that’s for sure. He’s been running around the house all morning, barking out orders and causing trouble everywhere he goes. If Pearline can get him back in bed, he gets on the hooter and starts swearing at somebody.”

  “So he’s better.”

  “A lot better, and he credits you. He says you gave him his strength back.”

  “It sounds like I may have given him the wrong end of his vocabulary back, too.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Would you like me to walk you in?”

  “Thanks, but I can find the way. If I were you, I’d finish the limo so I could get out of the heat.”

  “I don’t mean to diminish the county’s need for rain, Mr. Moore, but this isn’t hot. Hot is North Africa in the summertime. Have you ever had the pleasure?”

  “Once upon a time, long, long ago. Have a good day, John.”

  The young man returned to his chores while the older man let himself in and walked back to the master suite, where Pearline was checking the sick man’s blood pressure.

  Clem was sitting at the head of the bed in Wedgwood-blue silk pajamas with white piping and buttons, which I gave him for Christmas one year. They complemented his white terrycloth robe, which was long and hooded, like a boxer’s.

  “Come on in, Vernon,” he said as he rolled down his sleeve. “Have a seat. Pearl is just finishing up.” He looked up at her and inquired, “Well? Am I going to live?”

  “It’s amazing, Mr. Tucker. Your temperature is back to normal, your pulse and respiration are fine, and your blood pressure is down fifteen points. But you need to quit hopping up and down and get your rest. Should I leave the phone?”

  “Naw. Take it with you, please. I’m expecting a few calls, but take messages until Vernon and I are done. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After Pearline had excused herself, Clem said to Mr. Moore, “I hear your friends arrived at the Come Again yesterday afternoon, and they’re all widows. Is there a reason you like to hang around women with dead husbands?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve learned to prefer them to women with living husbands, generally speaking.”

  “That’s pretty sound reasoning, now that you mention it. Why’d you invite them here?”

  “I didn’t. They wanted to see Ebb for themselves.”

  “So they’re not here to help you call in the rain or exorcise my cancer?”

  “Not at all. They’re just good friends, and a little nosy.”

  “I heard that, too. Wilma’s bringing one of them down to see me later today. Heloise, I believe her name is.”

  “Eloise, or El. She’s very nice. You’ll like her.”

  “Eloise; I’ll try to remember. Why are you sending her out here? Are you looking for a second opinion?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, Clem; it was hers. If you’re up to it, you might enjoy a tour of her motor home.”

  “Maybe I will. I am feeling better; a hell of a lot better thanks to you, and don’t deny it either. I’m happy with the theory I have. What’s on the program this morning?”

  “The Deist’s Paradox. Do you remember it?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me, Vernon. It must have been the excitement of the day. I forgot to commit it to memory.”

  “No problem. It goes:

  A benevolent God would intervene in the affairs of men from time to time;

  But God has not intervened in the last two thousand years;

  Therefore, He has abandoned us.”

  “Okay, but why is that a paradox? It sounds to me like a simple statement of fact. God took off. He flew the coop, just like I’ve been saying all along.”

  “But what if He didn’t? What if He’s still here, but He chooses not to intervene?”

  “Are you saying that He’s nothing but a spectator, Vernon; that He just sits up there and watches us, like we’re on TV?”

  “Why not? It’s a possible solution to the paradox. If you were to try on His shoes for a few minutes, then maybe we could determine whether He does or not.”

  “Hold on a minute, cowpoke. Did I hear you right? Did you just say that you want me to step into God’s shoes? What size does he wear: a twelve zillion triple E?”

  “Don’t be modest, Clem. If anyone can fill His shoes, you can. Aren’t you the chairman of the largest bank in the state … ?”

  “Three states.”

  “Then let’s move you up a rung. Let’s put you in God’s shoes and see if we can discover whether you, as God, would be a spectator, or you would intervene on Earth. Do you think you can handle it?”

  Clem thought it over, then answered, “No problem. If playing God is what it takes, then I can play God. Would you like to say a little prayer to me now?”

  “Maybe later. For now, I’d like you to relax: close your eyes, let your shoulders drop, breathe deeply. Imagine that you’re all-knowing and all-powerful. It can’t be much of a leap.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to eat humble pie today, Vernon. I’m God. I’ve got my infinite shit together.”

  “More importantly, you’re omnipotent and omniscient. Under such extraordinary circumstances, what would you want more than anything else?”

  “A big-chested woman with no vocal cords and no emotional baggage. If Wilma had my sister’s vocabulary, she’d be two words short of perfect.”

  In case you’re wondering, I didn’t make that up. It was reported exactly as recorded; I swear to God.

  “Is that all you want, Clem? Over the course of history, kings and caliphs have kept hundreds of wives and concubines, and they’re merely royalty. Isn’t there something more elusive you would want, something beyond mortal reach?”

  “Jesus, Vernon, I don’t know. Give me a hint.”

  “Remember, you’re omniscient. You’re aware of everything that has ever happened, is happening now, and ever will happen. What’s the one thing you crave more than anything else?”

  After a pause, Clem replied, “I apologize for being so thickheaded, but I’m still leaning toward my first choice. Maybe you’d better explain the error of my ways.”

  “It’s simple, really. If you were omniscient, you would know everything about the past, the present, and the future, forever. You could never be surprised or amazed; there would be no mysteries or revelations. You couldn’t even have an idea; you’d have already had them all. If you were an omniscient God, wouldn’t you be bored to tears? Wouldn’t eternal life be a curse of infinite proportion?”

  “So what am I supposed to do: make myself stupid?”

  “Would you rather be stupid, or would you rather be surprised?”

  “You just lost me, Vernon.”

  “Think about it, Clem. If you knew everything, wouldn’t you crave uncertainty? Wouldn’t you value surprise and excitement above all else? In fact, weren’t you in a similar position a few years ago? Isn’t t
hat why you parlayed the family bank into a coup d’etat at the National Bank of the Plains? Weren’t you just plain bored with the same old job at the same old office in the same old town every single day?”

  My fiancé opened his eyes. “That was a brilliant business maneuver, if I say so myself. It made me wealthier than even you can imagine.”

  “Maybe, but to pull it off you had to consolidate the trust’s wealth in the loan portfolio of a small, rural bank. Was that a brilliant maneuver, or was it the reckless act of a terminally bored businessman?”

  “Okay, so I was bored, but I’m not real fond of the word ‘terminal’ right now, if you don’t mind. I’m happy to assume that God was bored, too. That’s why He took off and left us behind — because we’re a boring goddamned species. What do you say to that?”

  “I’d say you were jumping ahead of me. You’re an all-knowing God, so you suffer from God’s Dilemma: you’re infinitely bored. However, you are also all-powerful, so you can make anything you want. What do you make?”

  “I suppose a chesty woman is still the wrong answer.”

  “Oddly, you’re on the right track, but instead of one woman, why not build a planet full of women and millions of other species, and maybe even a few men? Since you’re omnipotent, why not build billions of galaxies, each with billions of stars and planets of their own? If you had the inclination, I bet you could finish the job in a few days, maybe even less.”

  “Yeah. I suppose I could.”

  “Good. Now what’s the most important feature that you would build into this giant universe of yours?”

  “I take it I’m supposed to say ‘uncertainty’ instead of ‘boobs.’”

  “That’s right! If you were God, you could build an uncertainty engine the size of a universe. While you were at it, you could embed the principles of uncertainty into everything from the actions of subatomic quantum particles to the impenetrable emotions of lovely, large-chested women, to the behavior of the very stars themselves. Then you would be surprised and mystified and pleased and excited, and even disappointed, every single day.”

  “Check the org chart, Vernon. You’re not God; I am. I’ve had enough disappointment for one life so my universe isn’t going to have any.”