The Widows of Eden (18 page)

“You have no idea, ma'am. Can he do what they say he can do?”

I thought that was a tad pushy for a probationary member of the Circle, but Eloise said, “That depends. What do they say he can do, dear?”

“Raise the dead; heal the sick. Stuff like that.”

“Between you and me, I have some reservations, but Vernon has surprised me more times than I can count.”

“But isn't it a blasphemy just to say so? Isn't it a blasphemy if a plain man claims he can heal the sick or make it rain?”

That ruffled my fetlocks again, but Eloise was as calm as the surface of a mountain lake on a windless day. “I'd normally refer a question like that to Vernon, but since he isn't here, I'll try to handle it myself.” She put her finger to her chin in thoughtful pose, then concluded, “No.”

“No? Why?”

“We live in miraculous times, Pearline. Trained medical professionals bring people back from the dead every day.”

“Okay, but what about making it rain?”

“That's a different story. Have you met someone who claims to have that ability?”

“Yes, ma'am. Your Mr. Moore claims that he can do that, too.”

“Really? He told me last night that he might ask God for rain, but he never claimed that he could do it by himself. Is that blasphemy, or is it prayer?” Pearl must've bit her tongue, so Eloise continued, “To be perfectly honest, I couldn't care less about blasphemy anyway. The only victims are thin-skinned believers, but shouldn't they be gracious enough to forgive?”

Game, set, and match, at least in my book. I said, “Let's go see the old man.”

“You won't find Mr. Tucker in bed,” Marie offered. “I served him his BLT in the great room. The last time I checked, he was watching TV.”

The great room at the River House is the size of an indoor tennis court. A long time ago, Clem had it arranged into four, equal-sized rectangles: a business library; a multimedia entertainment center with four rows of easy chairs; a bar that has antique neon signs and an old-time jukebox; and a gaming area with a pool table, a pinball machine, and a card table. Each section
is decorated so distinctly that you feel like you're walking from one room to another, even though you're just crossing a red carpet divider.

Eloise and I found Clem in PJs and his boxer's robe in the entertainment center, watching the Bloomberg channel on his widest screen television. His head was hatless, meaning it was as hairless as a cue ball and twice as shiny. Other than the glare, it didn't look bad. He was sitting in the center of the first row in his favorite recliner, which had a remote controller like the TV. Depending on the button you pushed, it massaged your sacroiliac, warmed your butt, kneaded your calves, or peeled your potatoes. That last part was a prevarication, but it was an amazing chair. If it had been mine, I would've given it a name.

Clem didn't exactly leap to his feet when he saw us coming, but he stood like a gentleman, and with no apparent discomfort. “How do you do?” he said to Eloise, as he held out his hand. “You must be the famous Widow Richardson I've heard so much about.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek while Eloise took his hand in both of hers, like Pastor Hooper does after church when he wants something. “You flatter me, Mr. Tucker. Please, call me Eloise. Wilma and I will pull up some chairs so we can visit.”

“No need. I'll swivel around and you can take a chair in the second row. How would that be?”

I sat on the arm of Clem's chair and stroked his neck while Eloise took a seat. I was tempted to rub his shiny bald head, but it didn't seem proper in front of a widow.

“You have such a lovely home, Mr. Tucker. Has it been in the family for a long time?”

“Not by Tucker time. Silas the Fourth built it in the twenties. My grandfather, Silas the Fifth, taught me to hunt and fish here, and how to read an annual report. He even taught me to drive a
tractor out back. What a hoot! I damned near drove it over the cliff and into the river.”

“Wilma and I took a peek into your dining room. Do you still hunt?”

“Not lately, I'm sorry to report. I suppose Wilma briefed you about my condition.”

“She did. How are you feeling? For a man on chemotherapy, you look remarkably well. Your color is good; your energy level appears to be high. Are you taking your meds?”

Clem chortled. “You must not have met Louise Nelson, my other nurse. If I hesitate to take even one measly little pill, she lectures me for an hour on my health and well-being, and then she tapes my eyes open and forces me to watch daytime TV. I can stomach the lectures, but those soap operas corrode the soul.”

“She sounds like a kindred spirit. How is your blood pressure?”

“One-thirty over eighty this morning. Why?”

Eloise stood up and took Clem's wrist while she looked down at her watch. “Are you eating well?”

“Like a horse, thanks to Vernon.”

“Vernon?”

“Who else? Frankly, I was sicker than a dog until he came along. Now, I feel like I could bring down a rhino with a fondue fork. Wilma tells me you're an old friend of his. Does he normally have that kind of effect on people?”

“I'm rarely on the scene when Vernon is out and about, but he seems to have a positive effect on almost everyone. However, I believe that you're the first chemotherapy patient I've ever met who was ready to take on a rhinoceros with a common kitchen utensil.”

“What do you think, Eloise? Wouldn't a rhino look fine on my dining-hall wall?”

“Not with a fork in its ear, dear. By the way, your pulse is seventy-seven. That's a bit high, but probably attributable to the close proximity of your fiancée.”

“Wilma's always been able to get my juices flowing,” Clem replied, smiling like a cat who had just landed in a pound of catnip. “Do I say ‘ah' next or pee into a cup?”

“Neither. Why?”

“'Cause I feel like I'm getting a physical. Are you from the insurance company?”

“Oh my, no! I'm so sorry. I'm a retired nurse. I just can't seem to help myself.”

Clem glanced up at me, but only for a second. “You're awful young-looking for a retiree, Eloise.”

“Thank you, but I was an army nurse. We can retire at an early age, you know.”

“I guess so. Military pensions must be pretty damned good, too. I caught a glimpse of your motor home from the bathroom window.”

“Mr. Moore paid for it,” I answered.

Clem patted my arm like I was a pet retriever. “I understand that Vernon was in the army back in the day. Is that how you two met?”

“We never served together,” Eloise answered, “but we joined the same travel club afterward. Vernon is quite the rolling stone, you know.”

“Well, he sure as hell doesn't stick around here, that's for sure. What kind of travel club is it? Do you get discounts and free tickets, things like that?”

“Absolutely! We take trips together, we share pictures and stories, we keep lists of nice places to visit. It's lots of fun.”

“I expect it is, but Vernon and I have a certain business arrangement.
Out of curiosity, did he happen to share it with you and your friends?”

I nearly fell off the chair, but the young widow came through like a true Circle girl. “No,” she lied, as deadpan as a riverboat gambler. “Vernon is a very private man.”

Clem grunted, then said, “It's getting toward my nap time, Eloise, but I'd like to ask you one last question before I hobble off to my bed of pain.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can Vernon Moore work miracles?”

I can be so thick in the head. It wasn't until that very moment that I figured out why he had jumped at the chance to meet Eloise.

He continued, “A lot of the townsfolk believe he can, includin' my Wilma here, but it seems to me that he uses his head more than anything else.”

I got the distinct impression that Eloise had heard that question before. She replied, “A policeman carries a gun, Mr. Tucker. Does he use it every day, or does he try to use his head instead?”

Clem sat silently in his chair for half a minute, then he surprised me. “Assuming it's okay with my fiancée, how'd you and your widow friends like to have dinner at the River House tomorrow night? We'll invite Vernon, too.”

“And the Millets,” I added, excited by the prospect. “They should be here.”

“Absolutely. How about it, Eloise?”

“Will you be up to it?”

“I'll be fine. Saint Vernon will see to it.”

“In that case, I'm happy to accept. I'll have to check, but I'm sure that Birdie and Marion will want to come, too.”

“Then I'll look forward to tomorrow evening, and thanks for stopping in. It's been a pleasure.”

Eloise smiled graciously, like a queen who had granted an audience to a minor cousin. “The pleasure was mine, but you should take that nap now. You need your rest, and be careful of those fries. They can be very hard on the digestion.”

A
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and Nicky the Knife had departed for parts unknown, I gravitated back to the kitchen to warn the chef about the upcoming dinner party. When I walked through the door, Marie, Pearl, John, and Clem's housekeeper, a lovely Hispanic woman named Consuela Bocachica, were sitting in a row at the butcher block table, glued to the television news.

Fearing the usual, which is bad news, I said, “What happened?”

John turned and answered, “The National Weather Service has revised the weekend forecast.”

“What could be worse than the weather we have now: tornadoes; typhoons?”

“Shush, Wilma!” Marie pointed the controller at the TV and turned up the volume.

Two men in shirts and ties were talking on the screen in front of a big brown map of the midwestern United States. The older one pointed to the map and said, “The jet stream has taken an unexpected turn to the south, which is allowing a large, slow-moving Canadian cold front to begin drifting down to Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota. This may be the break we've been hoping for, Frank. For the last four months, the jet stream has been pushing all the moist air northward into Saskatchewan and Manitoba.”

“That's fantastic news, Tom! When does the storm reach southeast Nebraska?”

“Assuming the jet stream stays where it belongs, we're expecting the front to cross the border late Friday. But it's a plodder. It won't reach us here in Lancaster County till Saturday.”

“Is the system carrying a lot of moisture?”

“No more or less than we would typically expect this time of year. Of course, this isn't a typical year. Even a tenth of an inch would be a godsend.”

“Everybody out there in Channel 23 country is on pins and needles, Tom. What are the chances that we'll get rain this weekend?”

“It's only a preliminary estimate, but the National Weather Service has pegged the odds at twenty-five percent.”

“Twenty-five percent? That's all? Couldn't it go higher?”

“It could and it should. If the storm behaves normally, I would expect the odds to increase steadily over the next several days.”

“But you can't be sure.”

“It's the weather, Frank. Nobody can be sure.”

The anchorman turned and looked into the camera. “Thank you, Tom. That's great news. We now switch to Courtney Stockton, our roving reporter, who's live on the steps of the statehouse. Courtney, are you there?”

A sweaty, red-faced young girl with tousled blonde hair and a microphone appeared on screen and replied, “Yes, Frank.”

“What's the temperature out there, Courtney?”

“A hundred and six in the shade, but it feels like a hundred and sixty out here in the sun.”

“Wow! That's hot! What's the governor's reaction to the weather forecast?”

“It's still the middle of the night in Beijing. According to an aide, he won't be briefed for another three or four hours.”

“They're forecasting rain! It's headline news. Aren't they going to wake him up?”

“Not for several hours. I guess he had a hard night.”

“Okay. How about the usual ‘unnamed sources'? What are they saying?”

“They're split down the middle. About half believe that the governor is leaning toward a disaster declaration and the other half expect him to extend the trade mission to Japan.”

“Japan?”

“I'm just a reporter, Frank. I'm not responsible for his itinerary.”

“You do good work, Courtney. Come on back to the station. It's nice and cool here.” The scene shifted back to the studio news desk, where the young anchorman faced the camera. “Well, there you have it, folks, straight from the capitol. Rain has been forecasted for the first time in four months, and the governor is taking a detour to Japan. Sayonara for now, but don't touch that dial! For the latest in news, weather, and sports, stay tuned to Channel 23!”

A slick advertisement for a high-yield, low-moisture corn hybrid appeared on the TV just as Marie hit the off button. “Hot damn!” she exclaimed. “The rain's comin'. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe we won't need Mr. Moore after all.”

You know what I was thinking. I was thinking that Mr. Moore had caused the jet stream to shift to the south, but it sounded so outlandish that I didn't have the courage to say so. John Smith, my number one son-in-law, must have sensed my inner conflict. He grinned at me and said, “Rain on Saturday. Is it luck, or is it Mr. Moore?”

Just loud enough for everyone to hear, Pearline whispered, “It's a blasphemy.”

Chapter 20

 

A C
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M
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T
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of the Quilting Circle called while I was rooting around in Clem's giant-sized, double-door refrigerator for the pimiento cheese. Marie swore that nobody ate it except me, but the container kept disappearing from the cheese drawer. I had the same problem at home with my favorite hairbrush, which I accused Silas the Second of pilfering more than once.