Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas

by Bonaduce, Celia

  Cleo ran into her father’s office, removed the painting of Napoléon, and opened the safe. She pulled out the tiny box with her engagement and wedding rings and dropped it in her Palladino crocodile handbag. She had hesitated about bringing the bag, worried that Dymphna and Titan might not approve of the reptile skin, but decided they wouldn’t know real crocodile if they saw it, so she was probably safe. Besides, this would probably be the last expensive handbag she would ever buy. After all, her soon-to-be-reunited-ex-husband made glorious purses.

  By the time Cleo had returned to the driveway, Jeffries and Cook were standing beside the car. Cook hugged Professor Johnson. Jeffries shook his hand warmly, and then embraced him. Cleo wondered if they would give her the same fond farewell.

  They didn’t.

  CHAPTER 24

  The big day was just around the corner. Fernando had closed the café to the townsfolk as he transformed the interior. Now that the weather had warmed, he served breakfast on the boardwalk. The floors of the café were sanded and stained, the tables and chair legs leveled and the walls whitewashed. Polly had made red and white checked tablecloths and Fernando had ordered a mountain of wax paper and paper towels. Each table had a caddy that would hold three of his hand-labeled barbecue sauces.

  Fernando had also taken the liberty of shining up the Boozehound Saloon, scooting Professor Johnson’s display cases—the professor’s sorry attempt at turning the saloon into a museum—into an unobtrusive corner. The bar gleamed, the copper railings polished, the player piano humming. Fernando also added some more tables to the saloon. He experienced a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t run any of this by the illustrious Professor Johnson, but Fernando’s motto had always been ‘ask forgiveness, not permission,’ and he saw no reason to change now.

  Most of the townsfolk loved trying out Fernando’s barbecued meats, and all of them loved the side dishes and desserts, although Polly worried that her jeans wouldn’t fit by the time the town was overrun with ravenous cowboys, and she’d have to wear her fat pants.

  Everyone also enjoyed eating on the boardwalk.

  “We should always do this,” Titan said.

  “When the weather’s nice,” Old Bertha said.

  “Duh,” Polly whispered to Dymphna.

  “Maybe I could add a patio out back, overlooking the creek,” Fernando said. “I mean, when people start flocking to Cowboy Food, we can’t be taking up the boardwalk with tables.”

  Fernando’s hope of anything but chickens flocking to Fat Chance was always met with polite silence. It had been less than a year ago when they’d all dreamed of a new, energized town. They’d planned a parade to celebrate a new era, but thanks to Dodge Durham, it had been an embarrassing waste of time. No one left in Fat Chance had given up exactly, but they viewed their town with more realistic eyes than the newcomer.

  “How many people are you expecting?” Powderkeg asked cautiously.

  “The first day?” Fernando asked. “Maybe fifty.”

  The veteran townsfolk exchanged glances. This was a more sensible estimate than the hundreds they’d hoped would show up to their Fandango-Up in Fat Chance event a year ago. Given the fact that no one except Dodge Durham, Tino, and Mikie had so much as stepped foot in the town the entire time they’d been here, even five guests might be wishful thinking, let alone fifty. But Fernando’s zeal would make a believer out of even the most cynical person.

  Fernando served eggs and stewed chicken for breakfast, keeping the chicken at the opposite end of the table from Dymphna and Titan. He announced that he needed a slogan for Cowboy Food.

  “What about ‘Rustle up to the bar and fill your feed bag with Cowboy Food,’” offered Old Bertha.

  “That is the worst visual ever,” Fernando said. “Not to mention unwieldy.”

  “How about ‘Need feed? Cowboy Food served here,’” Polly ventured.

  “Better,” Fernando said. “But the whole ‘feed’ thing is . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Inelegant?” Titan offered.

  “Inelegant?” Pappy snorted. “Fat Chance ain’t exactly gay Paree.”

  “Well, I can dream, can’t I?” Fernando said.

  “ ‘Cowboy Food—the best use of livestock,’” Powderkeg offered.

  “I refuse to set one foot in your restaurant if you use that,” Titan said.

  “No worries,” Fernando said. “I won’t.”

  “‘Cowboy Food—it’ll ring your cowbell,’” Dymphna said quietly.

  Everyone stopped eating and looked at her. Dymphna, never one to crave the spotlight, dipped her head and spread jam on a biscuit to escape the attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Fernando said, “I think we have a winner.”

  Everyone toasted Dymphna with their orange juice glasses. Dymphna’s cheeks blushed pink in the morning sun.

  “Now who will help me paint a banner?” Fernando asked.

  The countdown to Fernando’s grand opening weighed heavily on Titan. It signaled the end of his time in Fat Chance and his relationship—he never thought of his bond with Rocket as “ownership”—with the longhorn. He’d hoped for a miracle, but none, at least so far, had materialized. He had discussed his situation with his friend Maurice in Las Vegas, on the rare occasions when he could get his cell phone to work on Main Street. Maurice was of the opinion that Titan should just renege on the deal.

  “Just give the cow back,” Maurice had said. “And refuse to move to Utensil-town.”

  “He’s a bull,” Titan said, knowing that Maurice never paid complete attention. “And it’s Spoonerville.”

  “Semantics, darling,” Maurice said. “Or just pack it in. Come home.”

  But Titan thought, I am home.

  Fancy was out when Titan returned from breakfast. He went out the rear door of the forge to spend some time with Rocket. Although the bull had forty acres at his disposal, he could usually be found in the general vicinity of the forge. Titan knew the longhorn was home too. He approached the bull, who shambled over, horns bobbing. Titan scratched Rocket behind the ears.

  “What are we going to do, big guy?” Titan said.

  Three days of traveling with his aunt had pushed Professor Johnson’s patience to its outer limits. She demanded they stop at every outlet mall between San Bernardino and San Antonio. Cleo had bought so many pairs of cowboy boots they’d had to stop and buy a roof rack. She told him, over and over, about her first road tip to Fat Chance, when she’d insisted Jeffries drive her.

  “I thought going to Fat Chance, Texas, was the end of the world,” she said. “Literally and figuratively. And now look at me! Heading back there of my own free will.”

  Cleo never ceased to amaze herself.

  With one day left until they arrived at the turnout above Fat Chance, Professor Johnson realized he hadn’t mentioned to Dymphna that Cleo was coming with him. He’d pulled into a gas station to fill up the car and called, but wasn’t surprised that he didn’t reach her. Even though he knew the chances of Dymphna being anywhere near a cell phone when they hadn’t prearranged a cyber rendezvous, he often called just to hear her voice on the outgoing message. His breath caught as he listened:

  “Hi, this is Dymphna Pearl. I’m not on Main Street right now, but your call is very important to me. I’ll try to get back to you just as soon as I can, but who knows when that will be. Have a nice day and remember that you are loved.”

  Professor Johnson knew that the message was meant for anyone who called Dymphna, but he took her “remember you are loved” very personally.

  At the tone, Professor Johnson informed Dymphna that he would be arriving with his aunt in tow.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and then added before he hung up, “Just one more day.”

  Dymphna saw that she had a message from Professor Johnson. She wished the man had learned to text; phone calls were so sporadic. She could barely make out the message, but took it to mean he was still on track.

  “Just one more week,�
�� Dymphna said to Polly as they walked down Main Street to the farm, Thud bouncing ahead of them. “He’ll be here in one more week.”

  “Does that freak you out?” Polly asked.

  “Why would it freak me out?”

  “Because of the Tino thing.”

  “Oh, that,” Dymphna said, looking straight ahead. “I guess.”

  “You guess you’re a little freaked out? Most people know.”

  “I have some things to think about, obviously. But I haven’t committed myself to either man . . .”

  “Committed yourself?” yowled Polly. “What century do you live in?”

  “You know what I mean,” Dymphna said, cheeks flushing. “When the time comes, I’m sure the universe will send me the answer.”

  “You have a lot more faith in the universe than I do,” Polly said.

  “The truth is, I haven’t had any kind of real communication with Professor Johnson in six months. As far as Tino goes, we just seem to blow hot and cold. And he’s been gone for almost two weeks as well.”

  “I wish I had your problem. I guess we’ll see what happens.”

  “What else can we do?”

  The women had come to the path that led to Dymphna’s farm.

  “OK,” Polly said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  Dymphna shook her head. “Fernando said we’re on our own for breakfast. He needs to get ready for the grand opening tomorrow afternoon.”

  The women turned to look down their deserted Main Street and the bright new banner stretched across it: Cowboy Food—It Will Ring Your Cowbell. Powderkeg had volunteered to help with the banner and much to his dismay, Fernando had insisted that he paint both sides of the banner with rustic lettering.

  “You’ve got to see the banner coming and going,” Fernando had said.

  Dymphna headed up the hill, stopping once to watch Polly skip up the stairs to the Creakside Inn. Dymphna smiled, knowing what put that spring in Polly’s step: the prospect of Fat Chance soon being overrun by hungry cowboys.

  Pappy was less and less comfortable driving long distances in the Covered Volkswagen. But he’d found a deal on a miniature mule three hours from Fat Chance. The fact that the mule’s name was Patsy seemed preordained. Who but Patsy could hold her own with Jerry Lee and Elvis?

  He knew he was getting close to the Mighty Mule Ranch as he drove along a pasture full of the tiny animals, grazing on the sweet spring grass. He pulled onto the dusty road leading to the ranch, the potholes rattling what was left of the VW’s suspension.

  The rancher came out of the farmhouse and shook Pappy’s hand. Colby Calhoun was a weathered wrangler in jeans and a faded Cabela’s plaid shirt.

  “So you’re from Fat Chance,” Colby said by way of greeting. “I hear you guys are having a grand opening of a barbecue joint any day now.”

  “Yep,” Pappy said, surprised that the news had traveled this far from town. “Tomorrow afternoon. Yes, sir. It’s going to be something special.” While Pappy was not a native Texan, he had, over the years, grown fond of Southern colloquialisms. “I’ll tell you what,” he added.

  “I guess you want to meet Patsy,” Colby said, leading Pappy around the back of the barn. “There she is.”

  Pappy stared at the tiny animal, who looked up as the men arrived. “That’s a mule?” he said. “She’s not a llama?”

  “Of course she’s not a llama,” Colby said, staring quizzically first at Patsy, then at Pappy. “Llamas have long necks and shaggy coats.”

  “I was kidding. It’s just . . . I’ve never seen a white mule before.”

  “She’s got some gray in there,” Colby said defensively.

  “I was just making an observation,” Pappy said, wishing he hadn’t. “She’s a beauty. What’s her temperament?”

  “Mulish.”

  Pappy quickly concluded his deal with Colby and loaded Patsy into the back of the Covered Volkswagen.

  “See you at the grand opening,” Colby said, shaking Pappy’s hand.

  “You will,” Pappy said.

  Colby stuck his head in the back of the van. “You be good now, ya hear?” he said to Patsy. Then to Pappy, with a slight catch in his throat, he added, “She’s a good girl. You’re gonna love her.”

  Pappy nodded. He didn’t really feel like explaining that Patsy wasn’t for him, but for a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day unless it was to discuss mules.

  As he headed back to Fat Chance, Pappy came across the cutoff that led to Meriwether’s farm. He’d gone by that cutoff at least a hundred times over the years, without giving her a thought. He felt bad about that now. He had been a different man back then, when he’d first laid eyes on the Hill Country with Cutthroat Clarence almost thirty years ago. He made light of it with the men of Fat Chance, but he felt guilty when he thought of how he had virtually disappeared on Meriwether one day. He felt they were getting too close and he couldn’t do that. Not then—and maybe not ever. He shook his head; the plans he and Cutthroat had had! Cutthroat, who had an excellent track record and the Midas touch, was sure there was an underground hot spring in the area around Fat Chance. His idea was to open a spa, the first in a line of first-class spas. But the earth had not cooperated. The hot springs were all nestled around Dripping Springs—so near, yet so far. Cutthroat was accustomed to bending men to his will, but he hadn’t counted on Mother Nature. He’d washed his hands of the area, but something about the place had worked its way into Pappy’s soul.

  Pappy was brought back to the present by Patsy’s nickering in the back. If he hadn’t had the mule in the back of the VW, he might have turned down that road to Meriwether’s. As he drove toward home, it occurred to him that in the past he’d ignored Meriwether and now he lavished attention on Old Bertha. He didn’t seem to know the right way to go about either situation. He’d learned a lot of lessons over the years. But he still didn’t know anything about women.

  “Knock it off, Elvis,” Powderkeg said, pushing the little mule away from his hat, which the mule seemed to think was a midmorning snack.

  Powderkeg was putting the finishing touches on a tiny barn beside the Creakside Inn. The barn was big enough for Elvis and his soon-to-be-delivered companion. Old Bertha came out to inspect his handiwork, the back door of the inn creaking in protest as she pushed through.

  “Looks good,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Powderkeg said, lifting his hat and wiping the sweat away with his arm. “I tried to make it lean to the left like the rest of the town, but our gravity-defying architecture is beyond me.”

  “Well, give it time,” Old Bertha said.

  “I made an overhang for shade.” Powderkeg pointed to a porch-like structure attached to the barn. “You want me to get some of Pappy’s grapes and plant them so they trail over? That’d be mighty pretty.”

  “Aren’t you just the poetic soul. Must be love talking.”

  “Might be,” Powderkeg said, then, changing the subject quickly, “You want grapes or not?”

  “No, I don’t want grapes. That’s all I need, two mules getting stung by bees night and day.”

  “They won’t get stung. Pappy says the bees get drunk and just hang out. They don’t bother anybody.”

  “Since when do we listen to Pappy?”

  “Since always,” Powderkeg said. “I know he seems a little nuts, but I can’t imagine what life would have been like if he hadn’t been here. He really showed us the ropes. I just don’t understand what you have against the man, Bertha.”

  “He’s just so full of himself,” she said heatedly. “Buys me a mule, so I have no choice but to buy another one. I had to spend days with him trying to figure everything out. The old fool.”

  “Sounds like that must be love talking,” Powderkeg teased.

  “Sounds like you need to get back to work.” Old Bertha turned on her heels, starting heavily up the stairs. “Sounds like it might be love talking,” she muttered, shaking her head. But then she thought:


  It just might be.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 25

  The doors were set to open in twenty minutes. As Fernando predicted, there was already a line of cowboys, ranch hands, and folks he recognized from Spoonerville and Dripping Springs. There were also people he’d never seen before, coming down the trail and up from the creek. It was a miracle how many people had found their way to Fat Chance. He saw Dodge Durham from Spoonerville, scowling. Glenannie, the Dripping Springs patron of the arts, stepped daintily down the road. He hoped he got a chance to talk to her about how Titan’s crafts were doing in Sedona, but he knew the answer already. Even if she’d lost money, she’d say they had broken even at three thousand dollars. That Glenannie was a good woman.

  Polly burst through the door of the café, carrying something red and ruffled. She closed the door behind her. “Have you seen the line outside?”

  “I have,” Fernando said. “I’ve already picked out my cowboy.”

  Polly peeked out window. “Which one?”

  “I don’t have time for this right now,” Fernando said as he set dual lemonade-limeade jars with spigots on a shelf built by Powderkeg. “But he’s the one in the really big black hat.”

  Polly looked out the window. Half the men were wearing really big black hats. “Very funny.”

  “I just realized something.” Fernando stopped in his tracks.

  “What?”

  “My boots don’t hurt anymore,” he said, holding up one boot and then the other as if surprised to find them on his feet.

  “Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas. You’ve broken in your first pair of boots. You’re a real cowboy now.”

  “I really need to focus here, Polly.”

  “You nervous?”

  “I know I have enough food for at least fifty people. I’m just not sure I can handle all this by myself.”

  “I was thinking that myself. I can help! I even made an apron.” Polly unfurled her ruffled red apron.