Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas

by Celia Bonaduce

  “Something wrong?” Powderkeg asked.

  “Yeah, man. This is bullshit.”

  “Yes,” Powderkeg said. “I heard that part. I think we all heard that part.”

  “What are we even doing here? This might be some crazy old man’s idea of a joke, but it’s not mine, man.”

  Powderkeg walked around the store. There were boxes of canned goods stacked to the ceiling, but nothing on the shelves. He ended up behind the counter and checked out the old register. “Here’s some good news,” he said. “The cash register works.”

  “Any money in it?”

  Powderkeg shook his head.

  “Then who cares?” Wally Wasabi said. “It’s just more—”

  “Bullshit, yes, I know. Why are you so angry? Nobody forced you to come here.”

  Wally let out a deep sigh and put the tomato sauce down. “That story about my great-grandfather. That’s why I came. I don’t know how much you know about Japanese culture—” Wally noted a slight raising of Powderkeg’s eyebrow and remembered the man had been in Vietnam. “But my family never talked about this. I knew that there was something in our past that my family was hiding. Something that made them ashamed. Then I find out it was all because they lost their store in the forties and nothing was even their fault. It just pisses me off.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “I told my father about Cutthroat’s offer. He wouldn’t even look at me. He said his father—my grandfather—and my great-grandfather never wanted my generation to know about what happened to the family during the war. My father doesn’t believe in that—I remember hearing fights between him and my grandfather about reparations from the government. But he’s old-fashioned enough to respect his father’s wishes and his father’s father before him, so he never told me.”

  “What did he say? When you told him you knew?”

  “He said that he was relieved that I knew the truth,” Wally said. “He thinks that I’m carrying around anger for my ancestors without knowing it and that I should make things right.”

  “But that’s not what you think?”

  “I don’t see why I need to make things right! That’s ancient history, man! I didn’t do anything wrong! My family didn’t do anything wrong.” Wally got ready to hurl the next jar of sauce. “It’s up to Cutthroat to make amends to me, not the other way around.”

  “So you’re doing this for your family,” Powderkeg said, catching the jar of sauce midflight.

  “I guess so. I’ve kind of screwed up a couple times. If my dad wants me to do this . . .” Wally trailed off.

  “Time-honored tradition,” Powderkeg said. “I don’t know your family, so I don’t know why they chose to not seek retribution of any kind. Your father honored the wishes of his father and now you are honoring his. I think you’ve already made him proud.”

  “Whatever. But now I’m here! I’m probably the first Watanabe who can’t run a grocery store! And one is handed to me.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Powderkeg said.

  Wally sneered. “How do you know?”

  “Because you don’t have a choice.”

  “How do we get mail around here anyway?” Wally asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “I don’t have any idea. You expecting some important mail?”

  “Maybe.”

  Powderkeg walked along the shelves, testing them. Most of them wiggled or were lopsided.

  “I get a store—with groceries—but the shelves won’t hold any canned goods without crashing to the floor.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Powderkeg said. “I’ll fix these shelves for you if you give me groceries on credit.”

  Wally thought a minute before answering.

  “You seem pretty young to have been in Vietnam,” he finally said.

  “I was. Youngest soldier drafted for the war is my claim to fame. So, do we have a deal?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so?”

  “Whatever,” Wally said.

  But he accepted Powderkeg’s hand to shake on it.

  CHAPTER 15

  Polly had no idea what to make of the inventory in her hat store. There were rows of featureless mannequin heads and drawers full of ribbon, buttons, elastic, glue, and glitter. An old sewing machine was set up in one corner of the shop. Polly was happy to see it had a mechanical foot pedal instead of a pumping footboard. She would at least know how to use the thing. The shop, the narrowest on the boardwalk, was reminiscent of a railroad car, with wooden floorboards traveling the length of it.

  As Pappy promised, there were several cowboy hats on display. Some were straw and some were felt, but all of them were plain. Polly picked up a plain black straw hat, popped it on her head, and looked at herself in the display mirror on the counter. The hat contrasted starkly with her kohl-rimmed eyes and black lipstick—just Polly’s style. Although she wore black and dark gray exclusively, she made the most of it. She wore every fabric and texture known to man and technology.

  This hat needs something, she thought.

  She started poking through the vases of artificial flowers and the bolts of lace and fabric propped against the wall. She selected a gray lace with a black scalloped edge and rummaged around in the drawers until she found a pair a scissors. She snipped about a foot-long piece and wrapped it around itself several times, pinching it in the center until it formed a pretty, petaled flower. An oversized pincushion sat on the counter holding an array of antique hatpins. She chose a black jet pin and attached her new creation to the front of the hat.

  Still not satisfied with the effect, she looked through all the black ribbon, finding a grosgrain shot through with silver metallic threads. She added this for a hatband, tucking the edges under the flower. She put the hat on again.

  “That’s pretty,” Old Bertha said from behind her. “I guess we’re all going to need hats. That sun is hot.”

  Polly had not heard the door open. She was embarrassed to have been caught admiring herself. But Old Bertha was all business, walking around the store, trying on one hat after another. She finally selected a beige cowboy hat, an orange ribbon, and some yellow feathers.

  “I’ll take these,” Old Bertha said. “Can you put this together for me?”

  Polly had the hat together in moments. She handed the now accessorized hat to Old Bertha and the old woman handed over the debit card she’d received from Pappy.

  Polly stared at the card. “I . . . I don’t take that. I think.”

  Old Bertha stared as well. “Yeah, I don’t think I take them at the hotel either.”

  “There seem to be some holes in Cutthroat’s idea,” Polly said.

  “You think? That damn man.”

  “I could let you take the hat and pay me when you can.”

  “No, I don’t work that way. Let me ask you something. You look like you know what you’re doing around all this fabric stuff.” Old Bertha eyed the sewing machine. “I heard you tell Pappy you know how to sew.”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “I make my own clothes.”

  Old Bertha’s lips seemed to pucker as she took in Polly’s black short-sleeved top with the asymmetrical neckline and her multi-tiered black skirt. “OK, well, nothing fancy, you understand,” she said. “But there’s a bunch of white fabric. I think it’s cotton, but I don’t know much about that sort of thing. You can have a room at the hotel if you make me some curtains—and throw in this hat.”

  “How long can I stay?” Polly asked.

  “How fast do you sew?”

  “How many curtains do you need?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Old Bertha said. “You can stay till I throw you out.”

  Old Bertha left Polly standing in the middle of the store.

  CHAPTER 16

  Old Bertha climbed over the footbridge that crossed the creek in front of the hotel. She walked up the crooked, rickety steps into her even more lopsided inn, hanging her new cowboy hat o
n the hat rack just inside the door. The front parlor was small, with a threadbare red Oriental rug, a pair of worn Victorian claw-footed settees, a rocking chair near a potbellied stove, and a few tiny marble-topped tables. The tables held thin-stemmed lamps with stained-glass lampshades dripping with crystals—except in the places where the crystals were missing.

  The old man filled a hat store with nonsense and whatnots, but couldn’t see his way clear to redecorate the hotel? Bertha fumed. Oh sure, there are some new sheets and towels, but the place is a wreck! What is more important—hats or a nice place to sleep? Who was more important to him—the daughter of someone he’d never met, or me, his first love?

  Bertha didn’t know if Cleo’s ex-husband was any good as a carpenter, but if he was, she was going to get him over to the hotel as well. She needed a lot of work done if this hotel was going to be safe. She didn’t want Polly to be worrying about falling through the floor like her father did at the World Trade Center. Poor kid.

  The hotel had four rooms on the lower level—the parlor and two small, square rooms separated by a bathroom. Bertha planned on making these her bedroom and office. There was a small hotplate and an electric kettle in one of the rooms, but no kitchen. That was OK—Bertha had dedicated her life to business and never was much of a cook. Over the years, she had sometimes wondered if Cutthroat left her because she couldn’t make a decent meal. Although she certainly wasn’t happy with his dying testimonial—that he had left because he got a good deal on the business—at least he wasn’t casting aspersions on her femininity.

  The upper level had a long hallway with four bedrooms, two facing the street and overlooking the creek and the other two facing the mountains. There were also two bathrooms—neither of them private.

  Well, Cutthroat didn’t have the foresight to set the town up with a plumber, so we’ll have to make do.

  Bertha had been a bookkeeper for a business incubator. She worked with many start-ups over the years. Several of her entrepreneur clients had dealings with Cutthroat, but she never let on that she knew him. It would have helped her to get ahead, but she wanted to make it on her own. And she certainly didn’t want anyone using her to get to him. Thanks to Cutthroat, she felt used enough.

  Over the years, romance had taken a backseat to business. That was fine with her. She’d had to keep her guard up, working in a male-dominated world. When she was younger, there had always seemed to be a holiday party where one of her bosses got drunk and wanted to corner her in the office kitchenette. She’d gotten a name for herself as a tough, humorless, no-nonsense businesswoman. Perhaps she had been. Or perhaps a hand up her sweater in the glare of the kitchenette’s fluorescent lighting just didn’t do it for her. She turned the bosses down, one by one, year after year, until age and her reputation stopped the propositions flat.

  Bertha plugged in the electric kettle and searched the cupboards for some tea. She really did not want to go back out and face that awful Wally Wasabi and barter for a teabag. She opened the bottom drawer of an old, stained desk. She reached inside and pulled out an oblong box. It was a box of Earl Grey—the perfect, simple tea she used to make for Cutthroat when the Closed sign was put in the window of the hardware store in that perfect, simple time.

  She could almost hear the Platters crooning “Only You” as she wiped away the tears.

  CHAPTER 17

  Evening was settling over Fat Chance, Texas. The group had almost made it through their first day. Titan had made an effort to clear out most of the debris from the forge. Sweat poured from him as he stacked pieces of metal, tools, and lumber. He was exhausted, but had to admit that it was a stellar workout.

  At least I won’t miss the gym.

  As he struggled to get the forge in some sort of order, he watched his neighbors across the street. He saw Old Bertha leave the millinery shop with a new cowboy hat topped with yellow feathers. He couldn’t wait to get over to that store and see what else Polly had there. Titan tried not to be jealous of Polly. He had always wanted his own store where he could make and sell beautiful things. Dressing actors and singers only went so far. Looking around, he had to admit, there really was no one else in their party who could get the forge running. Maybe Powderkeg would have the strength to pound away on that anvil thing, but he was getting up there in age. Titan heaved a sigh and went back to organizing the forge.

  Pappy had called the place “a smithy,” shorthand for “a blacksmith’s shop.” Titan liked the sound of that. “Smithy” sounded much less intimidating. But no matter what you called it, when you stood in the middle of it, it was intimidating! There sure were a lot of hammers! Titan started to arrange them by size, but quickly realized that there were as many different styles of hammers as there were sizes. There were also myriad long-handled pliers, tongs, chisels, and other frightening-looking instruments.

  It looks like the office of a crazed dentist!

  Titan was a bit disconcerted that the forge was not attached to most of the stores in Fat Chance. He wondered if there was some hidden message. Did Cutthroat have something against black people? He quickly dismissed that notion. Cutthroat had been known to fund generous scholarships for the underprivileged. The billionaire was an old-school patriot and a New Age media genius, a firm believer in “helping others to help themselves.” There was no need to guess at Cutthroat’s philosophy of life. He managed to tell America at least once a week to “Get up, get out, and achieve the American Dream.” He’d often been criticized for having no compassion for the downtrodden—he vocally and unapologetically opposed welfare programs—but he always put his money behind his principles.

  It didn’t take long for Titan to come across the real reason for his isolation. The forge had to be separate because there would be hot embers flying—a real danger to a town made of wood. If Fat Chance had withstood fire for over a hundred years, Titan took it as his solemn responsibility to keep the town safe for at least the next six months.

  Titan heard a rustling in the corner of the shop. He looked over to see Fancy flapping her one good wing. He had once worked on a campaign to save the California condor, so he knew a little about the habits of buzzards. With dusk coming on, Fancy was probably settling down for the night. Buzzards had terrible eyesight and hunted by day. Fancy seemed to know she was being watched. Titan could swear the bird gave him the stink eye out of her one blazing orb.

  “Want me to tell you a story, Fancy?” Titan asked. “When I left my friend Maurice’s show in Vegas, I was making a fabulous Old West costume out of suede and feathers.”

  Titan realized that his feathered companion might not approve of this.

  “Sorry,” Titan said. “But the costumes were beautiful.”

  The bird cocked her head suspiciously.

  “I’m not going to throw you out of your home,” Titan said gently.

  Fancy seemed to take Titan at his word, because she settled down into the dark corner. Titan watched her. Buzzards were social birds who nested in groups in treetops, gathering together an hour before dusk. Fancy was alone and on the ground—living a life totally against her nature.

  “If you can do it,” Titan said, “I can do it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Dymphna was pretty sure her fellow travelers were feeling a little out of their depth, but she felt she had come home. Cutthroat had decided to make amends by supplying her with a snug farmhouse on a little hill above the town. The creek that ran behind the buildings in Fat Chance continued on to her farm. You couldn’t see it from the farmhouse, but you could hear it. It emptied noisily into a little pond that she’d named Loudmouth Lake. Behind the farmhouse was a small barn, which would be home to the animals. The animals she had glimpsed from the boardwalk were four Angora goats—excellent animals for making mohair yarn and extremely tolerant of the Texas summer heat. Even so, the barn had an overhanging porch, which would provide much-needed shade.

  She’d never raised goats, but Dymphna had always had an instinct when it came to animals.
If she was doing something wrong, the goats would let her know.

  There was also a henhouse, with several chickens and a mean-looking rooster.

  The farmhouse kitchen was stocked and so was the barn. There were also wild strawberries on her farm and a mulberry tree. She picked some berries while it was still light outside. As she ate them, she savored the warmth of the sun still lingering on each berry.

  Her farmhouse had one large room in the front that served as the living space. It had two large windows that faced town and an enormous stone fireplace. When Dymphna watched those home-makeover shows, the designers were always going on about a new concept called “the great room,” where the living, dining, and kitchen areas were all in one open space. Those designers would be surprised to find that her little one-hundred-year-old cabin perfectly fit this modern ideal. It might not have the granite countertops and stainless steel appliances everyone on TV was asking for, but the place seemed to have been modernized in the 1950s. There were a little stove and refrigerator that would fetch a nice sum on any urban city’s designer row. There were also two rooms and an old-fashioned bathroom in the back.

  Dymphna worried about her rabbits. It hadn’t occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to check in every night, but she knew Virginia would take great care of them. Dymphna missed her friends in Venice Beach, too. It was very quiet out here on the little rise over Fat Chance, Texas. Once she’d fed the animals and herself, there really wasn’t much to do but go to bed.

  She hadn’t realized how tired she was. One thing you had to give to Fat Chance was that it lent itself to slumber. It was very dark and very quiet. Dymphna went to bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

  She woke to the sound of... something. Were those gunshots? Where were they coming from? Town? Stumbling in the dark, she groped around for her robe but couldn’t find it. She pulled her blanket around her sleeveless T-shirt and bikini panties and stumbled toward the door. Slipping into a pair of cowboy boots (keeping shoes by the door had become a precautionary habit she’d adopted in earthquake-prone California) she stepped outside.