“Not at all, but He’s God. He exists on an entirely different plane than we do. What applies to us doesn’t necessarily apply to Him, and vice versa.”
“I take it we’re finally down to the loophole you mentioned yesterday.”
“We are, but it takes a little math to understand. Would you agree that an omnipotent God would live forever?”
“Hell yes. Otherwise, he’d be less than omnipotent.”
“Right. What’s infinity minus one.”
“I got As in math, Vernon. It’s still infinity.”
“Correct. In fact, what’s infinity minus any finite number?”
“Same answer; still infinity.”
“That’s the loophole, Clem. As long as God lives forever, He can intervene as often as He wants without harming His own uncertainty. It’s still infinitely large.”
“Okay. So God can dabble on Earth to His heart’s content. Good for Him, but what about us Little Leaguers? He’d sure as hell destroy our uncertainty. And for the record, I don’t want to stand out there at first base for a million years while the other team scores a zillion runs. It would kill my knees.”
“But what if you lived forever, too?”
“Then I’d need new knees, and the game would still be ruined.” Clem picked up his espresso cup and walked to the door. Marie Delacroix is not a fleet-footed girl, but she managed to scoot into the great room before he shouted, “Marie!”
She stuck her face around the corner a five-count later. “Yes, Mr. Tucker.”
“Would you make me another espresso, please? And double the sugar; I don’t care what Louise says. Espresso is crap without a quarter inch of raw sugar in the bottom.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s dinner comin’? Are you making me a green bean casserole?”
“Yessir.”
“Come on, Marie. You can’t fool an old fooler. You have to be making a dish I didn’t ask for; a fancy dish. What is it?”
“I wouldn’t call it fancy. I’m fixing fresh asparagus with Béarnaise sauce.”
“Asparagus? Yum! What’s for dessert?”
“Blueberry pies. Wilma’s making them.”
“Wilma?”
“She wanted to, Mr. Tucker. What could I say?”
“Nothing. If Wilma wants to bake, let her bake. I have to powder my nose. I’d appreciate it if you could fetch me a proper espresso while I’m gone. Okay?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Tucker.”
MARIE FOUND MY LODGER looking over the Japanese sword set when she returned. “Mr. Tucker won’t be a minute. Can I top off your tea or bring you a piece of pound cake?”
“No thank you,” he said, as he ran his palm across the top of the long sword. “This is the katana. The short sword is called the shoto. They’re beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever been to Japan, Marie?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Moore.”
“Go. Don’t wait too long; just go. You’ll find many excellent cuisines.”
“So I’ve read, but there isn’t much call for seafood at the River House.”
“Try the yakitori and the shabu-shabu.” Mr. Moore turned to face Marie, and continued, “Do you know what else makes the Japanese so exceptional?”
“Their cars?”
“I was thinking that they’re an honorable race. That’s not to say they’re perfect but, like the English, their culture was founded upon the tenets of honor and, like England’s, it has endured a thousand years.”
“I thought our culture came from England, too, Mr. Moore.”
“It did, but it’s not clear that the honor gene made it across the Atlantic intact. Do you suppose that a society based on greed and self-gratification will last even half as long?”
Clem reappeared just then with a big smile on his face. “Boy oh boy. I’m getting healthier by the damned minute! Thanks for the fresh espresso, Marie.”
“Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Tucker?”
“I’ll call if I do.” While Marie left the office, Clem said, “Were you admiring my sword set, Vernon?”
“Yes. I was.”
“Eighteenth century, hand-forged and folded steel. Razor sharp; could cut through an engine block like whipped butter. I’d never give it a try, though. Too damned expensive. I left it to John Smith. He’s still in to all that martial arts crap, but maybe you’d rather have it.”
“It’s a nice thought, but leave it to John. I have a set of my own.”
“You do? Are you a collector?”
“Let’s just say that I’m an admirer of bushido. Where were we before you excused yourself?”
The two men sat down again. Clem answered, “You were about to explain why God wouldn’t mess with my Little League game.”
“Actually, I was about to explore the opposite case. What if He wanted to affect the outcome?”
“I’m confused, Vernon. Why would a God bother to intervene in a goddamned Little League game in the first place?”
“To make a point, to preserve a principle, to reward a good act. To answer a prayer.”
“Very clever, but I don’t give a shit; He can’t do it. He’d ruin the game for the rest of us. We already agreed.”
“We did at that, but what if there’s a work-around? Did your coach ever call in a relief pitcher?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Why?”
“Because the starting pitcher was getting crucified. Why else?”
“Was the relief pitcher an adult?”
“Hell no. He was another kid, just like …”
“So the pitcher was relieved, but by another child, so the uncertainty of the game was preserved, wasn’t it?”
“What are you saying, Vernon? Are you saying that God can intervene as long as He delegates it to a Little Leaguer — like you, for instance?”
“I would never make such a claim for myself, Clem. I’m only pointing out that a benevolent God could intervene if He chose to delegate — as long as He also met another requirement.”
“Which is what?”
“We could never know that He was behind the intervention, could we? Otherwise, we would become dependent and expectant. Worse, the greatest mystery of life would be revealed.”
“So God has to remain anonymous.”
“As we discussed yesterday, yes.”
Clem inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “I’m a simple country boy, Vernon. Is this a good time to summarize?”
“Sure. You or me?”
“I’ll take the wheel, if you don’t mind. You’re saying that God can influence an outcome on Earth without destroying His uncertainty because of a loophole. Right?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Okay. But you’re also saying that He has to work through intermediaries if He wants to preserve our uncertainty.”
“That would appear to be the case. Otherwise, the consequences would be obvious.”
“Are you one of God’s relief pitchers, Vernon? Think before you reply. A shitload of money could be riding on what you say in the next five seconds.”
“Nice try, but you can’t trap me that easily.”
“Trap you? What the hell does that mean?”
“If I was one of God’s intermediaries, how could I possibly admit it and preserve His anonymity? The answer, of course, is that only a charlatan, to use your own terms, could ever claim to be an emissary from God. A true emissary would be forced to deny it.”
“So you deny it, even though it could cost you seventy-five million dollars.”
“The money is insignificant against the consequences. Either I’m not one of God’s relief pitchers, or I am and I can’t admit it. Either way, I’m not.”
“What about Christ? Didn’t he claim to be the son of God?”
“I wasn’t there at the time, but I believe he said that we are all children of God, and the rules were different then anyway. The human race was barely out of the Bronze Age
. The sun revolved around the Earth and the elements were earth, wind, fire, and water. Tell me: how would the Sermon on the Mount have gone over if it had been based upon chaos theory?”
Clem shrugged. “From where I sit, all of this divine intervention shit is still pretty hard to swallow, and it’s two thousand years later. I need a while to mull it over.”
Mr. Moore stood up from his chair and stretched. “No problem. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Can you answer one straightforward question before you go? I don’t want any long-winded explanations either. Be Clara for a minute; just answer yes or no.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Does God ever answer your prayers?”
“Yes.”
“He does? How often? Once a year; once in a blue moon?”
“Every day.”
“Every day? Jesus, Vernon! What do you pray for?”
“Just that, Clem. Every night before I turn out the light, I ask for one more day. So far, God has been incredibly generous to me.”
“No shit! If Buford Pickett is even half right, you’ve seen a helluva lot more days than the rest of us will ever see, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Have you considered the odds?”
“The odds? What odds?”
“The odds that Buford is right. When the day is done, doesn’t your decision depend more on that than on any other factor?”
“I suppose it does, now that you mention it. What does your decision depend upon?”
“Another number, Clem, with a dollar sign in front of it. Get some rest. I’ll see you this evening.”
Chapter 27
RELATIVE RULES
MR. MOORE STOPPED BY the Angles House that afternoon to pick up Laverne for another field trip. I don’t know if he was expecting to be ambushed by the lady of the house, but ambushed he was. Loretta opened the door and bypassed the usual father-of-my-child, saver-of-my-life banter. “Lovey is in the den watching Shrek,” she said. “Can we sit in the front room for a minute?”
Mr. Moore replied, “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Birdie and Marion came by for a visit yesterday afternoon.”
“Marion said that you were a bit upset. Birdie thought so, too. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was because my daughter was scared to death before they came, but she had a doting ‘auntie’ by the time they left. Or maybe it was ‘Auntie’ Marion’s use of colorful, thought-provoking terms like earthquake and nuclear accident.”
“Laverne has an extraordinary gift, Lo. It may permit her to foresee certain catastrophic events, should they ever transpire, but it will also make her a handful to raise. Access to an ‘aunt’ with a similar gift will be to your advantage. Spend some time with Marion at the River House tonight. She’s not as dangerous as you think.”
“Dangerous? Why is she dangerous?”
Mr. Moore sat forward. “I was speaking ironically, Lo. Marion wouldn’t harm a fly, literally. What’s really bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How could I be more plain? Something else is bothering you. What is it?”
After a pause, Loretta said, “I don’t want my daughter to spend her life in a bus, Vernon, even if she gets to sit up front. I want her to do whatever she wants, as long as it includes the production of grandchildren to comfort my old age.”
“You’ve drawn an incorrect inference, Loretta. Marion lives a nomadic life because she accepted an invitation to join Lohengrin’s Children. I thought you would have heard of it by now.”
“I did, from Hail Mary. Aren’t you a member, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then where’s your bus? Didn’t you get one for yourself?”
“I prefer to travel by car, but it’s irrelevant. Laverne will never become a member of Lohengrin’s Children.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Vernon L. Moore. Are you saying that my daughter couldn’t get into a travel club? Why the hell not?”
“You’d never want her to take the entrance exam, Lo; nor would I.”
“The entrance exam! What kind of entrance exam?”
“It’s the worst, most dangerous kind of happenstance. It would almost certainly kill her.”
“It would what?”
“The odds are a million to one, Lo. Hence the term ‘happenstance.’”
“But it didn’t kill you, did it?”
Mr. Moore sat back and responded, “Use your own best judgment.”
Loretta crossed her arms. “Four years ago, you told me funny stories and made love to me. Two years ago you raised me from the dead, twice, and don’t bother denying it either. I’m not in the mood. Now, all of a sudden, my biennial knight in shining armor has reappeared, and I’m scared shitless. Why? What did I do wrong? Are you pissed off because I gave your daughter a father? Was that my mistake?”
“No. You did precisely what you should have done.”
“Then what’s going on, Vern? Why am I so upset?”
“Ask yourself, Lo. There’s no danger to Laverne. Something else is on your mind and you still haven’t told me what it is.”
Loretta paused to choose her words carefully, then said, “I’ve been trying to unravel your deal with Clem ever since you got here. Only one explanation makes sense.”
“Which is … ?”
“You’re going to give Clem’s money to the farmers, aren’t you?”
Mr. Moore replied sharply, “Where did you come up with an idea like that?”
“In the first place, you would never keep the money for yourself, so the question is who you would give it to. It was a bit of a leap, but I ruled out Congress and the oil cartel. The farmers need it more than anybody, and you’ve been talking to them about crop yields and land values since Tuesday. Is that another odd coincidence, or am I right?”
“I can’t say one way or the other.”
“You can’t? Why not?”
“Because you’ll tell Wilma, and she’ll tell Clem. It could kill the deal.”
“How come?”
“Because Clem Tucker is not a charitable man.”
“Then why didn’t you sell him some, darlin’?”
“A salesman sells what the prospect will buy, Lo. Clem is in the market for faith because he fears death, but he won’t buy charity. He never has, and he has no need to know what I intend to do with his money. That’s my business and mine alone.”
Loretta had two choices: she could beat a dead horse, or she could change the subject. She said, “Then will you answer another question — honestly?”
“Honestly, after so many lies?”
“I’m serious. When will you be back to see your daughter?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s your daughter, dammit! She deserves a better answer than that.”
“I agree, but it’s not my decision.”
“It’s not your decision? How can that be?”
“The Quilting Circle has rules, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, so do we.”
“By ‘we,’ I take it you mean Lohengrin’s Children?”
“Yes, and I broke one of the rules.”
Lo was taken aback, but not for the reason you might think. “Only one? Was it Laverne or me?”
Mr. Moore sighed. “You’re right. I broke two, and they were very, very big rules.”
“So you were a naughty boy. What can they do, take away your frequent flyer miles?”
At just that moment, a three-year-old jet streaked into the room and landed in Mr. Moore’s lap. “Poppy, Poppy! The movie’s over! Fiona turned green, again!” Laverne planted a kiss on his cheek, then she swiveled around to face her mother. “You’re sad, Mommy. How come?”
“Poppy and I were talking about old times, Lovey. Grown-ups can miss old times just like we miss our old friends, and that can make us sad.”
Laverne leaped out of Mr. Moore’s lap and into her mother’s. “I told you before. Poppy’s coming back.”
“He is? How do you know?”
“Auntie Marion said so. She said you could take it to the bank.”
“She said what?”
“She said you could take it to the bank, Mommy.”
Chapter 28
CLARA’S DANCE CARD
FOR A CHANGE, I didn’t have my head in the refrigerator when Hail Mary walked into my kitchen. It was stuck in my oven, which is electric, thank you very much. On any given day, the owner of a bed and breakfast has to stick her head into a variety of kitchen appliances, but never a gas oven, a garbage disposal, or a blender. That’s a safety tip.
“Hello, Wilma,” she said. “I see that you’re baking — for dinner at the River House?”
“Blueberry pies, Counselor; Clement’s favorite. I’m pinch-hitting for Marie.”
“Etiquette was never my best subject, but isn’t a formal dinner supposed to have two desserts?”
You’d never think that girl was country-born herself, would you? “That’s why there are two pies,” I replied. “How was your visit with Mr. Moore? Did you and Dottie change his mind?”
“I hope so. At a minimum, we gave him something to think about.”
“I was just curious, because Marie gave me a call not fifteen minutes ago. Mr. Moore and my Fiancé in Perpetuity had another discussion about divine intervention this morning. Apparently, it was impossible yesterday but perfectly possible today, which means he’s still doing what he always does.”
“Which is what, if I may ask?”
“Confusing people,” I replied. While Mary was thinking that over, I added, “We’re due upstairs to see Clara in a minute, but I may need to pull out and leave part way.”
“Why?”
“I have to check on my two desserts again in about twenty minutes.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Wilma. If necessary, I can muddle through on my own. After all, it’s only the future of the county at stake. I wouldn’t want you all to be without your precious pies tonight.”
BEFORE CLARA WOULD set her big toe inside my door, the third floor of the Come Again had to be decorated to her exact specifications. I take that back; “decorate” is an exaggeration. Actually, she converted the place into a home gymnasium, starting with fifteen hundred square feet of polished, Brazilian wood flooring. These days, it’s checkered with just about every exercise gizmo you could imagine, plus a few odd-looking contraptions that may have been invented during the Spanish Inquisition. The rest of Clara’s floor is arranged into a bedroom, a huge bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub smack in the center, an office, and a large, tile-floored kitchen which should have made her the steel industry’s Woman of the Year. It has a huge, stainless-steel refrigerator-freezer, a Viking range, a steel Miele dishwasher, and a double, stainless-steel sink — for a woman who makes herself one meal a day, usually a salad with tofu or cashews in it. Otherwise, she eats my cinnamon oatmeal for breakfast and lives off yogurt smoothies.
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