The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “Yes, Ms. Wade.”

  “On behalf of the Quilting Circle, I’d like to thank you for doing a terrific job. Please pass our appreciation on to Tulip, as well.”

  “You might want to buy her a bottle of Baileys, ma’am. She keeps one under the counter for after hours, but we finished it off this morning.”

  “I’ll send it with the gratitude of the Circle.”

  “That’ll be nice, thank you. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you gonna do about Mr. Moore?”

  “We haven’t decided yet. Why?”

  “Can I offer my own opinion before I go?”

  Dottie looked at Hail Mary, who said, “Of course. We’re all aware of your past relationship with Mr. Moore.”

  “I don’t claim any relationship with Mr. Moore, but I have seen what that man can do. Whatever he is, he’s not one of us. I wouldn’t want to land on his dark side, that’s for sure.”

  “What are you trying to tell us, Pokie?”

  “I’m saying that he has a way with the weather, and with life and death. That’s a proven fact. If I was close to Mr. Moore, I’d be privileged to hold his hat, but then I’d stand back.”

  Mary smiled. “Speaking for the board, I can say that we’re all privileged to be acquainted with Mr. Moore and very appreciative of his past efforts.”

  “You could’ve fooled me, ma’am. Where I come from, which is right here, we don’t normally launch investigations into folks we’re privileged to know.”

  “Perhaps, Deputy, but the circumstances in this case are highly irregular. You may have noticed a few irregularities yourself last night, but thank you for your advice. We’ll take it under careful consideration.”

  The rest of us sat in silence while Pokie closed her notebook and left the room, then Hail Mary opened the floor. “Questions? Discussion?”

  “Why don’t we hear what Buford found out about the widows first?” I proposed.

  Loretta, Bebe, and Dot practically fell over each other seconding my motion, so Mary said, “Are you ready, Lily?”

  “Am I ever! Hang on to your pixie dust, girls! You’re about to be transported from Olde England to Never Never Land, where dead people never die.”

  It wasn’t easy, but I did my best to sit still and keep my mouth shut while Lily related what Buford had learned about the widows. When she was done, Loretta whispered in my ear, “Vern was right. My daughter is not taking the entrance exam for Lohengrin’s Children.”

  Hail Mary inhaled deeply and said, “Math was never my best subject, Lily. How old is the Widow Birdie now?”

  “It’s hard to say, but she ran a secondhand store more than a hundred years ago …”

  “That is one well-preserved fire victim,” Bebe observed on behalf of a board that remained generally awestruck and pixie-dusted. “I’d like to hire her mortician.”

  “You might want to retain Marion’s mortician, too,” Lily advised. “She was sixty-something when the Titanic went down. That makes her what, a hundred and sixty-odd now? In comparison, Eloise is a mere child of eighty-five or ninety.”

  “Like Mr. Moore,” I added, as if it made him less of an age-related oddity.

  Hail Mary frowned. “Is there anything else, Lily?” she asked.

  “Yep. All three of the widows’ RVs are registered in a town called Eden.”

  “Eden? Did you say Eden?”

  “I’m not making this up, Mary. All three of ’em are registered in Eden, Arizona. Buford took the company jet down to Tucson this morning. John Smith went with him.”

  “They did?” I said. “What do they expect to find?”

  “Maybe they’ll find a black swan,” Lo remarked.

  “A what?” Dottie inquired.

  “Pokie mentioned the legend of Lohengrin. Did any of you bother to look it up?”

  “I went to the opera,” Mary kindly reminded us all.

  “Then perhaps you’d like to tell us about it.”

  “I would, but it was in German.”

  My best friend rolled her eyes and said, “Then why don’t I give it a try? You can fill in the gaps. The legend of Lohengrin dates to German Arthurian literature in the twelfth century. He was the son of Percival, a knight of the Round Table, and in possession of certain special powers, but his twin brother inherited the family’s wealth so Lohengrin became a Grail Knight. Later on, he was dispatched to a place called Brabant, where the local duke had died without a male heir. Luckily, our man was single at the time and in search of a duchy he could call his very own. He arrived to save the day in a boat pulled by a black swan; sort of like widows arriving in motor homes with dolphins and seagulls on them, but I digress.”

  Everybody looked at each other while Loretta pressed on. “Lohengrin agreed to marry the deceased duke’s daughter, Elsa, but on the condition that she never ask him to disclose his true identity. Elsa may have been a duchess, but underneath all the jewelry and designer clothes she was just another bony, weak-kneed woman. Eventually, she was overcome by her feminine curiosity, so she asked her husband who he really was. He answered truthfully, but then he stepped back into his swan boat and disappeared forever.”

  “Forever?” I remarked. “But Mr. Moore has been back to Ebb twice.”

  Mary scowled. “It’s just a legend, for God’s sakes! Vernon didn’t arrive in a boat. He doesn’t stick around. He didn’t marry anybody.”

  “But he has powers, and he gave Loretta a child. We don’t know who he is either, not really. What if Buford finds out? What if he can never return?”

  “I’m done,” Bebe announced. “Five-hundred-year-old travel clubs, people with secret identities and special powers, dead widows who live to be a hundred and whatever. I’m all in; my ‘no shit’ reservoir is empty. I want to go home and do something that puts me in touch with the real world, like read Cosmopolitan or watch a reality show on TV.”

  “It’s too incredible, isn’t it?” Hail Mary lamented. “Every report seems to defy logic even more than the last, but the future of our county is at stake. We need to step back and focus on what we know for sure.”

  “Okay,” Loretta said. “What do we know for sure?”

  “If you boil it all down, only two things matter: Vernon Moore is in Ebb, and he’s going to ask for Clem Tucker’s life tomorrow.”

  “How can you be sure of that? The rain’s already coming. What if Vern asked last week? What if Clem refuses to give him the money? What if he has a different plan up his sleeve altogether?”

  The room fell silent, then Hail Mary said, “Okay, Lo. What’s your plan?”

  “It hasn’t changed, Mary. My plan is to leave the salvation of the county to the expert. My plan is to put my faith in Vernon L. Moore.”

  “Loretta’s right, Counselor,” Dottie interposed. “We’re way, way out of our league here. We need to shut up and let the man do his work.”

  “How can you say that, Dot? The county …”

  Lily interrupted midsentence. “Have you been listening to anybody in this room today? Things are going on here; weird, spooky things that we have no business putting our noses in. We need to have some faith in the man, or the widows, or whatever the heck they really are.”

  “But, but …”

  Dottie shook her head. “Goddammit, Mary! Read the tea leaves and put a sock in it! We’re all in accord here. I move that we adjourn. Who seconds?”

  My hand shot up like a Patriot missile. Loretta’s, Lily’s, and Bebe’s did, too.

  Lo looked around slowly, then said, “I’m no authority on Robert’s Rules of Order, but I believe it’s time to call for a vote, isn’t it?”

  In the end, it was five votes for faith and one for whatever takes its place in the hearts of those who’ve lost it. By then, I felt sorrier for Hail Mary Wade than for Rufus and Winnie Bowe. They might have lost their farm, but I bet they kept their faith. At least, I hope they did.

  Chapter 31

  REVELATION, PART II

  EXCLUDING THANKSGIVING,
my Fiancé in Perpetuity hosted about one big dinner per year at the River House. As often as not, it was to reveal some sort of stratagem. Three years ago, it was the Big Buyback, when Clem sold the Tucker Trust’s farm holdings to tenant farmers as long as they got their mortgages at the county bank, which Clem owned lock, stock, and barrel. A year later, the big soirée was to announce that he had sold Hayes County Bank to the National Bank of the Plains, also known as NBP, which is the biggest financial institution in Nebraska and the Dakotas. He must have forgotten to tell us that he would use the proceeds to take over NBP and throw out the CEO later the same week.

  Maybe it was the drought, or maybe it was the revelations of the day, but the idea that Clement might be announcing something momentous didn’t even enter my mind until I was choosing my attire for the occasion. All of a sudden, I had no idea what to pick, as if the prospect of a blockbuster announcement had changed the dress code for the evening. In the end, I decided to wear my little black dress. It wasn’t all that little, but it was the safest item in my wardrobe, and I was thinking about safety at the time.

  Road Rage offered me a ride to the River House with the widows, but I turned him down in favor of Mr. Moore. That bought me a return visit to the tiny rear seat in his Mustang, with a blueberry pie in my lap to boot, but it gained me a spot where I could keep an eye on my other pie, in Clara’s lap. Maybe it was an irrational thought, but I was expecting her to start barking like an old-school auctioneer at any minute. As it turns out, Mr. Moore and I talked about the farmers and their various predicaments all the way down, and Clara didn’t utter a word, not even “yes” or “no.”

  Pearline met us at the door — I swear she nearly bowed when she saw Mr. Moore — then she assumed custody of the pies and ushered us into the great room, where we found Clem tending bar for the widows. Rather than pajamas, he was dressed in a black blazer, a black knit shirt, and black slacks. His head had been polished to a high sheen, and he was wearing a big, toothy grin. Clem always had good teeth; “all the better to bite you with,” he would say.

  The Millets arrived shortly after we did and the party began in earnest. Consuela and Pearline passed through the gathering with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne, Clem was on his best behavior, and the widows were as sweet as cotton candy, but the conversations reminded me of past reunions with distant relatives. Everybody was outgoing but reserved at the same time, and no one mentioned anything pithy like Clem’s illness, the weather, or anybody’s age. Meanwhile, Clara sat on a barstool with a glass of champagne, occasionally responding to a question with a yes, a no, or a nod, but mostly watching the proceedings in the same way she watches movies: with amused detachment.

  Just before dinner, Loretta and I managed to cut Marion off from the herd and corral her on the edge of the library. The widow said, “Wilma, dear, your fiancé is such an engaging man, and he has such an air of confidence about him. One would never imagine that he was ill.”

  “You should’ve been here a week ago,” I replied. “Clem hurt so bad that he couldn’t raise his voice, but Mr. Moore came along and he got better overnight.”

  “So you believe that Vernon is responsible for the improvement?”

  “Take a look, Marion. He’s taking the same pills that made him sicker than a dog last week, but now he’s his ornery old self. Only one thing has changed. That would be the arrival of your Mr. Moore, and he has a track record.”

  We both looked at Loretta, who struck a pose and said, “Ta da-a-a!”

  Marion shifted her weight from one foot to the other and asked, “Is something on your mind, Loretta? I get the sense that there is.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you? My mind has been chock full of somethings ever since you and Birdie left my home. Are you absolutely certain that Laverne can read minds?”

  “Oh yes, dear. Aren’t you?”

  “I’m doing my best to get used to the idea, but won’t it give her an unfair advantage at school? Won’t she able to read the teacher’s mind and get all As?”

  “Yes and no. If Laverne is taking a test, for example, she will have the ability to tune in to her teacher’s mind, but it won’t be much of an advantage unless the teacher happens to be thinking about the answers at the time. If she’s thinking about something else …”

  “Like s-e-x? What if her schoolteacher is thinking about that?”

  Marion smiled. “I take it that the question is more personal, but you needn’t worry. What Laverne sees in your mind will be under your control.”

  Loretta exhaled and replied, “Thank God.” Then she asked, “But why?”

  “Think of your brain as a library. Unless Laverne is truly extraordinary, she won’t be able to browse through your bookshelves. She’ll only be able to look over your shoulder at whatever you happen to be reading at the moment.”

  “Okay, but suppose I happen to be reading a book about s-e-x. What then?”

  “You would be wise to avoid it while she’s in your presence, dear. If she decides to tune in …”

  “So distance helps?”

  “It does, but distraction is best, especially sensory interference like TV or music. But neither will help you with the problem that’s really on your mind. There’s no defense for that.”

  That confused the heck out of me. “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Marion answered, “We should rejoin the group, don’t you think? I believe we’re about to be summoned to dinner.”

  Lo began to follow Marion across the carpet, but I grabbed her by the elbow and held her back. When Marion was further down range, I asked, “What was she talking about, Lo?”

  “It’s nothing, Wilma.”

  “Don’t you fib to me. I may not have the gift, but I can read you like a book. Something is eating at you. I can’t worry about it properly unless you tell me what it is.”

  “Ask me again on Saturday.”

  “Saturday? Why is that … ?” Then it hit me. “Mr. Moore will be gone, won’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  I nearly dropped my half-full flute. “Oh my God, Lo! You still love him, don’t you?”

  She touched me on the cheek, and then she walked over to Calvin and took his arm, bless her soul. After a moment of reflection, I said a little prayer for my best friend, and then I pulled up my hostess socks and went to check on the dining room. A magnificent bouquet had been placed in the center of the table, full of lavender-colored foxglove, sunflowers, purple dahlias, yellow wildflowers, and angel hair — but the table had been set for ten. That struck me as odd, so I counted the guests on my fingers. Clem, Clara, Mr. Moore, Calvin, and Loretta made up one hand, which left the three widows and me. I was a diner short and pretty darned sure that Road Rage wouldn’t be eating with the adults, so I stuck my head in the kitchen.

  Marie was zipping from one pot to another like a water bug, while Pearline and Consuela were putting croutons and Parmesan on the Caesar salads in assembly-line fashion. No one noticed poor little me until I said, “Hi, everybody! How’s dinner coming along?”

  Marie stopped moving long enough to put her hands on her hips. “One of these days, I’m going to figure out how to prepare a formal dinner two days in advance and have it taste like it was made at the last minute. Until then, I’ll be in a froth till the last minute. By the way, the pies look wonderful; thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome. When do we eat?”

  “Consuela will be placing the salads in a few minutes. Pearline will call you shortly after.”

  “I noticed that the table is set for ten. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

  “Take a look at this kitchen, Wilma! How could I possibly do that? I’d be running back and forth all the time.”

  “But I counted ten places. There are only nine guests.”

  “Speak to your Fiancé in Perpetuity. I was just following orders.”

  “Clem didn’t tell you who it was?”

  “He said to set the table for ten, Wilma.
What else was I supposed to do?”

  I hate it when people follow orders — except for mine. Don’t you?

  Chapter 32

  THE MYSTERY GUEST

  CLEM AND I WERE SEATED at the ends of the table, which meant I couldn’t enjoy the glare from his shiny new head because Connie’s bouquet was in the way. Calvin, Birdie, an empty space, and Loretta were to Clem’s right, meaning that Lo was sitting to my left. Mr. Moore was to my immediate right, then Clara, Marion, and Eloise. I wouldn’t go to all this trouble, but you need a mind’s eye view of the seating chart in order to get an idea of who was talking to whom.

  We started off with the Caesar salad, which is Clem’s favorite, probably because it requires the minimum number of vegetables (one) to be called a salad. The main course was USDA prime porterhouse steak — Clem won’t eat choice and he can tell the difference in a second — plus asparagus with Béarnaise sauce, fries, and the inevitable green bean casserole.

  According to Lo, Clem skipped the asparagus but put Béarnaise sauce on his fries, which reminded me of a birthday dinner I shared with my father long ago. He drank bourbon on the rocks and ashed a cigarette in his salad before inhaling a sixteen-ounce prime rib, plus all of his fries and half of mine. The night before he died, he told my mom, “I can’t go the doctor; I’m too sick.” I kid you not. He was a man’s man.

  My paternal reminiscences aside, the moratorium on conversational pith remained in place until Pearline and Consuela served dessert, when none other than our very own Pastor Sven Hooper materialized out of thin air.

  Clem jumped up from the table and said, “Welcome, Reverend!” Considering my fiancé’s views on religion, that was a tad more enthusiasm than a certain person would have expected. “Have you met everyone?” he asked.

  “Except for Mr. Moore, who I know by reputation.” He and my lodger shook hands, and then he continued, “I’m sorry for being late. My adult Bible class held a debate on evolution this evening. A few of the men very nearly came to blows.”

  “So Christianity hasn’t changed in my absence. I can’t say I’m surprised. Can I offer you dinner, Reverend?”