That’s when it hit me; it must have been my forty-first revelation of the week. The only reason we pray to God for divine intervention is because the men who have the means to help us don’t do it. If Clem had given Mr. Moore the money, then hundreds of Hayes County farmers would have made it through the year, no matter what God did with the weather.
A long time ago, Mr. Moore said there were four kinds of people: the weak, who need help from others to get by; the self-sufficient, who help themselves; the strong, who help the weak; and the pathetic, who take from everybody. On the rest of the trip up to Omaha, I tried to decide which definition fit Clement best. I didn’t want to be unfair to a man who had cancer, but the only category I could eliminate was “the strong.”
Mr. Moore had tried his best, but he had failed to rehabilitate my husband. The realization made me very sad.
Chapter 38
MY KINGDOM FOR A HERSHEY’S BAR
THE WAKE-UP CALL from the hotel desk arrived at the undignified hour of six a.m. I could have rolled over and slept till noon, but Clement was due at hospital admissions at seven sharp. He beat me to the bathroom, so I put on a white cotton robe and threw open the curtains to get a tenth-floor panoramic view of the Omaha weather. Dark, mean-looking clouds filled the sky, raindrops streaked down the window in long diagonal trails, and a gale-force wind was blowing sheets of rain across the parking lot.
My heart nearly stopped. It was exactly like the day that Mr. Moore had saved Loretta. I yelled out to Clem, “The heavens have spilled over, honeypot! It’s a monsoon; a deluge!”
He didn’t respond, so I rapped on the bathroom door and opened it a crack. “Are you okay?”
My husband was facing the mirror in his striped shorts and a farmer’s tan, meaning his face and arms were brown as a berry but the rest of his skin was as pallid as mozzarella cheese. In the reflection, I could see two tiny pieces of tissue stuck to his chin by red dots of Tucker blood. “I cut myself shaving, goddammit! You’d think a man could shave his own face in the morning.”
“Do you need a Band-Aid? I brought some.”
“No, I don’t. I need three scrambled eggs on toast, hash browns, half a dozen strips of bacon, and a pot of fresh coffee.”
“You can suck on ice chips, honeypot, but that’s the limit. Doctor’s orders. I’ll get a bucket from the machine as soon as I get dressed.”
“I suppose a bucket of fried chicken is out of the question.”
“It is unless you want to vomit all over the doctors and nurses who are trying to fix you up. I hear that’s frowned upon in operating circles.”
“How about a Hershey’s bar?”
“How about I bring Nurse Nelson in here, with you in your shorts?”
That’s how it went all morning. I tried my darnedest to get my husband ready to meet his surgeon, but all he wanted to do was eat. If it hadn’t been for Louise, I doubt that I would have gotten him past the restaurant in the lobby. When John Smith pulled up in the limo, Clement said, “Take me to a pancake house. There’s one on Dodge about thirty blocks west of here.”
On behalf of his entourage, which included a dour-looking Clara wearing a black slicker and matching rain hat, Nurse Nelson replied, “You’re not the boss this morning, Mr. Tucker; I am. If the doctor okays it, I’ll see if the hospital kitchen can fix you an egg-white omelet tomorrow night.”
“Goddammit, Louise! By tomorrow, I may be a friggin’ omelet.”
Nobody had the temerity to talk back, but you know what I was thinking. I was thinking, “If you are, it’s your own darned fault.”
IT’S NOT LIKE I have ever been associated with a hospital in a professional capacity, but I suspect that a psychologist was on the decorating committee. After Clem was led away to be prepped, Clara, Louise, John, and I were shown to a private room with light-blue carpet, comfy chairs with sea foam – colored cushions, and prints of pretty pink sailboats hung on the walls. Suitably soothed, I took a seat next to an end table, where I sifted through a pile of old magazines until I found a dog-eared copy of People. In Nebraska, every waiting room is required by law to offer at least one copy of People magazine to the public, the rattier the better. Lo must have a dozen old issues in her salon.
Clara was never much of a People person, so she turned on the television and began to surf through the channels. I suppose she was looking for an old movie, but she settled on an ancient I Love Lucy rerun on Channel 23, out of Lincoln. Louise and John watched with her for a spell, but then Louise drifted off to see about the recovery room and John went downstairs to the cafeteria to fetch coffee, so Clara and I had the room to ourselves when a news flash came on-screen. A young, confident-looking anchorman behind a studio desk said, “We apologize for interrupting our regularly scheduled programming, but we have breaking news from the capitol. We now take you directly to Courtney Stockton, our roving reporter, who is live on the steps of the state house. Courtney, you look drenched! How’s the weather over there?”
The camera cut to a windswept, soppy-haired blonde in a tan raincoat. She reported into the microphone, “We’re soaked to the bone, Frank. The downtown area has gotten three-quarters of an inch in the last four hours, and traffic is backed up on Holdrege out to the Ag Campus because of flooding in the streets. We’ve received reports of half an inch of rain or more in Hayes, Pawnee, and Nemaha counties, and there’s minor flooding in Gage County, too.”
“For the benefit of our viewers, could you please explain the lieutenant governor’s disaster declaration? From where I sit, it’s a tad on the tardy side.”
“The same question was asked at the press conference minutes ago. According to a representative from the department of agriculture, corn, soy, and alfalfa harvests in eastern Nebraska are still expected to come in fifty to eighty percent below average, and that assumes normal levels of precipitation for the rest of the season.”
“So the rain is too little, too late.”
“That’s the story, Frank. Forty-one counties in the eastern third of the state have been officially designated a federal disaster area, an emergency loan team from the USDA’s Farm Service Agency is in the air, and the governors of Iowa, Missouri, and Kansas are expected to follow suit early next week.”
“Well, late or not, that has to be good news for our beleaguered farming community. But speaking of governors, where’s ours? We’ve been unable to reach him from the studio. Have you heard any word from the mansion?”
“According to a staff member who wishes to remain anonymous, the governor is on a fishing expedition off the island of Hokkaido and can’t be reached for comment.”
“He’s incommunicado in Hokkaido?”
“What else can I say, Frank?”
“Not a thing, Courtney. Thanks for the report.” The screen switched to the anchorman, who looked into the camera and said, “Well, there you have it, folks. The drought is officially over. The lieutenant governor has declared eastern Nebraska a disaster area anyway, emergency loan assistance is on the way from Washington, and the governor’s gone fishing in Japan. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming, but don’t touch that dial! For the latest in news, weather, and sports, stay tuned to Channel 23!”
I had an urge to call Loretta, but I decided to wait until the lightning bolt hit or we got news about Clement, whichever came first. I was reading a year-old article about the Emmy Awards when a sweaty-looking character out of ER appeared at the waiting-room door in an aqua green outfit, matching booties, and a shower cap. “Are you Mrs. Tucker?” he inquired.
“I am. This is his sister, Clara.”
“My name is Ben Regier. I’m the chief surgeon here at St. Joseph’s.”
Clara clicked off the TV. I stood up. “So soon? How is my husband?”
The doctor crossed the room and took my hand. “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Tucker. He passed away on the operating table minutes ago.”
My legs buckled. If I hadn’t been standing in front of a chair, I would have lande
d on the floor. As it was, I sat down with a thud.
“I can’t explain it, ma’am. Your husband’s stomach, pancreas, and liver were riddled with malignancies. It was a miracle that he could stand up, much less eat. The pain must have been excruciating, but he was confident, even cheerful, during prep. Just before the anesthesiologist put him under, he said, ‘A thousand dollars for a Hershey’s bar!’”
“Those were his last words?”
“From a man facing death. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
To the immortal ether, his sister muttered, “You were a fool, Clement. You were a damned fool.” When I looked at her with my mouth agape, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss, Wilma. It’s my loss, too, but it’s not like he didn’t make his own bed.”
The surgeon offered, “Mr. Tucker’s body has been wheeled into recovery, ma’am. Nurse Nelson is already there. Would you like me to escort you in so you can say good-bye?”
I nodded and stood up again, but on shaky legs. As the doctor took my arm, Clara said, “You go ahead, but leave your cell phone, please. I have to call Calvin.”
“Calvin?” I whimpered.
“He’s the executor of my brother’s will. You go with the doctor. We’ll take care of everything.”
One minute, my husband was impossibly hale and hungry and my permanent boarder was a mute recluse with more quirks than an attic full of animal astrologists. The next minute, he was dead from cancer and she had assumed command of the complete catastrophe, plus the full breadth of the English language.
It was more than I could take. I blacked out.
Chapter 39
IN MEMORIAM
MAYBE IT WAS THE GRIEF, or maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was the little pills that Louise gave me after I came to, but I don’t have a good recollection of the rest of that day. Mona, Winona, and Loretta converged on me in the hospital room like I was the last artichoke in the rabbit compound and took turns handing me tissues until I was composed enough to say good-bye to my husband. Afterwards, John drove Mona and me home to the Come Again, where I proceeded to do my best impression of a bereaved recluse for the next three days: I stayed in bed and watched old movies on TV, I cried and ate pimiento-cheese sandwiches, and I refused to speak to anybody except Loretta, Mona, Winona, and Clara, plus Clem and Mr. Moore, although the latter two never had the courtesy to return my calls.
Clara, I learned during one of our several, rather morbid conversations, had a lifetime of funereal experience. As a child, she attended the burials of all four of her grandparents and an undetermined number of aunts, uncles, and other Tucker kin. Later, as an adult, she arranged the interment of her parents and both her husbands, even though the death of the second eventually pushed her into two decades of seclusion. But thanks to Mr. Moore, she was back into fine managerial form for her younger brother’s final voyage. It went off without a hitch.
The first memorial was held on Wednesday morning at St. John’s Cathedral on the Creighton campus, only steps away from the hospital where my husband had died. It was a formal affair presided over by two Jesuit priests and attended by hundreds of businesspeople, politicians, and employees of the National Bank of the Plains. Fabrizio Santoni, the CEO, made a very nice speech about how Clem had saved the bank and thousands of jobs.
Pastor Hooper held a wake at the Protestant Church in Ebb that night. I worried that nobody would come, but the Circle girls and their families showed up in force, bless their hearts, and Calvin Millet, Buzz Busby, and Buford Pickett said more nice words about the business genius of my dearly departed.
On Thursday morning, after a short service for family and a few close friends, we accompanied Clement’s casket from the church to Tucker Cemetery, which is on the banks of the Missouri only a few miles south of the River House. It was a cool and blustery day, more like the end of September than the beginning of August. The sun peeked in and out between the clouds, the green canopy over Clem’s grave flapped and furled in the wind, and the grass felt slippery and damp beneath my feet.
I sat on a folding chair at graveside with Loretta and Calvin to my right and Clara and Mona to my left. The Reverend Hooper said a few final words, then a man from the mortuary began to turn a crank and Clem’s body descended slowly to his final resting place. I tried my best to cry but my reservoir was dry, so I sat on my chair like a lump on a stump, staring at the disappearing coffin and wondering, like a small child, how many cranks it would take to hit bottom. When it finally did, Loretta ushered me over to the grave, where I reached into my pocketbook and fished out a Hershey’s bar. As I tossed it onto his coffin, I said, “You’d be proud of me, honeypot. I saved us nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.”
Chapter 40
A PILL FOR BEREAVEMENT
MARIE FIXED A NICE SALMON and brie salad at the Come Again after the funeral, which I couldn’t touch, and then we remained in the dining room afterwards for the reading of Clem’s last will and testament. Besides Clara and yours truly, Calvin and Loretta were there, plus Mona, John Smith, and four lawyers from Omaha who had joined us during coffee. Once introductions had been made, the three younger attorneys took seats by the wall while a grumpy, salt-and-pepper-haired counselor with glasses and a beard took Clem’s chair at the head of the table. He removed a thin, blue folder from his briefcase, inhaled deeply through his nose, and said, “Thank you for coming, folks. I’m very sorry for your loss, but my role today is to inform you that you all have benefited from Mr. Tucker’s untimely end. Are there any questions before we begin?”
I had a zillion questions like, “Why in the heck do we need four lawyers to read one will?” But I held my tongue.
Everybody else did, too, so Grumpy opened the folder and continued, “Mr. Tucker’s estate was organized into two parts: his stake in the family trust, and his personal investments. At the time of his death, he owned 36.2 percent of the Tucker Trust which, as of the close of business last night, was valued at approximately two hundred and eighty million dollars.”
He allowed the figure to sink in, which took a while given all the zeros and commas, then he went on, “Mr. Tucker bequeathed half his holding, or 18.1 percent, to Clara Tucker Booth Yune, his sister. The balance is to be held in beneficial trust for Mark Allen Breck, the son of Mona Smith and …”
Mona grabbed John’s arm and squealed, “For who?”
“Mark Breck. He’s your son, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but …”
“There are codicils, Mrs. Smith. Mark does not become eligible for the bequest until the fifth anniversary after he has officially assumed custody of the Tucker Trust, at which time he will inherit the full 18.1 percent. Until then, it will be held by the National Bank of the Plains. If, for any reason, your son does not assume custody of the Tucker Trust by the age of thirty, then the fund will be liquidated and donated to the National Rifle Association or its successors.”
I can tell you now that there is a pill for bereavement. It is called a mean, manipulative, outrageously male will and testament. It made me so angry that I shouted, “A hundred and forty million for the NRA, and not one red cent for the farmers of Hayes County! That’s crazy! Did you know about this, Clara?”
“Yesterday. I stopped by Bill’s office after the memorial at St. John’s.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ruin the funeral.”
“Well, it’s good and ruined now. Tell me why. Why did he do it?”
Calvin answered, “Clem wasn’t that fond of the NRA, Wilma, not really, but he was a big believer in the carrot and the stick. Whatever we may think of his methods, his intention here was clear: to use a very large carrot and an equally large stick to ensure custodial succession of the Tucker Trust.”
“So you knew about this?”
“Yes, but I was sworn to silence.”
“What if Mark wants to be a cello player? Can’t we contest the will!”
Grumpy said, “Even if you had cause
, and you don’t, I would advise strongly against it. You don’t want to give the NRA the notion that they’re an accident away from a hundred and forty million dollars. They’re heavily armed.”
So Grumpy had a sense of humor.
“Mona! What do you think?”
“It’s too soon to say, Momma. I want to read the will myself, and we need to talk with Mark, too. He and Clem weren’t close, but they discussed his future a number of times. For all I know, he expects to head the trust some day.”
Calvin said, “Regardless, is there anything we can do about this today, Bill?”
“No. If you wish, my team and I will be happy to research the matter at a future date, but we need to complete the reading this morning. May I continue?”
Clara stared off into space and remarked, “And people wonder why I became a recluse. Go on, please.”
“In addition to his interest in the family trust, Mr. Tucker had significant personal investments in stocks, bonds, derivatives, mutual funds, and real estate. The River House was bequeathed in its entirety, including the acreage, automobiles, equipment, and furnishings, to Wilma Porter Tucker with two exceptions. Mr. Tucker left his eighteenth-century Japanese sword set to Mr. John Smith and his firearm collection to Mr. Fabrizio Santoni. In addition, Mr. Tucker transferred a personal holding, his thirty percent interest in Millet’s Department Store, to you last Thursday. Is that correct, Mr. Millet?”
“It is.”
“Even though the certificates were postdated, there may be tax complications because the physical transfer occurred prior to his death. I’m not prepared to discuss it now, but we can cover it later on this week.”
“No problem.”
Grumpy turned the page. “The remainder of Mr. Tucker’s testament is refreshingly straightforward. He left five million dollars to Mrs. Wilma Tucker, to be paid in cash …”
I had rolled the possibility around in the back of mind for days, but there it was in black and white: I was filthy rich. After working my tail to the bone for just this side of forty years, I got five million dollars for being married to a man for forty hours. That might be more than some lawyers make.
The Widows of Eden Page 25
