The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “Thank you, Mr. Tucker, but we had mac and cheese at church.”

  “Then how about a slice of Wilma’s homemade blueberry pie?”

  “Pie? Dear me! I should decline in the name of moderation, but it looks so delicious!”

  “A la mode or straight up?” Pearline asked flatly, like a bored waitress.

  “A la mode, please. I don’t suppose you have any chocolate sauce.”

  Pearl glanced at me and I nodded. “If that’s what you want,” she said.

  “Bless you, my child. And bless you for having the courage to testify at service this morning. I hope my regular parishioners were taking notes.”

  Pearline muttered something under her breath and disappeared, only to reappear two minutes later with a soup bowl heaped full of blueberry pie, ice cream, and chocolate sauce. “My heavens!” he exclaimed. “The Lord is bountiful tonight. Would you care to join me in prayer?”

  From the other side of the bouquet, I heard Clem say, “You go ahead on your own, Reverend. The rest of us will talk amongst ourselves. I’ll save the news until you’re done.”

  There it was; another stratagem was in the offing. Loretta had the same dumbfounded look on her face I had, but her husband didn’t. Calvin was in on it, and we weren’t.

  AFTER THE DISHES had been taken away and coffee had been served, Clem tapped his spoon on the side of his water glass. The time I was dreading — the moment of the big announcement — had arrived. He stood up and said, “Thirty-six hours from this very minute, I’ll be undergoing an operation that will determine whether I live or die. The odds are not in my favor, but there is an advantage to the prospect of unsudden death. It is the ability to prepare for the eventuality. With that in mind, I beg your indulgence while I make a few announcements.

  “First off, I’d like to thank Vernon, Eloise, and their friends for visiting us this week. It has been the best medicine an unwell man could get.”

  Marion and Birdie nodded while Eloise replied, “You’re more than welcome. It was our pleasure.” Loretta took my hand and squeezed it.

  “Next, I’d like to thank Calvin Millet, who has been the finest friend an arrogant old codger could have for the last four years. I may not have another opportunity, so I’d like to present you with a small gift as an expression of my gratitude.”

  Clem pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Calvin, who accepted it with a simple, “Thank you.” I wasn’t expecting that. Judging from the look on Loretta’s face, she wasn’t either. We were dumbfounded again.

  Clem turned his attention to his sister. “We haven’t had much of a chance to visit because of my health, Clara, but you should know that Calvin has agreed to stay on as the custodian of the Tucker Trust for as long as you wish. He’s also agreed to help you put together a new board. I apologize for giving you such short notice, but you two will need to get started on that next week.”

  There it was; that was the big surprise. “But why, honeypot?” I protested. “You’re going to be just fine.”

  “I hope you’re right, Wilma, and more than you know. As of midnight tomorrow, I will resign my positions as chairman of the Tucker Trust and the National Bank of the Plains. If I survive, I intend to spend my autumn years golfing, hunting, and doting over my new wife.”

  The room froze at the utterance of “new wife.” Loretta squeezed my hand so hard that my fingers turned white.

  Clem walked around the table to my end. “Forgive me for not getting down on one knee, but neither one can take the weight alone. Before I go under the knife, I’d like to propose marriage one last time.”

  Dumbfounded does not begin to describe my reaction. I attempted to unlock my jaw, but I couldn’t find the key. All that came out was a solitary, “Uh …”

  “Don’t get your tail in a knot about the prenup. I’ve amended the bylaws of the trust and changed my will. It doesn’t matter whether you say yes or no, you’ll be taken care of for the rest of your life.”

  “But, but, but this is so sudden …”

  “A friend of ours says that uncertainty is the spice of life, Wilma. What could be more uncertain than an impromptu wedding on the eve of major surgery? Pastor Hooper is ready to say the words. Calvin has the bands and will be my best man. Tell me if I’m wrong, but you may be able to recruit a maid of honor at the table here. Let’s do it right now.”

  The first thought that entered my mind was my previous experience with the institution of matrimony. The second was, “I can’t get married; I have guests!” The third, which actually came out of my mouth, was, “What about a marriage license?”

  “Good try, but Calvin took care of it on Tuesday.”

  I was the victim of a conspiracy! Holding back the tears, I announced, “This is too much of a surprise, honeypot. I need a minute to myself.”

  Loretta knew what I meant by “myself” and beat me to the powder room. You might assume that we didn’t have much space to maneuver, but it was Clem’s powder room, in the River House. It had a shower stall, two sinks, a toilet, and a bidet — yes, a bidet, in Nebraska — and there was enough space left over for a bar-sized pool table.

  “Holy shit, Wilma!” my best friend shrieked. “Did you know this was coming?”

  “Of course I did; that’s why I dressed in black — for my own wedding! I bet the widows saw it, though. At least one of them might have had the good grace to warn me before I chose my attire for the evening.”

  “Well, they didn’t, and you can’t hide in here till Sunday, either. What are you going to do?”

  “Go get Mr. Moore.”

  “That’s it? That’s your answer? You’re so overwhelmed by Clem’s proposal that you’re forming a committee.”

  “After I pee. Get Mr. Moore.”

  Loretta is such a trooper. That woman would take on a pack of wolves with a nail file and a hairbrush if I asked her to. She knocked on the door a few minutes later, just as I was washing my hands. After she and Mr. Moore filed in, I closed the door and locked it.

  “How is Clem?” I inquired. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s at the bar,” Loretta answered, “playing gin rummy with Calvin.”

  “So he’s not too disappointed?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, darlin’, but you can probably rule out suicidal.”

  “What about Clara and the widows?”

  “Relax, Wilma. They’re shooting the breeze with Pastor Hooper on the back porch. You wanted me to bring Vern; he’s here. Let’s get on with it.”

  He could have said something nice to break the ice, but he didn’t. I was left to ask, “What should I do, Mr. Moore?”

  This is the point in the movie where the music crescendoes and the wise man is supposed to say, “Follow your heart, Wilma.” But he didn’t. Instead, he said matter-of-factly, “It’s tomorrow morning. You’re married to Clem. How do you feel?”

  “Scared, trapped, afraid I made a mistake.”

  “Okay; let’s try your other option. It’s tomorrow morning, but you didn’t marry Clem. Now how do you feel?”

  Loretta sighed and put her arm around my shoulder. I replied, “I’m in a bit of a box, aren’t I?”

  He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m meeting with Clara in the morning anyway. I’ll take care of her oatmeal.”

  Chapter 33

  I AM FARFETCHED

  DESPITE THE SPONTANEITY, I have to say that it was a lovely little wedding. Calvin and Consuela rearranged the furniture on the porch so we had room to gather together, Loretta filched a few flowers from the table and made me a cute bouquet, and Pastor Hooper kept the words short and sweet. I halfway hoped that somebody would object at the last second, but no one who could read my mind was inclined to intervene. After we said our “I do’s” and smooched, the party applauded as if they meant it and Marie threw Uncle Ben’s converted rice on everybody.

  Clem stood by my side while we weathered the inevitable congratulations, but then he whispered in my ear, “Can
you steer our guests to the bar? I need to have a quick mano-a-mano with Vernon.”

  That was it; that was the entire ceremony. My first sexual experience was a marathon in comparison. “Right this minute, honeypot?” I asked, hoping to savor my bliss a little longer. “You can’t put it off?”

  “I wish, but I can’t put anything off; not anymore.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “Fifteen minutes, twenty max; I promise. Organize a square dance; play Scrabble with the widows. I’ll be back before you can spell dosie-do.”

  “I’ll be organizing a firing squad if you’re not back in half an hour. I know where you keep your guns.”

  “You’re a hoot, Wilma. Thanks for makin’ an honest man of me.”

  “Don’t thank me, you scallywag. You haven’t made it through the night yet.”

  Clem whispered into Mr. Moore’s ear, then the two of them disappeared into his office down the hall. I noticed Marie heading that way just a minute later.

  After they were settled in, my new husband said, “Before we get going, I have to thank you again for coming down tonight. It means the world to Wilma and me, and I appreciate you bringing Clara along, too. Tell me if I’m wrong, but she seems to be enjoying the evening.”

  “I believe she is, including the spontaneous wedding.”

  “How about you? Were you surprised?”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but no, I wasn’t.”

  “Is that so? What was the tell?”

  “Heirs. You had one estranged daughter at the beginning of the week. Tonight, you acquired two stepdaughters, two grandsons, and two granddaughters. It was quite a coup.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, one of my new grandsons just happens to have the sharpest head for numbers I’ve ever seen. But don’t make the mistake of believing that heirs were the only reason I got hitched. In fact, that’s why I wanted to chat tonight. My thoughts should be with my new bride, but this deal of ours is weighing heavily on my mind.”

  “Uh oh! ‘Weighing heavily’ isn’t the sort of phrase an old salesman likes to hear. Should I be steeling myself for disappointment?”

  “That depends on you, Vernon. I’ve tried my damnedest to buy your story, I really have, but I’m not comfortable with it. To be brutally honest, I think it’s a pile of theoretical horseshit.”

  “That’s a pity. Where did I fail?”

  “Everywhere. I can’t bring myself to buy a word of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Clem; I did my best. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  Mr. Moore began to stand but Clem said, “Hold on there, cowpoke. I don’t want to go under the knife thinking that I might’ve thrown the baby out with the bathwater.”

  “I can see why. The image is terrifying. What can I do to help?”

  “For openers, you can help me sort through all this uncertainty shit. It’s like nothing I ever heard before. It’s just too farfetched.”

  “Too farfetched or too illogical?”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Not at all. If all the mass in the universe was condensed into a single ball, how big would it be?”

  Clem frowned then answered, “I don’t have any idea, Vernon. I don’t have any idea why it’s relevant either.”

  “Humor me; take a shot at it anyway.”

  “We’re talking the entire universe, right?”

  “End to end.”

  “Okay. It has to be a trick question, and I read someplace that atoms are mostly space, so I’d guess that it could all be squeezed into a ball the size of a single star, like our sun.”

  “The universe is comprised of hundreds of billions of galaxies, Clem, each with billions of stars. How could so many be squeezed into a single star?”

  “You asked me to take a shot at it; that’s my shot. Are you gonna tell me the answer, or are we gonna bat the little white ball back and forth across the net until sunup?”

  “Your second guess was closer. According to the latest research, all the mass in the known universe was compacted into a space the size of a golf ball just before the Big Bang. One trillionth of a second later, it was spread across the visible universe. A trillionth of a second! To me, that’s the very definition of farfetched, but it’s also consistent with the latest data analyzed by the world’s best cosmologists. In layman’s terms, it’s logical.”

  “So God made heaven and Earth out of a golf ball. He’s omnipotent; He’s supposed to be able to do that kind of shit. What’s your point?”

  “That the universe is so large, so fantastic, and so old that anything we say about it, even something as simple as its origin, will ultimately be farfetched.”

  “We’re not talking about the origin of the goddamned universe, Vernon. We’re talking about little old me.”

  “Fair enough. Name something that isn’t farfetched; anything at all.”

  Clem picked up a paper clip. “How about this?”

  “Good choice. What could me more common than a paper clip?”

  “Exactly. I rest my case.”

  “How many are made each year?”

  “Jesus, Vernon! I have no idea.”

  “Hundreds of millions? Billions? Tens of billions.”

  “Let’s not go overboard. A few billion, max.”

  “Fair enough. What were the odds that that one paper clip would end up on your desk?”

  After a pause, Clem said, “Okay. How about Wilma? That woman is the salt of the earth. She’s as unfarfetched as anybody I’ve ever met.”

  “Really? What were the odds that Wilma’s parents would meet and marry, much less conceive a child with her exact genetic composition, and what were the odds that their parents would meet, marry and produce them? If you think about it, you quickly come to the conclusion that the odds against any one individual’s existence are beyond astronomical. Ultimately, only one mathematical condition permits it. Do you know what it is?”

  “No, but I’m willing to bet that I can rule out destiny.”

  “The correct answer is a chaos theory, Clem. It says that everything becomes impossibly unlikely over time, but some things must ultimately exist, even a wonderfully farfetched concoction like a Wilma Porter.”

  My new husband wasn’t impressed. “Net it out for me, Vernon. What the hell are you trying to say here?”

  “That you can’t dismiss any idea simply because it’s farfetched, because everything is farfetched through the lens of time. However, you may dismiss any idea if it’s illogical. That, in fact, is the very essence of intellect.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Everything that you and I have discussed about ‘reasoned faith’ may seem farfetched, but it is a logical extension of a single, simple assumption: that the universe is a massive uncertainty engine created by a self-serving but benevolent God. What more logical, less farfetched alternative do you have? The Bible?”

  “No way, cowboy. I’m not fallin’ into that trap. If I even hint that it’s less farfetched, I’ll get an earful of arks and parting seas. Thanks, but I don’t even want to go there.”

  “Why not? It doesn’t matter whether those stories are fact or parable; what are they really about?”

  “It’s the Bible, Vernon. It’s about God.”

  “Think about it Clem. Is the Bible really about God, or is it a collection of stories about men like Noah, Moses, and Jesus? And how are they portrayed: as men, or as men with special powers who intervened in the affairs of man on behalf of God?”

  “So they were Biblical relief pitchers? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Exactly! The Bible can’t be more or less farfetched than an uncertainty-based theory of divine intervention because it’s the same story, only told from an ancient perspective.”

  Clem had to think about that for a second, then he said, “Okay, then I have another problem. If God delegates intervention to men, doesn’t that put a cap on the size of miracles? Doesn’t that mean that little on
es are in but big ones are out?”

  “Big miracles? Like what?”

  “Like calling in a rainstorm, for instance.”

  “There are many kinds of relief pitchers in baseball, Clem: left-handers and right-handers, long relievers, short relievers, set-up men, closers. In the vast expanse between God and man, who is to say that some of His aces can’t part a sea, or heal the sick, or send for rain?”

  “So you can bring the rain. Is that what I’m supposed to believe?”

  “You’re supposed to believe what your heart will allow you to believe. From a purely theoretical standpoint, though, the real problem isn’t scale; it’s scarcity. In order to maintain uncertainty, the quantity of miracles would have to be extremely low, wouldn’t it? Otherwise, the cumulative weight of so many ‘impossible’ outcomes would inevitably lead to the conclusion that a supernatural force was intervening in the affairs of men.”

  “What in God’s name are you selling now, Vernon? Are you trying to tell me that I’m getting a cheap deal because miracles are scarce?”

  “We’re only discussing the theory of divine intervention, Clem, but the theory says that intervention must be invisible, delegated, and scarce. It’s not my job to tell you whether I’m offering you a good deal or not. You’ll have to come to your own conclusion on that one.”

  “Thanks, but I may have figured that out by myself. Right now, my conclusion is that seventy-five million dollars is one hell of a lot of money to pay for a goddamned theory.”

  “But why? It’s virtually identical to yours.”

  “Identical to mine? What the hell does that mean?”

  “On Monday, you told me that men make miracles and God has abandoned us. Think about it. What has changed since then?”

  My new groom couldn’t come up with an answer, so Mr. Moore did it for him. “One thing has changed, Clem, and only one: the men are still making the miracles, but God is back at the helm. Do you remember the Deist’s Paradox?”

  “I’m sorry; I was going to write it down but I forgot.”

  “Not to worry; it goes: