The Widows of Eden (31 page)

That's what a woman likes to hear from a man. “I didn't get a wink,” I confessed. “The lord of the manor may have planned every detail of last night's ambush in advance, but he didn't spend five minutes thinking about the consequences of his trip to the hospital, like who was going to manage the manor or pay the bills while we're away. As soon as Marie and I get that sorted, I have to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with Clara and the Come Again.”

“A short-term solution may be easier than you think. She'd like to accompany you and Clem to Omaha.”

“She would? That's so brave! But are you sure she's up to it, Mr. Moore?”

“She'll be in your care, Wilma. She'll be fine.”

“Then I'll handle all the arrangements. Clement and I have to stop by this afternoon anyway. It's not like I packed a bag last night.” I don't know how other minds work, but mine jumps from one topic to another like it's got a mind of its own. Not packing a bag reminded me of the wedding, the wedding reminded me of the party, and the party reminded me of the widows.
“Are your friends still in town?” I added. “I enjoyed their company so.”

“They left this morning, but they wanted me to pass on their profuse thanks and their very best wishes. You have my credit card imprint. Send me the bill.”

“I could be living out of a shopping cart under the Nemaha Bridge and you couldn't pay me a dime, Mr. Moore, and I don't want to hear any arguments either. You need to save your breath for my husband. He's in the office waiting for you.”

“Fair enough. How's he feeling this morning?”

“He lost a rematch with the Béarnaise sauce and the blueberry pie in the middle of the night, but he's better now. I wouldn't call him cheery, though.” I gulped and added, “Did you have a chance to talk to Loretta this morning?”

“I did.”

“Then you're aware of how well informed he is, fully aware?”

Mr. Moore sighed. He didn't have to do that; I already knew he was unhappy with Lo and me. “I spoke to Loretta. Would you care to walk me down to Clem's office?”

As if I would even consider refusing. On the way, I tried to lighten up the conversation. “Did you ever see Silas the Second?” I asked.

“I didn't, but it was only a small disappointment, Wilma.”

“It was?”

“There are other gentle ghosts, and I have time. I'll meet one face-to-face someday.”

A thousand questions flooded into my mind just then, starting with, “Exactly how much time do you have?” But then the oddest thing happened: I discovered that all I wanted was the questions. I didn't know why — and it's not like the circumstance favored introspection — but in that instant I knew that I had had enough of answers.

We walked the last few steps to my husband's office in silence, and then I knocked on the door. From the other side, Clem hollered out, “It's open!”

Mr. Moore turned the knob and let himself in. From the hallway, I could see the groom sitting sideways behind his desk, cradling a long-barreled hunting rifle with a green khaki strap on his lap. That's not the sort of picture a bride wants to see, especially on the day before the big operation, but he looked up and waved. “Come on in. Take a load off.”

“Are you okay, honeypot? Can I bring you a cup of tea?”

“I'm fine. I might have an espresso later on, but I'm still a little queasy in the tummy right now. How about you, Vernon?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Then can you leave us to our own devices, Wilma? I'll call if I change my mind.”

“Just give a shout,” I replied. “I'll be close by.” I left the door open a crack and ran to the kitchen to retrieve Marie. It's not like I couldn't listen in myself, but that woman can hear a cat crossing a carpet during a Stones concert.

“Have you ever seen one of these?” Clem asked. “This little jewel is a .416-caliber Winchester Model 70 with a Zeiss scope. It's not the most expensive hunting rifle out there, but it's one of the best. I took down the bighorn and the elk in the dining hall with this gun, both at more than a hundred yards. Those were two of the finer shots of my life.”

“I wonder if the bighorn and the elk shared your opinion.”

“I don't believe they had opinions. That's why they're called animals. Pardon my manners, though. I had forgotten your distaste for the sport of hunting. Give me a minute while I put ol' 'Chester back on the rack.”

Mr. Moore observed, “You seem to be in a reflective mood this morning.”

“Should I be doing handsprings across the lawn? I'm about to be opened up like a goddamned watermelon. If you've already fixed me, I'd like to know right now. I'd be happy to skip the operation and work on my golf game instead.”

“Do you really think that that would be wise, Clem?”

“No, I don't. Since you won't give me any kind of guarantee, I believe that would be the second stupidest thing I could do.”

“The second stupidest?”

“Begs the question, doesn't it? If that's the second stupidest, then what's number one?”

“Putting Béarnaise sauce on your fries again?”

“Good answer! I'll never repeat that mistake; I promise you that. But the stupidest thing I could do is pay you seventy-five million dollars. Do you know why?”

Mr. Moore hesitated, then replied, “Presumably because I failed to persuade you that God is still with us.”

“You should give yourself more credit than that, Vernon. I wouldn't say I'm convinced, but I'm not convinced that He isn't on board either. That has to be a feather in your cap. What's more, I've upgraded my assessment of your ability to save my life.”

“You have? As I recall, you had me at one in three on Monday. What am I today?”

“Conservatively, two-to-one in my favor.”

“Then I'm confused, Clem. If your faith has doubled, then why don't we have a deal?”

“That, Vernon, is the seventy-five-million-dollar question. The answer is that I know what you intended to do with my money.”

“You do? How could you know that?”

“Because you told Loretta, and that was a bonehead mistake, by the way. Expecting that woman to keep a secret is like letting
a fox into the henhouse and expecting it to have creamed corn for dinner. It's contrary to the nature of the beast.”

“I didn't tell her, Clem. She guessed.”

My husband sat forward. “Then look me in the eye and tell me you didn't plan to give my money to the farmers. Go ahead.”

“What if I did? Why would you care? You don't need the money to support your elaborate lifestyle, and you'd still be leaving millions to your heirs.”

“Are you shittin' me, Vernon? Do you honestly believe that giving my money to those poor sodbusters would make a speck of difference? The family farm is finished in this part of the country; it's a relic of the past. The future is fuel-grade ethanol, but the only way we'll be able to compete against foreign producers is with economies of scale. A mom-and-pop farm is the opposite of economies of scale; it's the economics of futility. It's too much overhead, too little buying power, and a threadbare balance sheet wrapped into a puny, pea-pickin' package.”

“Why? What happens if the farms are no longer drowning in debt? What happens to their buying power? What happens to their staying power?”

“Are you really that naïve, or are you just plain innumerate? There is no goddamned way that you can emancipate the farmers in this county with a measly seventy-five million dollars. Ten years from now, maybe twenty, they'll all be back at the same trough and Hayes County will be out of the ethanol race. In the future, eastern Nebraska will be tilled by large, efficient corporations who can leverage scale from seed to silo to biofuel plant. It's the only way we can be relevant in the second half of the century.”

Mr. Moore didn't respond immediately, but then he said, “I'm starting to get the idea that you're not going to change your mind.”

“It's not a change of mind, Vernon; it's a reversal of strategy,
and a pisspoor reversal at that. Why the hell do you suppose I divested the trust of its tenant farmland three years ago, and why do you suppose I took over the National Bank of the Plains? I did it for one reason, and one reason only: to position the Tucker Trust, meaning my heirs, to benefit from a statewide shift to corporate ethanol production. Why in God's name would I consider spending even a dollar of my own money to defeat my own plan? It makes no sense to me at all. In fact, like I said, it would be the stupidest thing I could do.”

“But you're not writing off the family farm, Clem. You're writing off a way of life, and it's not just their way of life; it's yours. Hayes County is the womb that spawned seven generations of Tuckers. If you don't save it, then who will?”

“Excuse me for stating the obvious, but isn't that your department? Weren't you sent here to save us for the third goddamned time? Haven't you already asked for rain?”

That must have set Mr. Moore back on his heels. “What do you mean?”

“If I've got a handle on this divine intervention shit, then there are only two possibilities: either you're not in God's Bullpen and it doesn't make a damned bit of difference what you do; or you are and you just might have an impact. I was on the fence until last night — when Wilma told me what you were going to do with my money. That convinced me that you're one of God's right arms after all, and nothing I've heard this morning has given me cause to change my mind. You see where I'm headin', don't you?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“If you're really a man of God, then my money is immaterial; it's a nonissue. You've already asked for rain and you've already asked for my life. That's why the weather forecast changed, isn't it? And it's why I feel so much better, too.”

“I can't take any credit for either, Clem.”

“I've been payin' attention, Vernon; I got that part. What I don't understand is why you didn't ask me to write you a check on day one. You were in the hunt until I found out what you were goin' to do with the money.”

“I needed time to put God back into your life,” Mr. Moore answered. “I thought you'd be more amenable to a contribution if your faith in God was restored.”

“A contribution? Jesus, Vernon! Did it ever enter your mind that seventy-five million dollars was a bit pricey for a goddamned contribution?”

“Not considering the source, and not considering the scale of the problem. It would save hundreds of farms.”

“I'll tell you what will save hundreds of farms: some measurable goddamned precipitation. Is it gonna rain or not? The forecast was down this morning.”

“I don't know.”

“Then you don't know if I'm going to survive the operation either, do you?”

“I'm just like you, Clem. Sometimes I get what I ask for; sometimes I don't.”

My new husband smiled. “You're an interesting man, Vernon, but we're no more alike than chalk and cheese, you and me. I'd be pleased to look as good as you when I'm pushing a hundred, though. If you could put in an extra word, I'd be very grateful.”

“Really? How grateful would you be?”

The rest of the conversation was drowned out by two of Dot's cruisers, which pulled into the front courtyard one after the other with sirens on full howl. I ran to the foyer and threw open the door to see the sheriff and Pokie emerging from their respective
vehicles, one to admire Clem's Porsche, the other to admire John Smith.

Dottie turned to me and said, “Congratulations, Wilma! The news is all over town. I'd give you a hug, but it'll have to wait. We've come for your famous lodger.”

“Oh no! He's still in with Clem. You're not going to throw him in jail, are you?”

“Hell, no! He's got an appointment with the lieutenant governor at noon. We've got to get him to the county line by eleven o'clock.”

“The lieutenant governor?”

“I'm just a poor civil servant, Wilma. I have no idea what that man is up to now. All I know is that I have to escort him to the county line.”

From behind, I heard Mr. Moore say, “It's okay. Clem and I have completed our business. I'm ready to go.”

I turned. “You have? You're all done?”

“Yes?”

“Did you make a deal?”

“You should discuss that with your husband.”

“But Mr. Moore …”

“I have to go with Sheriff Hrnicek and Deputy Melhuse. Please keep an eye on Laverne and Loretta for me. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to contact Marion.”

What's a girl to do? As I began to well up, he took me in his arms and whispered, “I love you, Wilma. I'll miss you more than you could possibly know.”

I tried to hold him, but he slipped from my grasp and was halfway across the courtyard before I could blubber out a farewell. “Good-bye, Vernon,” I cried.

He waved one last time before he got into his car, and then
Dottie led him away with Pokie bringing up the rear, sirens screaming and red-white-and-blue cherry poppers flash-dancing across the roof.

As they took off in a cloud of dust, I heard Marie shout above the din, “I'm so sorry, Wilma. The deal fell through. Clem didn't buy it.”

Chapter 37

 

S
OMETHING
O
LD

I
AM
A
COUNTRY
GIRL
. I don't typically have difficulty dealing with the harsher realities of life, but I was in the Marianas Trench of denial that day: I couldn't believe that I had married Clem Tucker on the spur of the moment after a four-year engagement; I refused to concede that Mr. Moore had left us again, possibly forever; I couldn't understand why my husband had turned down his help, no matter what the price was; and I couldn't face the possibility that I might be a widow in less than twenty-four hours. So I just stood there in the doorway staring at nothing in particular, while saline tears trailed down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth.