The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “What if I did? Why would you care? You don’t need the money to support your elaborate lifestyle, and you’d still be leaving millions to your heirs.”

  “Are you shittin’ me, Vernon? Do you honestly believe that giving my money to those poor sodbusters would make a speck of difference? The family farm is finished in this part of the country; it’s a relic of the past. The future is fuel-grade ethanol, but the only way we’ll be able to compete against foreign producers is with economies of scale. A mom-and-pop farm is the opposite of economies of scale; it’s the economics of futility. It’s too much overhead, too little buying power, and a threadbare balance sheet wrapped into a puny, pea-pickin’ package.”

  “Why? What happens if the farms are no longer drowning in debt? What happens to their buying power? What happens to their staying power?”

  “Are you really that naïve, or are you just plain innumerate? There is no goddamned way that you can emancipate the farmers in this county with a measly seventy-five million dollars. Ten years from now, maybe twenty, they’ll all be back at the same trough and Hayes County will be out of the ethanol race. In the future, eastern Nebraska will be tilled by large, efficient corporations who can leverage scale from seed to silo to biofuel plant. It’s the only way we can be relevant in the second half of the century.”

  Mr. Moore didn’t respond immediately, but then he said, “I’m starting to get the idea that you’re not going to change your mind.”

  “It’s not a change of mind, Vernon; it’s a reversal of strategy, and a pisspoor reversal at that. Why the hell do you suppose I divested the trust of its tenant farmland three years ago, and why do you suppose I took over the National Bank of the Plains? I did it for one reason, and one reason only: to position the Tucker Trust, meaning my heirs, to benefit from a statewide shift to corporate ethanol production. Why in God’s name would I consider spending even a dollar of my own money to defeat my own plan? It makes no sense to me at all. In fact, like I said, it would be the stupidest thing I could do.”

  “But you’re not writing off the family farm, Clem. You’re writing off a way of life, and it’s not just their way of life; it’s yours. Hayes County is the womb that spawned seven generations of Tuckers. If you don’t save it, then who will?”

  “Excuse me for stating the obvious, but isn’t that your department? Weren’t you sent here to save us for the third goddamned time? Haven’t you already asked for rain?”

  That must have set Mr. Moore back on his heels. “What do you mean?”

  “If I’ve got a handle on this divine intervention shit, then there are only two possibilities: either you’re not in God’s Bullpen and it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference what you do; or you are and you just might have an impact. I was on the fence until last night — when Wilma told me what you were going to do with my money. That convinced me that you’re one of God’s right arms after all, and nothing I’ve heard this morning has given me cause to change my mind. You see where I’m headin’, don’t you?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “If you’re really a man of God, then my money is immaterial; it’s a nonissue. You’ve already asked for rain and you’ve already asked for my life. That’s why the weather forecast changed, isn’t it? And it’s why I feel so much better, too.”

  “I can’t take any credit for either, Clem.”

  “I’ve been payin’ attention, Vernon; I got that part. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t ask me to write you a check on day one. You were in the hunt until I found out what you were goin’ to do with the money.”

  “I needed time to put God back into your life,” Mr. Moore answered. “I thought you’d be more amenable to a contribution if your faith in God was restored.”

  “A contribution? Jesus, Vernon! Did it ever enter your mind that seventy-five million dollars was a bit pricey for a goddamned contribution?”

  “Not considering the source, and not considering the scale of the problem. It would save hundreds of farms.”

  “I’ll tell you what will save hundreds of farms: some measurable goddamned precipitation. Is it gonna rain or not? The forecast was down this morning.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you don’t know if I’m going to survive the operation either, do you?”

  “I’m just like you, Clem. Sometimes I get what I ask for; sometimes I don’t.”

  My new husband smiled. “You’re an interesting man, Vernon, but we’re no more alike than chalk and cheese, you and me. I’d be pleased to look as good as you when I’m pushing a hundred, though. If you could put in an extra word, I’d be very grateful.”

  “Really? How grateful would you be?”

  The rest of the conversation was drowned out by two of Dot’s cruisers, which pulled into the front courtyard one after the other with sirens on full howl. I ran to the foyer and threw open the door to see the sheriff and Pokie emerging from their respective vehicles, one to admire Clem’s Porsche, the other to admire John Smith.

  Dottie turned to me and said, “Congratulations, Wilma! The news is all over town. I’d give you a hug, but it’ll have to wait. We’ve come for your famous lodger.”

  “Oh no! He’s still in with Clem. You’re not going to throw him in jail, are you?”

  “Hell, no! He’s got an appointment with the lieutenant governor at noon. We’ve got to get him to the county line by eleven o’clock.”

  “The lieutenant governor?”

  “I’m just a poor civil servant, Wilma. I have no idea what that man is up to now. All I know is that I have to escort him to the county line.”

  From behind, I heard Mr. Moore say, “It’s okay. Clem and I have completed our business. I’m ready to go.”

  I turned. “You have? You’re all done?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you make a deal?”

  “You should discuss that with your husband.”

  “But Mr. Moore …”

  “I have to go with Sheriff Hrnicek and Deputy Melhuse. Please keep an eye on Laverne and Loretta for me. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to contact Marion.”

  What’s a girl to do? As I began to well up, he took me in his arms and whispered, “I love you, Wilma. I’ll miss you more than you could possibly know.”

  I tried to hold him, but he slipped from my grasp and was halfway across the courtyard before I could blubber out a farewell. “Good-bye, Vernon,” I cried.

  He waved one last time before he got into his car, and then Dottie led him away with Pokie bringing up the rear, sirens screaming and red-white-and-blue cherry poppers flash-dancing across the roof.

  As they took off in a cloud of dust, I heard Marie shout above the din, “I’m so sorry, Wilma. The deal fell through. Clem didn’t buy it.”

  Chapter 37

  SOMETHING OLD

  I AM A COUNTRY GIRL. I don’t typically have difficulty dealing with the harsher realities of life, but I was in the Marianas Trench of denial that day: I couldn’t believe that I had married Clem Tucker on the spur of the moment after a four-year engagement; I refused to concede that Mr. Moore had left us again, possibly forever; I couldn’t understand why my husband had turned down his help, no matter what the price was; and I couldn’t face the possibility that I might be a widow in less than twenty-four hours. So I just stood there in the doorway staring at nothing in particular, while saline tears trailed down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth.

  Given enough time, I might have rooted to the spot, but Pearline called me to the kitchen phone. It was the Queen Bee, who may have been the last person on Earth that I wanted to talk to at that moment. “Wilma, you old fox!” she said. “I just heard from Lily that you and Clem tied the knot last night. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you,” I sniffed. “I’m thrilled.”

  “You might have warned us, girl. We would’ve had a proper bachelorette’s party at the Abattoir: cheap wine, chocolate fondue, Chippendale dancers, all the deadly sins.
”

  “I had no idea that Clem was going to repropose, Mary. I wore black to my own wedding, for Christ’s sake! Do you suppose that’s bad luck?”

  “A black dress? For the bride? How could that be bad luck? I heard that the widows left this morning. Did you have a chance to say bon voyage?”

  “We said our bon whatevers last night after the ceremony. Why?”

  “Flathead didn’t show up at the firehouse this morning.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “Beryl’s not home either. It wouldn’t be such a mystery except that Virgie saw them walking up your driveway around six a.m. It seems that Beryl was carrying a stack of paperbacks and Flathead was pulling a suitcase.”

  “They were not!”

  “It’s an eyewitness report, Wilma. Dot sent a deputy over to Beryl’s an hour ago. Their closets were half empty and the fridge was as clean as a whistle.”

  “Oh my! Do you know where they went?”

  “No, but I thought you might. The widows were staying with you.”

  “Nobody said boo to me, Mary.”

  “Not even your famous lodger? Did he mention anything this morning?”

  “Uh uh.”

  “Then Dot’ll have to file a missing persons report. She just checked in, by the way. I take it that Vernon and Clem are done trying to outmaneuver each other.”

  “They’re all done, Mary.”

  “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but I need to know: did they reach an agreement or not?”

  I sighed deeply. “You can relax. There was no deal.”

  After a second, she replied, “I’m sorry, Wilma, but I was afraid that’s what you’d say.”

  “You were? How come?”

  “The jet stream moved again. The storm front has turned due south and is picking up steam. It’s expected to make Omaha by midnight.”

  “It is? What are the odds that we’ll get rain in Hayes County?”

  “Back to fifty percent and rising. Now they’re saying we could get as much as half an inch by Saturday night.”

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “It’s happening. Mr. Moore is bringing the rain after all.”

  “Hold on a minute. My AA just stuck her head in my door.” Mary came back on the line half a tick later. “Marta Kimball stopped breathing at Connie’s flower shop not fifteen minutes ago. The EMT team got there in no time, but they couldn’t revive her. Doc Wiley just pronounced her dead at the scene.”

  I am not a Catholic, but I genuflected anyway. “May she abide in heaven. That poor woman was never a particle of herself after Dean passed away.” Then my mind bounced from poor Marta to my new husband, and in less time than it takes a hummingbird’s heart to skip a beat. “I have to go, Mary. I have to check on Clem.”

  The door was shut when I got to his office, but I took a deep breath and just plunged on in. Calmly, he said, “I know we’re man and wife now, but I’d appreciate it if you’d knock. I could’ve been in the middle of a long-distance conference call.”

  “I’m sorry, honeypot. I will from now on.”

  “Thank you. I saw the sheriff escorting Vernon off the lot. Is he under arrest?”

  “Not so far as I know. Dot said he has an appointment with the lieutenant governor.”

  “The lieutenant governor! That liberal turncoat bastard! What in God’s name is Vernon selling him?”

  “How would I know? I thought he might have said a word to you.”

  “Well, he didn’t, but I can guess. We just spent thirty minutes debating the fate of the family farm. That man is a goddamned relic; he was born in the wrong century. Wait a minute; I take that back. We don’t really know what century he was born in, do we? Did he tell you that we concluded our business?”

  “He said to check with you,” I replied, as if I wasn’t already in the know. “How did it end up?”

  Clem sat back in his chair and opined, “You have to give the man credit. He was gracious in defeat.”

  “Gracious in defeat? I thought you were trying to make a deal.”

  “We went over this before, Wilma. Every business deal is a contest; there’s winners and losers. I told you Vernon was going to lose last night. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “But what about your cancer?”

  “Please! I’m not that stupid. He fixed me up at the beginning of the week.”

  “He did? Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. Why do you think I’m feelin’ so much better?”

  “Then did you offer him any money, any at all?”

  “Why in hell would I do that? He wasn’t asking for money; he was asking me to throw half my legacy down a goddamned rathole. Given his purposes, a few million here or there wouldn’t have amounted to a wood tick on a coon’s butt anyway.”

  “But …”

  “No buts, Wilma. If Saint Vernon is a straight-shooting man of God like everybody seems to believe around here, then he needs to quit putting his hand out and start calling in the rain. Last I heard, the forecast was down this morning.”

  “That’s not right, honeypot. The odds jumped up again — right after Mr. Moore left with Dottie.”

  “They did?”

  “The weatherman says we’re looking at half an inch this weekend, maybe more.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned, Wilma! I’ll be damned! I’m going to make it.”

  “You are?”

  “Hell, yes. If Vernon Moore can bring the rain, then he sure as hell can cure a chicken-shit case of cancer.”

  Isn’t it strange how two separate grown-ups can get the same exact news and react in opposite ways? I see Democrats and Republicans do it all the time, but I had forgotten that husbands and wives do it, too. Clem was reassured by the imminent arrival of rain, but I was petrified by it. All I could remember was Mr. Moore saying, “A deal is a deal, Wilma. I’ll ask for one and not the other.”

  Would a man of God lie about something so important?

  EARLIER ON, I EXPLAINED to you that rich folks do not use telephones like normal folks. Well, they don’t go to hospitals like normal folks either. That afternoon, Clem and I drove up to Ebb in the Porsche, with the top down and the air conditioner running full bore, while John Smith followed in the limousine, which was stuffed to the gunwales with suitcases, hang-up bags, and briefcases — all Clem’s. It was all I could do to keep the man from bringing golf clubs and a sidearm.

  When we got to the Come Again, Clem went upstairs to retrieve Clara while I went to my room to pack a bag. To my surprise, I found a suitcase on top of the bed that had already been filled with all the clothes I would need. Sitting right next to it was a large white box tied in blue ribbon. Inside, I found a greeting card with a photograph of a giant sea turtle named “Harriet” on the front. That’s right, a sea turtle. The description overleaf said that Harriet had lived in an Australian zoo until the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy-five.

  A note was written on the opposite page:

  Dear Wilma:

  Please accept this gift as a small token of our thanks. It’s a day late, but the box is borrowed, the ribbon is blue, Harriet was magnificently old, and the hat is quite new.

  I hope to visit again someday. In the interim, please don’t hesitate to call.

  Best wishes,

  Marion Meanwell

  Underneath the card was a brand new panama hat with a red Paisley band. Not only did it match my official Quilting Circle parasol, it fit my curly locks perfectly.

  I made a few strategic additions to my suitcase and added a makeup kit, and then I donned my new panama and met Clem and Clara in the parlor just as John Smith was pulling up to the porte-cochere. He had picked up Louise Nelson, Hank Wiley’s nurse, who was riding up to Omaha in the limo with Clara.

  Here’s a wardrobe safety tip: don’t wear a panama hat in a Porsche convertible with the top down and a madman at the wheel, even if the madman insists that his perfectly engineered wind guard will prevent it from flying off. You are riding in a Po
rsche, and panamas are impervious to German-made wind guards. What isn’t obvious about that? I hunkered down low, but I reached for the brim too late. The wind snatched it from my grasp as Clem accelerated onto I-80 at a dreadful rate of speed and John Smith, who was doing his darnedest to keep up, nearly flattened it as it flew by. I wanted to go back but my sentimental husband said, “We’re not turning around, goddammit! I’ll buy you another one.” My “something new” was last seen heading south toward the border, and Panama.

  We picked up the first signs of the cold front as we crossed the Platte River midway between Lincoln and Omaha. The clouds were on the edge of the horizon, but I could tell that they were tall and purple, which was a sure sign of rain as long as the jet stream didn’t change its fickle mind again. Clem pulled off the highway at the next rest stop to powder his nose while John guarded the Porsche and watched the top put itself up. It was the first time I had had a moment to myself since Mr. Moore had left, so I gave Loretta a call on my police phone.

  “Are you en route?” she asked.

  “We’re almost there. I just lost my brand-new hat.”

  “Your new what?”

  I told Loretta about Marion’s note and my recently departed wedding gift, but she was more interested in Harriet. “That turtle was thirty at the beginning of the Civil War,” she said. “Do you suppose that Marion was trying to tell us something?”

  “It’s a possibility, but I’ve seen prettier critters in my day. If that’s the price of longevity, then I’ll have to think about it. Did you hear about Marta Kimball?”

  “Yes, bless her soul. She would’ve been the first to admit that she was ready to go. Here’s a question: do you send flowers to a bereaved florist?”

  “That’s a tough one, but I’ll leave it to the Condolences Committee, if you don’t mind. I suppose you heard about the deal. I would’ve called myself but it was all I could do to get Clem ready for the hospital.”

  “I got the word from Hail Mary. I’m so sorry, Wilma. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can pray,” I replied. “That’s all any of us can do anymore.”