“Oh my, no! I’m so sorry. I’m a retired nurse. I just can’t seem to help myself.”
Clem glanced up at me, but only for a second. “You’re awful young-looking for a retiree, Eloise.”
“Thank you, but I was an army nurse. We can retire at an early age, you know.”
“I guess so. Military pensions must be pretty damned good, too. I caught a glimpse of your motor home from the bathroom window.”
“Mr. Moore paid for it,” I answered.
Clem patted my arm like I was a pet retriever. “I understand that Vernon was in the army back in the day. Is that how you two met?”
“We never served together,” Eloise answered, “but we joined the same travel club afterward. Vernon is quite the rolling stone, you know.”
“Well, he sure as hell doesn’t stick around here, that’s for sure. What kind of travel club is it? Do you get discounts and free tickets, things like that?”
“Absolutely! We take trips together, we share pictures and stories, we keep lists of nice places to visit. It’s lots of fun.”
“I expect it is, but Vernon and I have a certain business arrangement. Out of curiosity, did he happen to share it with you and your friends?”
I nearly fell off the chair, but the young widow came through like a true Circle girl. “No,” she lied, as deadpan as a riverboat gambler. “Vernon is a very private man.”
Clem grunted, then said, “It’s getting toward my nap time, Eloise, but I’d like to ask you one last question before I hobble off to my bed of pain.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can Vernon Moore work miracles?”
I can be so thick in the head. It wasn’t until that very moment that I figured out why he had jumped at the chance to meet Eloise.
He continued, “A lot of the townsfolk believe he can, includin’ my Wilma here, but it seems to me that he uses his head more than anything else.”
I got the distinct impression that Eloise had heard that question before. She replied, “A policeman carries a gun, Mr. Tucker. Does he use it every day, or does he try to use his head instead?”
Clem sat silently in his chair for half a minute, then he surprised me. “Assuming it’s okay with my fiancée, how’d you and your widow friends like to have dinner at the River House tomorrow night? We’ll invite Vernon, too.”
“And the Millets,” I added, excited by the prospect. “They should be here.”
“Absolutely. How about it, Eloise?”
“Will you be up to it?”
“I’ll be fine. Saint Vernon will see to it.”
“In that case, I’m happy to accept. I’ll have to check, but I’m sure that Birdie and Marion will want to come, too.”
“Then I’ll look forward to tomorrow evening, and thanks for stopping in. It’s been a pleasure.”
Eloise smiled graciously, like a queen who had granted an audience to a minor cousin. “The pleasure was mine, but you should take that nap now. You need your rest, and be careful of those fries. They can be very hard on the digestion.”
AFTER THE WIDOW ELOISE and Nicky the Knife had departed for parts unknown, I gravitated back to the kitchen to warn the chef about the upcoming dinner party. When I walked through the door, Marie, Pearl, John, and Clem’s housekeeper, a lovely Hispanic woman named Consuela Bocachica, were sitting in a row at the butcher block table, glued to the television news.
Fearing the usual, which is bad news, I said, “What happened?”
John turned and answered, “The National Weather Service has revised the weekend forecast.”
“What could be worse than the weather we have now: tornadoes; typhoons?”
“Shush, Wilma!” Marie pointed the controller at the TV and turned up the volume.
Two men in shirts and ties were talking on the screen in front of a big brown map of the midwestern United States. The older one pointed to the map and said, “The jet stream has taken an unexpected turn to the south, which is allowing a large, slow-moving Canadian cold front to begin drifting down to Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota. This may be the break we’ve been hoping for, Frank. For the last four months, the jet stream has been pushing all the moist air northward into Saskatchewan and Manitoba.”
“That’s fantastic news, Tom! When does the storm reach southeast Nebraska?”
“Assuming the jet stream stays where it belongs, we’re expecting the front to cross the border late Friday. But it’s a plodder. It won’t reach us here in Lancaster County till Saturday.”
“Is the system carrying a lot of moisture?”
“No more or less than we would typically expect this time of year. Of course, this isn’t a typical year. Even a tenth of an inch would be a godsend.”
“Everybody out there in Channel 23 country is on pins and needles, Tom. What are the chances that we’ll get rain this weekend?”
“It’s only a preliminary estimate, but the National Weather Service has pegged the odds at twenty-five percent.”
“Twenty-five percent? That’s all? Couldn’t it go higher?”
“It could and it should. If the storm behaves normally, I would expect the odds to increase steadily over the next several days.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“It’s the weather, Frank. Nobody can be sure.”
The anchorman turned and looked into the camera. “Thank you, Tom. That’s great news. We now switch to Courtney Stockton, our roving reporter, who’s live on the steps of the statehouse. Courtney, are you there?”
A sweaty, red-faced young girl with tousled blonde hair and a microphone appeared on screen and replied, “Yes, Frank.”
“What’s the temperature out there, Courtney?”
“A hundred and six in the shade, but it feels like a hundred and sixty out here in the sun.”
“Wow! That’s hot! What’s the governor’s reaction to the weather forecast?”
“It’s still the middle of the night in Beijing. According to an aide, he won’t be briefed for another three or four hours.”
“They’re forecasting rain! It’s headline news. Aren’t they going to wake him up?”
“Not for several hours. I guess he had a hard night.”
“Okay. How about the usual ‘unnamed sources’? What are they saying?”
“They’re split down the middle. About half believe that the governor is leaning toward a disaster declaration and the other half expect him to extend the trade mission to Japan.”
“Japan?”
“I’m just a reporter, Frank. I’m not responsible for his itinerary.”
“You do good work, Courtney. Come on back to the station. It’s nice and cool here.” The scene shifted back to the studio news desk, where the young anchorman faced the camera. “Well, there you have it, folks, straight from the capitol. Rain has been forecasted for the first time in four months, and the governor is taking a detour to Japan. Sayonara for now, but don’t touch that dial! For the latest in news, weather, and sports, stay tuned to Channel 23!”
A slick advertisement for a high-yield, low-moisture corn hybrid appeared on the TV just as Marie hit the off button. “Hot damn!” she exclaimed. “The rain’s comin’. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we won’t need Mr. Moore after all.”
You know what I was thinking. I was thinking that Mr. Moore had caused the jet stream to shift to the south, but it sounded so outlandish that I didn’t have the courage to say so. John Smith, my number one son-in-law, must have sensed my inner conflict. He grinned at me and said, “Rain on Saturday. Is it luck, or is it Mr. Moore?”
Just loud enough for everyone to hear, Pearline whispered, “It’s a blasphemy.”
Chapter 20
A CANARY IN A URANIUM MINE
THE QUEEN BEE of the Quilting Circle called while I was rooting around in Clem’s giant-sized, double-door refrigerator for the pimiento cheese. Marie swore that nobody ate it except me, but the container kept disappearing from the cheese drawer. I had the same problem at hom
e with my favorite hairbrush, which I accused Silas the Second of pilfering more than once.
Hail Mary bypassed the usual niceties, as usual. “Where have you been, girl? This is the third time I’ve called.”
I couldn’t admit that my head was stuck in the refrigerator again, so I fibbed. “I was with my fiancé.”
“Were you? How is the evil Lord Clem doing today?”
“He has a deadly case of cancer, thank you very much, but he seems to be doing better.”
“He’s better? You don’t suppose Vernon …”
“I have no idea. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got big news, Wilma. The weather forecast has been revised. Can you believe it? Rain is predicted for the weekend!”
“How did you hear about it?” I asked, keeping my suspicions in check.
“Lily called Dottie; she called me.”
“Did Lily get the information from Marie Delacroix?”
“Yeah.” After another second, Mary added, “Oops!”
“I’m in the kitchen at the River House as we speak, trying to fix myself a cheese sandwich. Marie is on the house phone not six feet away. We watched the weather together.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! The system works!”
“Before we pull a muscle patting ourselves on the back, let’s make sure that nothing was lost in transmission. Did Lily mention the odds of rain?”
“Twenty-five percent, and it doesn’t arrive till Saturday. My AA marched into my office not one minute ago to inform me that Pastor Hooper has scheduled a sunrise service tomorrow morning. He must want God to up the odds.”
“It sounds to me like he wants to get his two cents in before the downpour, but why the heck does it always have to be the crack of dawn? Lulu Tiller used to schedule sunrise meetings at the Abattoir all the time. She was as chirpy as a bird, but everybody else was crankier than an overdue mother with a water retention problem.” In retrospect, I probably picked a poor metaphor because Hail Mary had never experienced the joy of childbirth. For all you wild-eyed fathers- and mothers-to-be out there, there is nothing quite like impending motherhood, especially when you are fifty pounds overweight, your lower back is killing you, and you are carrying so much excess water that you slosh when you walk.
“The time is inconvenient, Wilma, but the cause is worthy. I’d like everyone to show the flag, or the red umbrella as the case may be. Can you bring Vernon and the widows along?”
“I can ask, but why?”
“They need to see how desperate we are for rain. That reminds me: have you heard from Clara yet?”
“It’s not like she could call, Mary, and I can’t check my e-mail till I get home.”
“Ask in person if necessary. We need to meet with her before the next board meeting.”
“But the forecast has changed for the better. Do we still have to go?”
“The odds are only one in four, Wilma. Until the rivers and streams of Hayes County are overflowing with rainwater, we need to think like Pastor Hooper; we need to pursue every possible angle. Call me when you hear from Clara.”
She just had to bring up water again, didn’t she?
IF HAIL MARY had peered out her office window while we were yammering on the phone, she would have spied two extremely large motor homes pulling up in front of the Angles House. Laverne was nowhere to be found when Marion and Bertha rang the doorbell, so Loretta led them to the library and then excused herself so she could conduct a room-to-room search. Eventually, she found my cute little goddaughter underneath her Peter Pan bed, behind a hastily constructed wall of pillows and stuffed animals.
Lo kneeled down and peered into the dark recesses. To two little eyes, she said, “We have guests, Lovey.”
A tiny voice peeped back, “I don’t wanna go.”
“Why not? They’re Poppy’s friends.”
“I don’t care.”
“Come on, Lovey. Aren’t Poppy’s friends your friends?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“’Cuz they make Poppy go away.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“It doesn’t matter, Lovey. I promised Poppy that you would say hello. You have to come downstairs.”
“No, I don’t. You go.”
Loretta was a devotee of the escalation school of parenthood. “One,” she said sternly. There was no discernible movement behind the wall, so Lo raised her voice. “Two-o-o!”
Like most little girls and boys, Laverne had no desire to find out what was on the other side of three. When mother and daughter appeared in the library, the Widow Fabian stood up and remarked, “My oh my! What a beautiful child you are!”
The beautiful child took cover behind her mother’s leg.
The eldest widow put her hands on her hips in mock disappointment. “I heard from your other daddy that you’re a very, very special little girl. Is that true?”
Laverne peeked out from behind her mother and replied, “He’s not my other daddy anymore. He’s my Poppy! He bought me ice cream.”
“Really? What kind?”
“Pink.”
“I like pink ice cream, too. Did he take you for a ride in his new car?”
“Uh huh.”
“What fun! Where did you go?”
“To the ice cream store.”
Don’t you just love little children?
Everyone took a seat — Laverne in her mother’s lap — then Birdie said, “Have you heard the latest weather forecast? My driver just picked it up on the radio.”
“I got the call a few minutes ago,” Lo answered. “I was expecting it, of course.”
“Expecting it?”
“Sure, just as soon as Vern arrived.”
Marion smiled and asked, “How about you, Laverne? Do you expect rain?”
“Uh uh. I like the sun.”
“I like the sun as well, but in moderation. Are you in school now, dear?”
“Preschool.”
“Is it fun? Do you enjoy going to school?”
“It’s just preschool!” Laverne repeated.
Loretta chided her. “Marion and Birdie are Poppy’s friends, Lovey. Be nice.”
“We’ve been your Poppy’s friends for a long, long time,” Marion said. “Could you tell that we were coming to visit?”
Laverne glowered at the widows. “Poppy’s leaving again. How come?”
Birdie and Marion made eye contact with each other, then Marion replied, “Because he has people to help, dear. Your Poppy is an extraordinary man, you know. There are others like him, but only very, very few.”
Loretta’s chin dropped to the floor. “There are others?”
“Oh yes, but the numbers are so small that a person could live a lifetime and never meet another like him. Even then, he wouldn’t be the Vernon Moore. Vernon is exceptional, even amongst the extraordinary.”
“How? How is he so extraordinary?”
“Perhaps we’re not speaking of the same Vernon Moore, dear. I thought he’d been to Ebb twice before.”
“Okay, point taken. Since Vern is so extraordinary, can I conclude that my daughter is half extraordinary?”
“Come, come,” Birdie said. “Don’t you already know the answer to that question, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s try a little demonstration. Laverne, do you know what h-o-r-s-e spells?”
“Uh uh. I don’t have all my letters yet.”
“Then let me give you a clue. H-o-r-s-e spells an animal. I’m going to picture it in my mind. Tell me if you can see it.”
Laverne leaped to the floor. “Mommy, Mommy! It’s a horse! I can see a horse!”
Loretta nearly swooned in her chair, but I have no idea why. It’s not like we hadn’t seen it coming. We just couldn’t admit it to each other.
“That’s exactly right,” Birdie affirmed. “Now, the horse I’m thinking of is b-r-o-w-n. Can you tell me what color it is?�
�
“It’s pink! It’s pink!”
Marion sat forward. “That was a good try, but you weren’t quite right. Perhaps something else is on your mind. Is it your Poppy?”
Laverne began to jump up and down like she was on a trampoline. “He’s coming! Poppy’s coming, and he’s going to buy me a cold drink!”
Loretta’s hand came up to her mouth, then she regained enough of her composure to say, “What kind of cold drink, Lovey?”
“Pink, Mommy! It’s gonna be pink!”
“Are you sure? Are you very sure?”
Laverne stopped jumping. After a pause, she replied modestly, “No.”
Marion said, “That’s exactly the way it should be, dear. Do you know why?”
Laverne shook her head.
“Because you can sense what other people are thinking, but people don’t always think clearly, do they? They change their minds, they imagine, they make wishes or guess about the future; they even fool themselves. Do you understand?”
“Uh uh.”
“That’s a sensible reply; good for you. No one blessed with a gift such as yours has ever truly understood it — or its consequences.”
“Its consequences?” Loretta gasped. “What consequences?”
“There are too many to list, but one is quite certain: you have a daughter who will sometimes see your thoughts.”
At that moment, my best friend left the State of Denial and moved to Bargaining. “Dear Lord in heaven; you’re right. What can I do?”
“Not to worry, dear. There’s a simple protocol …”
“A protocol? You’ve done this before?”
“On occasion. There are five important steps you must take.”
Loretta closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck. “Okay!” she replied. “I give! What am I supposed to do?”
“First, educate Laverne broadly: in history, science, languages, music.”
“Music?”
“Most definitely,” Birdie replied. “Have you considered lessons — the piano, for instance?”
“The piano? Look at her hands. They’re tiny.”
Laverne hid her hands behind her back. Birdie said, “Professional teachers have keyboards made just for a little girl’s hands these days. Do you know Jenny McCallum?”
The Widows of Eden Page 14
