The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  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.

  “Now, however, we understand that a truly benevolent God would not intervene in the affairs of men, at least not directly. But, by a quirk of math and your own accounts, it appears that He continues to intervene indirectly nonetheless. Therefore the paradox is solved, and not only once, but twice! Isn’t that good news?”

  My husband groused. “I suppose.”

  “Then I’m mystified, Clem. Why aren’t you thrilled? More to the point, why aren’t you willing to pay me more today than you were at the beginning of the week?”

  My new spouse said, “I can’t put it in words, Vernon, but my gut is telling me that I’m missing something, and it’s damned important.”

  “Now, that’s a fair objection. For the kind of money you’re paying, you shouldn’t miss a thing, important or otherwise. What can I do to help you find it?”

  “Nothing for the moment. I need to return to my bride or I’ll be sleeping on the porch tonight. We’re on again at ten a.m., right?”

  “Yes, but tomorrow’s meeting will have to be our last. I leave immediately afterwards.”

  “Well, then, it’ll have to be a damned good meeting, won’t it? Otherwise, you could be leaving empty-handed.”

  “If I do, Clem, who stands to lose the most: you or me?”

  “You’re a smart man, Vernon. I’ll see if I can figure that out between now and tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 34

  A PIG IN A POKE

  AROUND ONE A.M., after the curtain had come down on my unrehearsed wedding and the last of the supporting cast and conspirators had left, the groom and I retreated to the master suite with a chilled bottle of French bubbly. A gentle breeze was blowing in from the river so it was cool enough to cuddle in bed, and I was almost in the mood.

  Clem put his arm around me and said, “We need to think about a honeymoon, Wilma. Where’d you like to go? Pick anywhere in the world.”

  “I haven’t given it a minute of thought, honeypot.”

  “Europe? Australia? The South Pacific?”

  “I’ll go anywhere, so long as it’s not Las Vegas or a country where a girl can get diseases. Why don’t you pick the place and surprise me?”

  “You want another surprise? You didn’t take much of a shine to my dinner surprise, not at first anyway.”

  “I didn’t see it coming, that’s all. If I hadn’t been so busy with Mr. Moore and the widows, I might’ve thought of it myself.” A Circle girl is always a Circle girl, even on her nuptial night. I snuggled up to Clem and added, “You had your twenty minutes with Mr. Moore and then some. Are you two still talking about the same old business deal?”

  “You mean the deal he never should’ve told you about in the first place?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “We’re down to the short hairs, but something is gnawing at my gut. I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

  “You can’t?”

  “My gut is never wrong, Wilma. If I don’t pay attention, I could end up paying a king’s ransom for a pig in a poke.”

  I was never a professional salesperson, but “pig in a poke” didn’t sound like a buying signal to me. For the first time in my life, I broke a promise to my best friend. “I wouldn’t want one of those either, honeypot, but did Mr. Moore tell you what the king’s ransom is for?”

  “Why would he tell me that? Is it material to the deal?”

  I allowed one last wave of cold, wet regret to wash over my body before saying, “Lo says he’s going to give the money to the farmers …”

  Clem’s face turned red-orange in a flash and a purple vein jumped out of his forehead. “He’s going to give my money to the goddamned farmers! That’s the …” Then his anger subsided as quickly as it had surfaced and he did something that scared me to death: he thanked me. “You’ve helped me more than you could imagine, Wilma. That’s the last piece of the puzzle. Now I know how to play out the hand.”

  “You do?”

  “Clear a spot on the dining-hall wall, Wilma. I’ve got Saint Vernon dead to rights.”

  For all his confidence, Clem’s stomach was a bit unsettled after we turned out the lights, so I stroked the back of his neck for a while and he nodded off like an old hound dog. Naturally, I couldn’t get to sleep myself. I was worried about my sick husband. I was worried that I had said the wrong thing. I was worried about Loretta and my goddaughter. I was worried about my guests, especially Mr. Moore.

  I hadn’t packed an overnight bag.

  I was still wide awake when Clem went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. For those of you who have yet to reach your silver years, three a.m. trips to the toilet are not uncommon amongst the older set. But Clem stayed too long, even for a man, so I decided to take a peek. He was sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands.

  “I feel like shit,” he moaned.

  “What did you expect?” I replied valiantly, just like a bona fide wife. “You ate a pound of porterhouse steak and you put Béarnaise sauce on your fries — Loretta saw you — and then you had a big bowl of blueberry pie a la mode and half a magnum of champagne.”

  He groaned again and waved me off, so I left him alone, but you know what I was thinking: that he had deluded himself into believing that he could defeat Mr. Moore, and that his healthy days were over.

  I was thinking that I had married a dead man.

  CLEM RETURNED FROM his sojourn in the bathroom and was sawing wood again in no time, but I had no such luck. After tossing and turning for two more hours, I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the kitchen. I needed to cleanse my soul, but it was all of five twenty-five by the time I had the coffee pot on, and that was too early to call to anybody except the poor sod who had night duty at the 9-1-1 switchboard in the firehouse. Being the courteous person I am, I waited until the sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, then I dialed Loretta.

  She whispered, “Wilma? Is that you?”

  “I’m sorry for calling so early …”

  “What time is it, darlin’? My alarm clock says five thirty-one. That can’t be right, can it?”

  “I couldn’t wait, Lo. Clem is going to turn down the deal.”

  “He’s what? Give me a minute to put on a robe and go downstairs.”

  I took a sip of hot coffee and looked out the window. There was a faint, pinkish-yellow glow on the eastern horizon, which I interpreted to be a sign that the sun was coming up and the world hadn’t ended after all. Either that, or Missouri was on fire.

  “Wilma? Are you still there?”

  “Where else could I go at this hour?”

  “You’re right; it was a silly question. Can we start over? What’s going on, girl? It’s your wedding night. You’re supposed to sleep till noon.”

  “Clem got sick to his stomach, Lo, and I know why. He’s going to turn down the deal with Mr. Moore.”

  “He is? I don’t believe it! What did he say?”

  “He said he won’t pay a king’s ransom for a pig in a poke. Those were his exact words.”

  “I’ve been living in farm country for more years than I can count, Wilma, and I still have no idea what a pig in a poke is. It doesn’t sound like something I’d pay seventy-five million dollars for, though.” Loretta paused, then carried on. “Wait a minute. We’re talking about your scurrilous, sick bastard of a husband here. Are they meeting again this morning?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Then the deal might not be dead, Wilma. He might be thinking that he can force Vern to lower the price.”

  “Maybe so, but he said he had Mr. Moore dead to rights, and it’s my fault.”

  “Your fault? How come?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of dark, bitter-tasting betrayal and replied, “I told him what Mr. Moore was going to do with the money.”

&nbs
p; “Oh no! Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I did, and I am so sorry, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was desperate; I thought it might change his mind.” I couldn’t see the disappointment on my best friend’s face, so I had to await my rebuke. Even though it was only a few ticks of the clock, it reminded me of sitting alone in my childhood room with the door shut, waiting for my father to come home.

  Happily, Lo is not my father, rest his soul. “That’s okay, darlin’,” she said. “I might have done the same thing if I had been in your shoes, but now I need to get my fanny in motion. Somebody has to get over to your place and tell Vern that the cat’s out of the bag.”

  “Will you call me afterwards?”

  “I will, darlin’. In the meantime, you need to think about something else.”

  “What?”

  “If Clem and Vern can’t make a deal, what happens to the odds of rain?”

  “Oh my God, Lo! I was so worried about my husband that I didn’t even think about the drought. Hang on for a minute. I’ll turn on the Weather Channel.”

  It was almost time for “local weather on the eights,” but a commercial for Las Vegas was just finishing up. As a big, black limousine pulled away from the airport, the slogan “What happens here, stays here” flashed across the screen in neon colors. It was my just deserts; I deserved it.

  “Wilma? Are you still there?”

  “Hold on, Lo. The weather’s coming on any second.” The bright lights of Las Vegas faded away and a smiley, bearded salesman in a flannel shirt and an apron popped up on the screen. “I was wrong,” I reported. “It’s a commercial for stain remover.”

  “There’s no rush. We’ve got half the morning.”

  After he was done removing grape juice, mustard, grass stains, and engine oil from a white shirt, a lithe, skimpily dressed blonde appeared on the TV, bouncing along the floor on a silver-colored ball the size of a hassock. I wondered if Clara had one. As far as I knew, she had every exercise gadget ever invented.

  “Wilma?”

  “It’s another darned commercial. If this is the Weather Channel, don’t they have to put the weather on sooner or later? Oops! Wait a second, Lo. There it is. Hang on. The temperature’s going up to ninety-nine this afternoon, and the humidity will be up, too.”

  “Only ninety-nine? What about tomorrow?”

  I watched in anticipation, but then I closed my eyes and sighed. “The front is still headed in our direction, but it’s moving eastward, too. Omaha may get rain, but not much. The chance of measurable precipitation in the tri-state area has dropped to twenty-five per cent.”

  “That can’t be right. If the odds of rain are going down, the odds of a deal have to be going up.”

  “No they don’t, Lo. It’s the official weather report. We’re all going to lose out. Everybody’s going to go bust.”

  I admit it. Somewhere between the drought, the deal, Clem’s cancer, and my sudden marriage, I had misplaced my faith, but Lo would have none of it. “Wilma Porter Tucker,” she said, “you go straight to the nearest sink and wash your mouth out with soap. Vernon Moore did not come back to bear witness to our defeat. He came to save us.”

  “Then why don’t I fell like I’m being saved?”

  “That’s a darned good question. You just married the richest man in southeast Nebraska, and there was no prenup. Since I’m your best friend, and because my curiosity was eating me up, I asked Cal how much money you’re worth last night.”

  “You did? What did he say?”

  “He said it was confidential.”

  “He wouldn’t tell you? Why not?”

  “Because I’d tell you. Where did he get an idea like that?”

  Chapter 35

  AT THE CORNER OF THIRD AND PEA

  SEAGULL AND DRAGONFLY, the motor coaches owned by Eloise Richardson and Bertha Fabian, were already gone by the time that Loretta and Laverne got to the Come Again. Laverne wanted to peek inside the Dolphin, but her mother was less than enthused about the prospect of an unchaperoned encounter with Road Rage. After a short but emotional dispute, Lo managed to steer my sweet little goddaughter across the parking lot and into my house, where they found Mr. Moore and the Widow Marion fixing Clara’s breakfast in the kitchen.

  “Poppy!” Laverne shouted.

  “Sweetheart! What a nice surprise!”

  Mr. Moore smiled and gave his little girl a giant-sized hug while Loretta said to Marion, “Have Birdie and Eloise already left?”

  “Sadly, yes, but they wanted me to pass on their best wishes, especially Birdie. She’s quite fond of Laverne, you know. Can I offer you a glass of orange juice or a cup of tea?”

  “Thanks, but I was hoping to speak with Vern. Alone. Oops! I guess you knew that.”

  Mr. Moore replied, “Can it wait a few minutes, Lo? I promised Wilma I’d take Clara’s breakfast up this morning.”

  Loretta checked her watch. “That depends. Will you have time to walk Lovey and me to preschool?”

  “Lions, tigers, and bears couldn’t keep me away.”

  “Then go ahead. I wouldn’t want Clara to miss out on breakfast. Would you like to go, Lovey?”

  “Can I, Mommy?”

  “Uh huh. Maybe Poppy will give you a ride on his shoulders. Can you do that, Vern?”

  “I am my daughter’s steed,” he replied, “except when I’m carrying a tray of cinnamon oatmeal, orange juice, and banana nut bread up two flights of stairs.”

  After Mr. Moore and my goddaughter had left for the loft, the Widow Marion inquired, “Did you enjoy the dinner party last night, dear?”

  “Yes, and the grand finale was, well … so unexpected. Out of curiosity, did you or your partners see it coming? Wilma wanted to know.”

  “Even if we had, we could never have said anything. It would’ve spoiled the surprise. Not the sort of thing a guest should do, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose. I take it you’re leaving this morning.”

  “Yes, very shortly.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I haven’t quite decided. West, most likely. Do you have any recommendations?”

  After a pause, Lo answered, “If you haven’t been already, you might think about visiting the Little Bighorn National Monument in Montana. It’s the spookiest place I’ve ever seen.”

  “The spookiest? Why, pray tell?”

  “More than two hundred cavalrymen died on the battlefield at Little Bighorn, plus an ungodly number of Sioux. I stopped by with a friend on what we thought was a perfect summer day, but the weather turned cloudy, windy, and cold as we pulled up to the monument, as if the combatants were still haunting the plain and fighting mad to boot. When we returned to the main road afterwards, the sun was shining and it was a warm, clear day again. I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but that was not the sort of thing I could explain with microclimates.”

  “How fascinating! I’ll make a point of stopping by.”

  “But you won’t stay long, will you?” Loretta surmised.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your role is different, isn’t it? You don’t stay for six days at a time like Vern does.”

  Marion nodded. “Very good, dear. That’s quite correct.”

  “But you can’t tell me any more, can you?”

  “I’d love to, but you’ll have to find that out for yourself, I’m afraid.”

  “Where should I start? Winchester?”

  Marion did a double take, then said, “I’d forgotten; Vernon mentioned it to your county attorney, didn’t he? It’s a lovely town to be sure, one of my favorites. You’d never guess it was once the capitol of England, except for the great cathedral, of course.”

  “So you’ve been there.”

  “Oh yes, many times. I was born in England, you know.”

  “I thought you might have been.” Without missing a beat, Lo added, “Just out of curiosity, did you come to the U.S. on a ship?”

  “By ship? Do you have a partic
ular ship in mind, dear? I have a sense that you do.”

  “The Titanic.”

  “Well, well, well. Someone’s been doing their homework, haven’t they? It is true: an Englishwoman by my name did perish on the Titanic; a milliner traveling third-class. Many of the lifeboats were already at sea when the third-class passengers made it topside, or so I’ve been told. It must have been heartbreaking.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Marion.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but I mustn’t. It would be against the rules.”

  “Against whose rules? Lohengrin’s Children?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that what we’ve been discussing all along?”

  The conversation was cut short by the return of Mr. Moore and Laverne, who was riding high on her Poppy’s shoulders. He kneeled to the ground so she could dismount, then she stuck out her lower lip and said, “Auntie Clara cried.”

  “She did? Is she okay? Should Mommy go upstairs?”

  Mr. Moore replied, “It would be better if you left her alone. She’ll be fine.”

  “Then why was she crying?”

  “Because Poppy’s going away,” Laverne answered, pouting herself.

  “She cried because you’re leaving, Vern? What’s going on between you two?”

  “We’re friends, and we’ve just said good-bye. I need to return a call before we head off to preschool. Is that a problem?”

  Loretta frowned. “Not if you make it snappy, darlin’, but don’t think you’re off the hook yet. I have more questions about you and Clara.”

  While Mr. Moore was upstairs, Loretta and Laverne walked the Widow Marion out to her motor coach, where they said their fond farewells. There were no tears, whispered messages, or secret psychic handshakes as Loretta had feared. Marion was the proper English aunt, even a bit detached. I figure the widows were used to leaving people. Either that, or their husbands taught them detachment, just like mine taught me.

  AT LAVERNE’S INSISTENCE, Mr. Moore hoisted her up on his shoulders again for the short walk to preschool. As they left the shade of my porte-cochere and strolled down the driveway, Loretta remarked, “It feels odd, doesn’t it? Only a few hours ago, Wilma’s parking lot was cheek-to-jowl with giant RVs. Now it looks so empty. Will they ever be back?”