The Widows of Eden (30 page)

“By ship? Do you have a particular ship in mind, dear? I have a sense that you do.”

“The
Titanic.
”

“Well, well, well. Someone's been doing their homework, haven't they? It is true: an Englishwoman by my name did perish on the
Titanic;
a milliner traveling third-class. Many of the lifeboats
were already at sea when the third-class passengers made it topside, or so I've been told. It must have been heartbreaking.”

“You didn't answer my question, Marion.”

“I'm sorry, dear, but I mustn't. It would be against the rules.”

“Against whose rules? Lohengrin's Children?”

“Of course. Isn't that what we've been discussing all along?”

The conversation was cut short by the return of Mr. Moore and Laverne, who was riding high on her Poppy's shoulders. He kneeled to the ground so she could dismount, then she stuck out her lower lip and said, “Auntie Clara cried.”

“She did? Is she okay? Should Mommy go upstairs?”

Mr. Moore replied, “It would be better if you left her alone. She'll be fine.”

“Then why was she crying?”

“Because Poppy's going away,” Laverne answered, pouting herself.

“She cried because you're leaving, Vern? What's going on between you two?”

“We're friends, and we've just said good-bye. I need to return a call before we head off to preschool. Is that a problem?”

Loretta frowned. “Not if you make it snappy, darlin', but don't think you're off the hook yet. I have more questions about you and Clara.”

While Mr. Moore was upstairs, Loretta and Laverne walked the Widow Marion out to her motor coach, where they said their fond farewells. There were no tears, whispered messages, or secret psychic handshakes as Loretta had feared. Marion was the proper English aunt, even a bit detached. I figure the widows were used to leaving people. Either that, or their husbands taught them detachment, just like mine taught me.

A
T
L
AVERNE
'
S
INSISTENCE
, Mr. Moore hoisted her up on his shoulders again for the short walk to preschool. As they left the shade of my porte-cochere and strolled down the driveway, Loretta remarked, “It feels odd, doesn't it? Only a few hours ago, Wilma's parking lot was cheek-to-jowl with giant RVs. Now it looks so empty. Will they ever be back?”

“Auntie Marion will,” Laverne said from high on the saddle.

“When, Lovey?”

“I dunno. Giddyup, Poppy! Go faster!”

Mr. Moore picked up the pace, but Loretta grabbed his elbow. “Don't you even think about it, Vern. Lovey's school is only a few blocks away and I have questions.”

Mr. Moore dutifully slowed down. Laverne said, “Phooey!”

“That's better. Now, what's the deal between you and Clara? Should I be jealous? And don't tell me she's too old. Some folks say you're old enough to be her father.”

“Is that so? I take it that the
Lady Be Good
theory has resurfaced.”

“It has, but don't tell me your real age, for God's sake. It would scare me to death. I just want the skinny on Clara.”

“There's no mystery, Lo. If her brother dies, Clara will become the controlling shareholder in the Tucker Trust. She had to be prepared for the possibility, but Clem was too ill to take care of it himself so I stepped in on his behalf.”

“Of course you did. Why'd I even ask? Are you stopping at the River House on your way out of town?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I have a little tidbit of information you'll need before you see Clem.” Myself, I would have beaten around the bush, but Loretta just blurted it out. “He knows about your plan to give the money to the farmers.”

Mr. Moore stopped in his tracks and turned to face Loretta.
“That was pure speculation, Lo,” he said through gritted teeth. “I never said a word.”

“Which means you didn't deny it either. I broke my promise and told Wilma, and she broke her promise and told Clem, just like you said she would. It was my fault, Vern. I should have listened, but I thought it would help Wilma understand what you've been up to all week.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No, of course not.”

Laverne pulled on Mr. Moore's white mane and said, “Giddyup, Poppy! I have to go to preschool!”

As they resumed their journey, Mr. Moore asked, “How did Clem react? Did you get any feedback from Wilma?”

“She said that the deal is all but dead.”

“Dead?”

“Her words, not mine, and I disagree anyway. Did you see the weather report this morning?”

“No. I haven't checked.”

“The odds of rain are down to twenty-five percent, darlin'. If your deal with Clem is on the rocks, then why aren't they going up? Have you lost your touch?”

They turned the corner of Third and Pea just then and Laverne shouted, “Whoa, horsey! There's my preschool! You have to let me down, Poppy!”

Hayes County Elementary is a one-level cement and glass structure with a flat gravel roof and exterior hallways. The grade school was closed for the summer, but the kindergarten and preschool remained open year round for the convenience of working mothers. A thin, yellow haze hung over the grounds when the three arrived, but it was cool enough in the early morning for laughing little children to play on the swings, the slide, and the jungle gym.

Laverne pointed. “Those are my friends. Over there! I have to go.”

Mr. Moore put his daughter on the sidewalk ever so carefully, as if she was a bowl of soup that had been filled to the brim. “Will you do your best in preschool? Will you do what your mommy and daddy say?”

“I'll be a good girl, Poppy, but you better come back. If you don't, I'll get sick and you'll have to come.”

Loretta kissed her daughter on the top of her head. “Go and play with your friends, Lovey. I'll walk Poppy home.”

I guess my unusual lodger had flunked detachment class. “One last hug, sweetheart?”

Laverne held out her arms and Mr. Moore swept her up. He closed his eyes and squeezed and squeezed, until Lo touched his shoulder and said, “You have to let her go, Vern. You have to let her go.”

“Good-bye, Poppy,” Laverne whispered as he put her down, then a single tear trailed down her cheek. It was the first time she had cried — ever, since the day she was born. She felt the dampness with her index finger, then tasted it and looked up at her mother.

“It's just a tear. Now go. Go to your friends.”

“Will Poppy be okay?”

“He's our knight in shining armor, Lovey. He's invincible.”

Lo rarely underestimated Mr. Moore, but that was the exception. He put his hands on his knees and wept openly as his daughter ran away. Lo rubbed his neck for a few seconds, but then she took his hand and led him across the street. “Lovey can't see you like this, darlin'. She'll come back and you'll have to go through it all over again.”

“I don't suppose you have a Kleenex on you.”

“I'm sorry. That's Wilma's department. Be a man; use your sleeve.”

They stopped at the corner so that Mr. Moore could wipe his eyes. According to Lo, it took both sleeves.

“Lovey has never cried,” she said. “Did you know that?”

“No, but it was one tear.”

“Well, it was a start. Thank you for that. A girl has to cry.”

“Apparently, so do old men.” Mr. Moore inhaled deeply, then said, “We have to say good-bye here, Lo.”

She wasn't prepared for that. “Now? Why? I can walk you back to Wilma's. I can fix you a cup of tea.”

“An old man's heart won't stand another break. Please, let me go.”

“But I have more questions, Vern, a lot more.”

“And I have my last appointment with Clem. I can't be late, Lo; I have to go.”

“Then answer one more question. Just one more, for Lovey?”

No man can refuse a daughter, not even in the third person. “Okay,” he replied, “but please make it quick.”

Without a smidgen of hesitation, Loretta locked her eyes on Mr. Moore's and asked, “Did Marion and the other two widows suffer like you did?”

“Excuse me?”

“Everything started with the
Lady Be Good,
didn't it? You were lost in the desert for days, without a drop of water. Did the widows survive horrible, near-death experiences, too? And isn't that why you said that you'd never want Lovey to take the entrance exam?”

“That's more than one question, Lo, and I can't answer any of them.”

“Then let me try this another way. What was the point? Why was so much misery necessary? Was it a metaphor for Christ's suffering on the cross?”

Mr. Moore looked toward the horizon, as if he was thinking, “Funny; it didn't feel like a metaphor at the time.” Then he answered, “Are we speaking in theory?”

“Of course we are, darlin'. Isn't that how we always talk?”

Loretta swore that time froze for the next fifteen seconds. Nothing moved, not the trees, not the wind, not even the children at the playground. In the stillness, Mr. Moore said, “The theory is that a man or a woman who can endure impossible hardship must fully value the gift of life, and must thus be incorruptible.”

“So it is like Christ on the cross.”

“He was already incorruptible, Lo, and my time has passed. We have to say good-bye.”

Loretta knew that her time had passed, too, so she took Mr. Moore in her arms, right there on the corner of Third and Pea, and whispered, “You better come back. If you don't, I'll hunt you down like the scoundrel you are. Remember, I have Marion's number.”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you.” Time started up again, laughing children could be heard in the distance, and he turned and walked away.

Loretta waited until he was out of sight, and then she counted to twenty. When he didn't return, she crossed the street and took a seat on a green bench at the edge of the playground. Lulu Tiller, the town veterinarian, came by with a few of her dogs just before lunchtime. It was the one hundred and twenty-second consecutive day of the drought and steaming hot, but Lo was still there. I never asked her why, but I don't believe she was waiting for Laverne, or even for Mr. Moore. I believe she needed some time to herself before she could go back to her home with Calvin.

Chapter 36

 

A G
IFT
H
ORSE

J
OHN
S
MITH
WAS
WAXING
Clem's black-on-black Porsche 911 convertible in the shade of the garage when Mr. Moore arrived at the River House. To me, that car looked like a giant doodlebug on wheels, but Clem loved it with an unnatural ardor. Before he got in, he would run his finger up the fender from the headlight to the driver-side mirror, like he was caressing it, and then he would say, “Are you ready to rumble, baby doll?” One weekend last spring, my wagon was in the shop and John was off somewhere with the limo, so I asked Clem if I could take the Porsche into Ebb to see my friends. You'd think that I had asked the man to fry a Fabergé egg. In the end, he drove me to town himself, grumbling all the way.

John walked over to Mr. Moore's Mustang and opened the door. “Morning,” he said. “Mona tells me you're shipping out today. Is that so?”

“As soon as my meeting with Clem is over.”

“I'm sorry to hear it, Mr. Moore. The Old Man goes on the chopping block at oh seven hundred tomorrow. Is he gonna make it?”

“I hope so. I hope he comes through with a clean bill of health.”

“Me, too. That man will never be decorated for compassion, that's for sure, but I've seen worse. I don't suppose anybody told you where I was yesterday, did they?”

“No. Is it information I ought to have?”

“I was in Eden, Arizona, with Buford Pickett. We were investigating the widows.”

“Eden? I've never been. How was it?”

“It's a ghost town, but Buford half expected it. He told me on the flight down that the widows died years ago. One of 'em was on the
Titanic.
He says you died in World War II.”

“Is that so? How do I look for a corpse? Better than average?”

“For all I care, you could've caught a Minié ball in the Civil War, Mr. Moore. I'm not the kind of man who looks a gift horse in the mouth. Every day, my wife and I thank our lucky stars that you came here to help us, and so do our sons. If you ever need backup, anywhere in the world, just pick up the phone. I'll be on the next plane.”

John extended his hand. My unusual lodger shook it. “Thanks for the offer. I may take you up on it one day. How are the newly­weds this morning?”

“That's a good question. The Old Man has been in his office all morning with the door shut. Mom's in the kitchen with Marie …”

“Mom?”

“She may be the new duchess, but she's still my mother-in-law.”

“So she is. Doesn't that mean that the duke is your father-in-law, too?”

“I hadn't given it thought,” John answered, “but I guess it does. Maybe he'll take me to a ballgame after he's better.”

The TV was on when Mr. Moore walked into the kitchen, but
it was just background noise. Betwixt and between the twenty-nine congratulatory calls I had received from various Circle girls that morning, I was trying to explain to Marie that I had no intention of taking over the household cooking chores as long as she allowed me to bake every once in a while.

My erstwhile lodger took one look at Marie and asked, “Should I come back later?”

She sniffed, “Don't worry about me, Mr. Moore. I've been dicing onions for salsa. Can I make you a plate of huevos rancheros for brunch?”

“Thank you, but I've already eaten. I just wanted to check in before I see Clem. Tell me if I'm wrong, but it appears that the mistress of the house didn't get much sleep last night.”