The Widows of Eden (17 page)

I had a little time to myself before I hitched a ride to the River House, so I sent an e-mail to Clara requesting an audience for Hail Mary, and then I cleaned up the kitchen and made sure that the bathrooms had plenty of toilet paper, hand soap, and whatnot. I stuck my head into Mr. Moore's room, too, but it was neat as a pin: his clothes were put away; the newspaper had been placed in the trash bin in the bathroom; and his towels had been hung on the rack to dry. He had even made his own bed, and better than I could. There wasn't a wrinkle in it.

A modern psychologist might take the position that Mr. Moore was mildly obsessive-compulsive. In my opinion, he was just a tidy man, which was what you would expect of a man who had served his country in the U.S. Army. That was Buford's
theory, and I liked it better than the newfangled one for about seventy-five million reasons.

In general, I believe that we should take the positive view until proven otherwise, but that was a hard row to hoe when it came to Nicky Molineaux, the Widow El's chauffeur. He did his best to dress the part, but he was a thin, rat-faced man with slicked black hair, opaque sunglasses, and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. According to Pokie, he had been convicted of forgery in California and served an extra “nickel” for knifing another inmate. If I had been on the jury, I might have voted for conviction based upon his appearance alone. Isn't that terrible?

Nicky the Knife knocked on my door at eleven a.m. on the dot. When I answered, he said in a nasal, northeast accent, “Hello, Ms. Porter. I'm supposed to drive Ms. Richardson down to the River House. She says you're coming and you know the way.”

“Let me get my pocketbook. I won't be a minute.”

When I returned, he led me across the driveway to the Seagull, Eloise's motor home. It was shaped exactly like Marion's on the inside, but the carpets were Persian in appearance, the appliances and walls were glossy white, and the booth and captain's chairs were upholstered in lipstick-red leather.

Nicky pointed to the copilot's seat up front and declared, “You're the navigator.” I strapped myself in while he took the pilot's chair. Just when I had begun to theorize that conversation was not his forte, he put on a headset and added, “I'll call the Widow Richardson.”

See. You shouldn't judge people.

Eloise appeared behind my seat just a tick or two later. I started to unhitch the buckle on my seatbelt, but she touched my shoulder and said, “Don't get up.” The woman couldn't have been a day over thirty-five, which meant she was my junior by
more years than a body would care to admit, but she spoke to me like I was a child. It was a tad discombobulating.

“Shouldn't you be sitting here?” I asked.

“I'll sit in the booth if the road gets bouncy. Enjoy the view.”

Nicky turned the ignition on and let the engine warm up, then he pulled out of the parking lot and headed south to the River House. On the way, we passed acre after acre of brown, half-dead corn and soy, which made it next to impossible to talk about anything but the drought. I thought about mentioning Clem's deal with Mr. Moore, but it was just as depressing and I was afraid to bring up that much money in front of a convicted con artist.

As Nicky turned left on State Highway 159, Eloise pointed toward a field of dry, stunted stalks planted in long, straight, dusty rows and inquired, “Whose farm is that?”

“It belongs to Rick and Casey Jaworski,” I replied. “They raise some corn and run one of the last family dairies in the county, but the local scuttlebutt says their well is running dry, and the only way they can afford to drill a new one is to sell off the dairy stock or a big chunk of farmland. It's Hobson's Choice. They lose either way.”

“Can't they borrow the money?”

“If their last name was Tucker they could, but the farmers in this neck of the woods are generally leveraged up to their eyeballs. Most couldn't borrow a cup of laundry detergent without signing over a first-born.”

“What a shame! They must feel so helpless.”

“Oh, they do, Eloise. They most certainly do.”

I
DIDN
'
T
KNOW
IT
at the time, but Mr. Moore had stopped by the Jaworski place on his way back to Ebb. Since the house never had any air conditioning, Casey served iced tea to
her guest and her husband on the veranda off the kitchen, where there is a ceiling fan and some pretty wicker furniture with puffy floral cushions she made in a Quilting Circle class.

After the usual small talk, Mr. Moore said, “You requested that I drop by. May I ask why?”

Casey is a fifth generation Nebraskan and a child born of the corn, no disrespect to Mr. Stephen King. She's as skinny as a stalk and as brown as the ground, with blue sky eyes and sun-bleached hair the color of tassels. Coincidentally, she happens to make the lightest, most scrumptious corn soufflé in the county. In case you're wondering, you serve it as a vegetable, not as a dessert, and you don't sprinkle any powdered sugar on it either.

“There's no other way to put it, Mr. Moore,” she answered. “We're beat.”

Rick, her husband, is a barrel-chested, red-faced man with short black hair that pokes straight out of his head like a porcupine's. During the season, he likes to wear blue, sleeveless work shirts, camouflage pants cut off above the knee, and work boots with floppy laces that he never ties up. “If we don't get rain in the next few weeks,” he added, “and I mean a decent accumulation with more to follow, the corn's gone. It's dead. We have thirty-two milkin' cows, but I'm running out of hay and we're down to mud in the well.”

“What about subsidies? Don't they help?”

“We get twenty dollars an acre in this part of the country, but it costs upwards of a hundred and fifty dollars in seed, pesticides, fertilizer, and fuel to till an acre anymore, not to mention the crop insurance. The government also guarantees me a minimum of a dollar and ninety cents per bushel, but that's way below market, assuming I have a bushel to sell in the first place.”

“Hold on for a minute, Rick. Did you say crop insurance?”

“Yep. Every farmer with a mortgage has to have crop insurance. If the weather doesn't turn, it'll cover up to seventy percent of my losses come October.”

“Won't that help you out?”

“It'll get us through the winter, but there won't be enough left over to plant next season; not unless I sell off the dairy. It won't get me a working well till November, either, assuming we can beat the frost, and I need water now.”

“Forgive my naïveté, Rick, but I've never made a living off the land. As a businessman, it would seem to me that the bank would be interested in retaining its customer base. Couldn't you work out some sort of solution with them; a bridge loan, for example?”

“A loan? From a bank? We're upside down on the mortgage because valuations have gone to hell, our credit cards are maxed out, and we're leveraged to the hilt on the equipment. I haven't checked our credit rating lately, but I'd be surprised if it broke three digits.”

“Would it help if I spoke to Clem Tucker?”

“The Clement Tucker? You've got to be kidding! I heard you two were tight, but that man was a conscientious objector in the war on poverty. Besides, I have to deal with Buford Pickett. Have you ever tried to negotiate with Buford, Mr. Moore?”

“No. I can't say that I have.”

Rick held up his right hand, which was missing the upper half of his index finger. “I got this nub because I stuck my hand in the wrong end of a 1947 Massey Harris when I was a kid, but I tell you what: I'd cut the other four off with a meat cleaver before I'd get down on my knees in front of that self-servin' son of a bitch ever again. Have you heard the latest? The rumor mill says he's buying the Bowe place himself.”

“I hadn't.”

“Well, you have now, Mr. Moore. We're a cursed people. Just
when Clem Tucker is about to kick the bucket, Buford Pickett rises up from hell to take his place.”

“Richard Milhous Jaworski! You take that back!” Casey exclaimed. “You should never speak ill of the sick. It's bad luck.”

Rick muttered an apology, then Mr. Moore said, “What if the governor declared southeast Nebraska a disaster area? Wouldn't that qualify you for federal loan assistance?”

“You'll need to ask the governor, assuming he ever returns from China. I figure he'll be back in time to run for reelection, but not much before.”

“Why?”

“Because he's got a different agenda, Mr. Moore. Nebraska is one of the few states with a law protecting family farms, but the voters don't have much of a say in Lincoln anymore. The balance of power has shifted to the big agriculture interests in Omaha and Minneapolis. They care plenty about farming, but not much for families, if you get my meaning.”

“I believe I understand, but let me make sure. If the governor doesn't step in, then the corporations will be able to acquire failing family farms. Is that right?”

“You got it. That's the loophole. A farmer can't sell his place to a combine, but the bank can once they've foreclosed. How's that for a law to protect family farmers?”

“Not incredibly fair. What can I do to help?”

“Plain and simple: we need you to make it rain.”

“Me? That's quite an expectation, Rick.”

“It don't matter. If you can't make it rain in the next two weeks, then you need to give me the winning numbers for the lottery. Otherwise, the wife and I can bend over and kiss our hearth and home good-bye, and so can a hundred of our friends.”

After a bit, Mr. Moore said, “Just for my edification, would you have to win the whole lottery, or would a bit less suffice?”

“Are you asking me how much I need?”

“You asked for my help. How much do you need? An exact number isn't necessary; an approximation will do.”

Casey and Rick kicked some numbers back and forth, then they gave Mr. Moore a figure. She wasn't obliged to divulge it in her report since it was information of a personal nature, but it was probably more than seventy-five dollars and less than seventy-five million.

Mr. Moore listened carefully and asked a few more questions, then he said, “I'd like to thank you for your candor. It's been a very informative visit.”

“Pardon me for sayin' so, but we weren't lookin' for an information exchange. Should we be praying for rain or buying lottery tickets?”

“Frankly, Rick, the odds are stacked rather heavily against us either way. I have a favor to ask, though.”

“What's that?”

“Stick around. If I can find a way to help, you'll know within a week. Can you hang on for that long?”

“A week? Yeah, we can. Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. I haven't done anything. I never do.”

After Mr. Moore had gone, Rick jumped in the family pickup truck and drove down to the 7-Eleven in Falls City where he bought twelve lottery tickets, one for each of Jesus' apostles. It was good money spent in vain, except that the prospect of winning kept their hopes alive for a few more days.

As you get older, you learn that money can't buy faith and it can't buy charity, but hope is the exception. I suppose that's why rich folks have more hope than charity or faith.

Chapter 19

 

A Q
UESTION
OF
B
LASPHEMY

W
HILE
N
ICKY
PARKED
the motor coach in the courtyard in front of the River House, I escorted Eloise back to the kitchen to meet Marie Delacroix. She was watching a cooking show on TV and stirring egg whites in a bowl, while Pearline, Clem's practical nurse, was playing a game of double-deck solitaire at the far end of the butcher block table.

After I had introduced everyone, Pearline said, “Where're you from, Ms. Richardson?”

“San Diego, although I rarely get home anymore. How about you?”

“Olathe, Kansas. I've been a midwestern girl all my life.”

“And you?” Eloise asked Marie.

“I was born six blocks from the Café du Monde in New Orleans, and raised on beignets, gumbo, and bread pudding with chocolate sauce.” That and her profession explain Marie's shape, which is generally ovoid, although she has lovely, milk-white skin.

“Nebraska's a long way from the French Quarter, but I get the sense that you moved here long before Hurricane Katrina.”

“I was the victim of a prior disaster, ma'am. My first employer out of culinary school was a professional athlete with the taste
buds and disposition of a spoiled child. After two years of barbecued chicken wings and temper tantrums, I decided I'd rather cook for a cranky, middle-aged banker whose favorite meal is a double-decker BLT with fries.”

“Life is so full of compromises, isn't it? But I bet you make a mean BLT.”

“You bet I do. I made one for the Old Man today, but don't tell Nurse Nelson. The bacon was against doctor's orders. Come to think of it, so was the mayo, and the fries.”

Eloise smiled. “I've heard that Mr. Tucker can be a demanding boss. Is that your impression, Marie?”

“He's grumpy but fair, sort of like Clint Eastwood. He likes his guns, too. If you pass by the dining room, you'll see what I mean.”

The dead heads mounted on the dining hall wall included elk, bighorn sheep, moose, mountain lion, and just about every other critter that was bigger than a breadbox, had teeth, and could be shot legally in the U.S. or Canada. Clem tried to explain it to me a hundred times, but I could never understand why a man would want to shoot all those magnificent animals.

Pearline looked up from her solitaire game. “We hear you're a friend of Vernon Moore's. Is that right?”

“Why, yes. Word seems to travel quickly in this part of the country.”