The Widows of Eden (20 page)

“Can't I come?”

“No. It's too hot. I'll put on
Dora the Explorer
.”

Birdie departed after a last good-bye, but Marion waited for Loretta and they left the house together. The Dolphin was idling by the curb with the door open. Lo said she could see the cool, moist air rolling down the steps into the heat, like mists of tumbleweed down a terraced hillside.

“What did you tell Lovey back in the library?” she asked.

“To confide in her mother and her godmother before all others.”

“Is that all? I guess I wasn't expecting to hear the word ‘auntie.'”

“Forgive me, dear, but it seemed so preferable to ‘widow' at the time.”

“You're forgiven,” Lo said. “Can I ask a confidential question? I have no right …”

Marion touched her forearm and answered, “There was another; long ago in a distant, arid place. We were never introduced, but I can tell you that she was an intelligent, dark-skinned beauty with enormous intellect and spirit. Does that sound familiar?”

“Yeah. Thanks for building up my self-esteem. I had hoped that I was a poor country cousin to the one who got away.”

“Come, come. Are we speaking of the same Vernon Moore? Which was more likely: was she the one who got away, or was he?”

“Did she bear his child?”

“No. If it makes you feel any better, you're quite alone in that regard.”

“Will he ever return to Ebb?”

Marion took a step backward. “Think it through, dear. What do the people of Ebb expect from Vernon this week?”

“That's easy. They expect him to make it rain.”

“If, indeed, it does rain, then what will they want next time?”

Lo's hand came up to her mouth for the second time. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “They'll want even more. He'll never get a moment's peace.”

“Then what must he do if he wants to return to Ebb?”

“It's so clear! He has to fail, doesn't he?”

“So it would seem. I'm very sorry, but so it would seem.”

When Loretta went inside, she found my cute little goddaughter sitting splay-legged on the rug in the entryway. Angrily, she pronounced, “Poppy's coming! For me!”

Chapter 21

 

T
HE
F
ARMER
'
S
R
ETIREMENT
P
LAN

C
ONNIE
K
IMBALL
OWNED
a florist shop on the south side of Main next door to the Corn Palace, the town watering hole. Long ago, she learned that she could do a brisk business by staying open until nine p.m. on Friday and Saturday nights so that late, overlubricated husbands could pick up some flowers for the missus on the way home.

Dean Kimball, Connie's father, was a farmer until he retired, by keeling over from a heart attack in the north forty on the day before his eighty-eighth birthday. That's how a lot of farmers retire in this part of the country, and their wives are barely better off. Marta was eighty-five herself when Dean passed on, wheelchair-bound and suffering from mild dementia. But the closest nursing home was forty miles away and as dear as a big city hotel, so Connie took her in.

Caring for a lonely, scared, feeble, confused, incontinent, and immobile parent is like caring for a small child, only ten times harder and complicated by the fact that they never go to school. Poor Connie could barely cope, and her business began to suffer because her mother required so much attention. That's why she hoped to see Mr. Moore.

Marta was asleep in the back office when Birdie Fabian entered
the store. Connie was at the counter out front, trimming stems and humming to herself. “Can I help you?” she asked, as her customer stopped to admire a climate-controlled display of sunflowers and dahlias.

“I've heard such glowing reports about your arrangements,” Birdie replied. “Could you make up a bouquet for a dinner party tomorrow night? It's a gift for the host, but I have no idea what might be suitable for the occasion.”

Connie extended her hand over the counter. “We haven't met. I'm Connie Kimball.”

“Everybody calls me Birdie. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Besides being a true artist, Connie is no slouch in the IQ department. “The buzz says that one of Mr. Moore's widow friends was at the River House today. Might that have been you?”

“It was my partner, Eloise, but we've all been invited back for dinner. Given our host's unfortunate diagnosis, I'd think the bouquet should be lovely and gay. Don't you?”

“Gay?”

“Happy, cheerful. Can you arrange a nice one for us?”

“Sure. Sure I can. How much do you want me to spend?”

Birdie reached into her purse, a worn leather item with a beaded strap, and pulled out a crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill. “Is this enough? I'd like it sent over tomorrow afternoon.”

In Ebb, Benjamin Franklin is a dead inventor and a hundred dollars is made up of three twenties, three tens, a five, and five crinkled-up ones. Connie held the bill up to the light, then put it in the register. “Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of it.”

“Good. Let your imagination run wild, and spend every penny. I understand that you asked Mr. Moore to visit your mother. Is that her in the back room? Is she asleep?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I'm sorry, dear. He wanted to stop by in person but he won't
be able to make it. So many others have asked to see him, and his time is very short.”

“So my mom isn't important enough for Mr. Moore. Is that what you're saying?”

“It's so exasperating, isn't it? Everyone he's been unable to visit in person has had the same question, and I can't think of a good answer. Do you have any ideas? What would you say if you were in my position?”

Connie mumbled, “Gee. I don't know.”

“Maybe it would be easier if he didn't see anyone. Then no one would feel any more or less important than anyone else. Should I advise him to do that?”

There was no reply, so Birdie said, “What were your expectations, dear? In a perfect world, what would you want Mr. Moore to do?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't?”

“He's Mr. Moore. I was just hoping that he could help my mom.”

“Alright. Then perhaps your mother can point us in the right direction. What does she want more than anything else?”

After a second or two, Connie replied, “It sounds kinda weird, but Mom says that World War II was the best time of her life. She worked double shifts for a cannery in Lincoln and shared a small apartment with three friends. On weekends, they'd go to the USO and dance with the GIs. In a perfect world, she'd want to be young again, with her friends, dancing at the USO.”

“Oh my! Is that what you expected? Did you expect Mr. Moore to turn back the clock?”

Again, Connie hesitated. “No, but he can work miracles, can't he?”

“That's the prevailing theory,” Birdie whispered. “Between
you and me, he has a little trouble with time travel, though. It's not his best category.”

“Then can he at least make my mom feel better?”

“How, dear? What would you have him do?”

“Oh my, there are so many ways. Mom refuses to eat half the time because she can't control her bathroom functions. I try to tell her otherwise, but the accidents embarrass her to death. She can't walk because of her hips; she can't even enjoy the TV because she doesn't hear anymore. I bought her a fifteen-hundred-dollar hearing aid last year but she lost it. Now, she won't let me buy another one because they're so expensive. In her mind, a car should cost that kind of money.”

“I share your mother's respect for a dollar, but it's been a long time since a decent automobile cost only fifteen hundred of them. If she doesn't want a new hearing aid, what is she saying to you? Does she really want to get better, or does she want something else?”

Connie did her best to resist, but a lone tear escaped an eye and ran down her cheek.

Birdie said, “Take your time. It's just you and me. There's no rush.”

“Mom's lonely,” Connie said softly, fighting back a sniffle. “She loves me, but she misses Dad and she's outlived all her friends. In a way, she even misses herself. She wants God to take her so she can be with Dad and her friends; so she can be young again.”

Birdie sighed. “Isn't life unfair? Either we die too young or we live to be so old that we prefer the black uncertainty of death to the loneliness and indignities of diminished capacity. Does your mother know who Vernon is? Is she aware?”

“Sure. Everyone does.”

Birdie took one of two small white envelopes out of her purse
and laid it on the counter. “He asked me to give this to your mother.”

“It's from Mr. Moore? Why didn't you say so?”

“It's for your mother, Connie. How is her vision? Can she read?”

“It's odd that you would ask. Mom had corrective surgery when they removed her cataracts. Nothing else works in that beat-up old body of hers, but her eyes are perfect.”

“Then let her see it first. Do you promise?”

Connie looked down at the sealed envelope, then replied, “Okay. I promise. Before you go, did you hear about the weather forecast?”

“I did, and I'm very hopeful.”

“Would you thank Mr. Moore? For me? For everybody?”

“He's a hard man to thank, dear, and it hasn't rained yet.”

“It will. I'm certain it will.”

Connie did her best to be patient after Birdie left, but she had a devil of a time keeping her word. The second Marta awoke, she brought her the note.

“From Vernon Moore?” her mother said. “For me?”

She opened the envelope with care, as if it was made of old-fashioned rice paper. Inside, she found a simple greeting card with dancing yellow-and-gold monarch butterflies painted in watercolor on the front. The message read:

My Dearest Marta:

You should fear death no more than a caterpillar fears a cocoon. Your days as a butterfly are still to come, and they are far from numbered.

Vernon L. Moore

As far as we know, Birdie never gave the second envelope to anybody.

Chapter 22

 

E
DEN

A
ROUND
SUNDOWN
, B
UFORD
P
ICKETT
put in a telephone call to my Fiancé in Perpetuity. Clem was in the media room at the time, enjoying a Reuben sandwich with extra Russian dressing and onion rings on the side. All of a sudden, the man had a cast-iron stomach. He snatched the phone from Marie and said, “You're right on time. What have you got?”

“You're not gonna believe it, Mr. Tucker.”

“Uh oh! This isn't more of that World War II bullshit, is it?”

“Well, yes and no, sir. None of the widows was with Joan of Arc like you said, but the story is just as unbelievable.”

“Just as unbelievable? Jesus Christ, Buford! I was kidding about Joan of goddamned Arc! I want facts, not a bunch of bullshit. You're gonna put me off my onion rings, and then I'll be pissed as hell. I'm a sick man. I need to eat my vegetables.”

“Would you prefer that I call again later, sir?”

“You're damned right I would. Call when you've got hard data. When will that be?”

“It's up to you, Mr. Tucker. We can talk again tomorrow, but the facts will be the same and another day will have passed us by. What do you want to do?”

“All right, goddammit! Give me what you've got, and straight
from the hip, please. I'd like to finish my dinner before it turns ice cold.”

“I'll start with Bertha Fabian …”

“Eloise Richardson came to see me today. Give me the poop on her first.”

“The data on Ms. Richardson is more persuasive if I begin with Bertha Fabian.”

“Start with Eloise anyway. What have you got?”

“Okay, sir. You're the boss. Richardson is a common name but Eloise is as old-fashioned as they come. Extensive Internet searches yielded only two viable candidates. Neither could be alive today, but one met an interesting end.”

“Okay, Buford. I'll bite. How did she die?”

“She was killed in World War II when her plane went down in the Pacific, between Guadalcanal and Bougainville.”

“Guadalcanal? Bougainville? I'll be damned! It's Vernon Moore, the sequel! What in God's name was a woman doing out there?”

“She was a nurse, sir.”

The phone went dead, then Clem said softly, “An army nurse?”

“Yessir. That's all I could find.”

“When did she die exactly?”

“May eighteenth, 1944.”

“Wasn't that about the time that Vernon's plane went down?”

“The
Lady Be Good
went down in April of 1943, sir, but Mr. Moore's body was never recovered. Lt. Richardson's wasn't either.”

“Is that a coincidence, Buford, or is it a recurring theme? My gut is telling me that it's the latter.”

“As usual, your intuition is on the button, sir. Shall I move on?”

Clem grabbed an onion ring and took a bite. “Shoot.”

“Bertha Fabian was culled from the same herd. A four-hour search on half a dozen Internet engines produced exactly one hit.”

“I'm on the edge of my chair. What have you got?”

“She and her secondhand store perished in the San Francisco fire of 1906. The records are unclear, but it appears that her body was never recovered.”

“Did you say 1906? This is goddamned interesting, Buford! It's like the dating game for ghosts and ghouls. And who, pray tell, is in casket number three?”

“Marion Meanwell. Only one verifiable candidate showed up after hours of searching. She was a third-class passenger on the
Titanic.
”

“The
Titanic
! Don't tell me. She drowned and her body was never recovered.”