The Widows of Eden (5 page)

“Hell no, of course not.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“You need to ask? Because it was my job; that's why.”

“Your job?”

“I thought you knew me, Vernon. I'm a Tucker. Like my father and his father, and his father before him, I dedicated my
life to the Tucker Trust. Not only that, I beat the crap out of all of them. I was the best damned custodian in family history, but now I'm ready to cash in.”

“Are you sure? You've never been a man of leisure. What will you do with all the extra time?”

“Well, I'd like to put a few more heads on the dining-hall wall, that's for sure, and I'd like to get my golf handicap back down to single digits. I want to return to Europe, too, and spend more time with Wilma. I might even write my memoirs; I haven't decided yet. All I can say for certain is that I need more time.”

“But you could've done all that years ago. Why didn't you?”

“Are you having trouble with your hearing today, Vernon? I'm the seventh Tucker in a direct line stretching back to 1815 and the fifth to control the Tucker Trust. It was my destiny. I fulfilled my goddamned destiny.”

“Destiny is a myth,” Mr. Moore asserted, almost coldly. “It doesn't exist.”

“What did you say?”

“You were deluding yourself if you believed you were fulfilling some kind of destiny. There's no such thing.”

Clem cleared his throat. “I don't normally like to think of myself as delusional, Vernon.”

“Perhaps, but destiny makes no sense. It would rob us of two of our greatest gifts: uncertainty and free will. A benevolent God would never take either away from us.”

“Whoa there, cowpoke. Did you just say ‘God'? What the hell has He ever done for anybody?”

“How about the creation of heaven and Earth? On the surface, that would seem to be a fairly significant gesture.”

“Okay, I'll give you that. I'll even give you Jesus, but what's He done in the last two thousand years? He never did a thing for me, that's for sure.”

“So you believe that God abandoned us. Is that what you think?”

“You're damned right I do. I've been making my way around this planet for nearly sixty years, and I've never seen even a shred of evidence to the contrary.”

“Then I'm confused. If God deserted us, who determined your destiny? Who turned the dials; who twisted the knobs; who kept you from straying off the chosen path?”

When my fiancé failed to respond, Mr. Moore carried on. “You're stuck, Clem. You believe that God has ignored us for two millennia, but you also believe in destiny. That's a clear contradiction, which is rarely a sign of a healthy belief system.”

My fiancé laughed, which caused him to cough again. “You can't be serious. All I remember from Bible school is one contradiction after another. We can argue about it all goddamned morning if you want, or we can discuss my offer. Are you interested or not?”

After a pause, Mr. Moore said, “I am, but I'm still stuck at contradiction. If God is gone, then how can you believe that I might be able to save your life?”

“Are you kidding? Have you ever met Lulu Tiller? That woman can talk to the animals; I've seen her do it. Mark Breck, Wilma's grandson, can multiply two four-digit numbers in his head, just like that. And then there's you, of course, and that's just the local talent. Go anywhere else and you'll find people who can pick up a musical instrument for the first time and play it like a virtuoso, people who can read minds, people who can talk to the dead, and people who can heal the sick by the laying on of hands. The list is endless, but the common denominator isn't God; it's people. Tell me if I'm wrong, but you're a person, you're right here in my bedroom, and you're widely reputed to
provide the exact service I need. Why in the world would I pray to a runaway God when I can pay you?”

Mr. Moore mulled over Clem's tirade, then he replied, “Fair enough. In light of your condition, I'm willing to make a counterproposal.”

“A counterproposal? Now we're making progress. Let's hear it.”

“If you and I can agree on price, I'll ask for your life instead of rain. How's that?”

“You said my life
or
rain. Why not both?”

“That's my business. Do you want the deal or not?”

The room was quiet for a while, then my fiancé said, “Do you have a price in mind?”

“No. I need to do a little research first.”

“Research? What the hell for? Are you writing a term paper? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly up to my chinny-chin-chin in spare time.”

“You're right. I'll have a price for you in the morning. How's that?”

“It's a deal. I'll see you tomorrow at the same time.” As Mr. Moore stood to leave, Clem added, “I'd invite you to stay for lunch, but I can't seem to hold anything down anymore. If you can squeeze in an early word, I'd give an arm and a leg if I could keep some of Marie's scrambled eggs in my stomach long enough to actually digest them.”

“An arm and a leg? For scrambled eggs?”

“Don't get any bright ideas, Vernon. I expect a fair price from you.”

“And you shall get one,” Mr. Moore replied. “See you tomorrow.”

I
N
CASE
YOU
HAVE
never met any, the rich are not like you and me. The rest of us keep telephones close by because we want to hear from our friends and family, but rich folks have a different point of view. To them, telephones are for calling others; not vice versa. That's why Clem quit carrying a mobile phone when he became chairman of the National Bank of the Plains, and why he wouldn't allow a telephone in his bedroom either. He claimed that they made him a slave to the whims of the hoi polloi, whoever they are.

As soon as Mr. Moore left the ranch, Clem instructed Pearline to fetch him the house phone. She was only able to hear half the conversation that followed, but I've been able to piece the rest of it together since. I may have had to fill in the odd gap, too, but that's something all of us writers have to do from time to time. I hope you understand.

The first thing she heard was, “Buford, this is Clem Tucker.”

Once upon a time, Buford Pickett was Clem's number two man. Some say he was Clem's hatchet man, but he became the general manager of the local branch when Clem took over the National Bank of the Plains up in Omaha. That's another way of saying that they grew apart. He replied, “It's nice to hear from you, sir. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, Buford. How the hell else would I feel? You'll never guess who just came by the River House to have a chat.”

“Vernon Moore.”

“You got the news?”

“From Lily last night. He had dinner with the colonel of the state police up in Lincoln. Did you hear about that?”

“No, but I'm glad they're getting along. Since you're so well informed, do you know why I called?”

“No, sir. I don't.”

“Then listen up. I need you to drop whatever you're doing and take another stab at finding out who Vernon Moore really is.”

“Excuse me, sir, but how can I do that? I lost my research associate when the bank was absorbed by NBP. They've got a whole department up in Omaha. Why don't you call them?”

“Pay attention, Buford. You have experience with this matter; I want you to handle it. John Smith will help. He's good at fieldwork.”

“But sir …”

“This isn't a discussion. If you're too busy, I can send one of those MBA whiz kids down from Omaha to run your shop for the rest of the week. How would that be?”

Buford Pickett is a balding, middle-aged man with a belly the size of Arkansas and the most pitiful taste in clothes you ever saw, but he is no country bumpkin, and only a country bumpkin would be stupid enough to refuse his boss's boss's boss's boss. He said, “Can you at least tell me why you're doing this, Mr. Tucker?”

“Confidentially, I just made Vernon a proposition that could end up costing me a boatload of money. Before I go through with it, I need to know who he really is, once and for all. And don't give me any bullshit about World War II, either. I want hard, verifiable facts.”

“Hard facts have never been easy to come by when Mr. Moore is concerned. It sounds like the state police won't be much of a help this time either.”

“Then you'll have to get creative, Buford. I'll expect a progress report tomorrow night. Are we clear?”

“Yessir, Mr. Tucker. Since I have you on the line, can I ask a question?”

“As long as you keep it neat. Shoot.”

“How much do you think the Bowe place is worth?”

“Rufus Bowe's place?”

“Yessir.”

“Why in God's name are you asking me? I've been out of the business for three years. When have you ever needed my help with a valuation anyway?”

“The auction closes on Friday, sir, but we have only two bids and they're way too low. Neither will cover the mortgage balance.”

“Can you spell ‘drought,' Buford?”

“Yessir, I can.”

“How about ‘aquifer depletion'? Can you spell that?”

“My spelling isn't the problem, sir. If I can't find another bidder, the branch will have to book a loss on the loan.”

“Okay, so now we're down to brass tacks. How many more of your mortgages are in the same boat?”

“I'm sending out a dozen foreclosure notices at the end of the month, rain or no rain. I'll probably mail another twenty at the end of August.”

“If that many of your farms are in trouble, how much profit do you expect to net this year?”

“None, sir, obviously.”

“Well, then. If I was you, I'd be thinking about cutting my losses.”

“But I am, Mr. Tucker. That's why I thought you might be interested in picking up the Bowe place. I'd break even on the roll-over if you paid seventy percent of fair market.”

“Jesus, Buford! I'm on death's goddamned doorstep. Even if I wasn't, I'm a banker now. I'd rather buy scabs and boils than one more acre of friggin' farmland. In case you haven't noticed, nobody else wants it either; not in the middle of a goddamned
drought. You need to start cutting your losses, and right now. Do you get my meaning?”

“Yessir, I do. What you're saying is very clear.”

“Good. Are we done?”

“Yes, sir. It was a pleasure to talk to you again, just like always.”

Chapter 6

 

T
HE
W
ISHBONE
D
EFENSE

E
BB
IS
USUALLY
such a colorful little town, but it was all shades of brown during the drought: the land, the trees, the buildings, the people, even the air. Dust particles stuck to everything, especially pant-legs and shoes, and they were so darned fine that they had the confounding ability to pass through shut windows and doors. I had to dust and vacuum nearly every day.

Beryl Williams came to the front door while I was vacuuming the Persian carpet in my parlor. The years had been kind to that old rug, but not to her. Her spindly gray hair had passed thin and proceeded on to sparse, deep lines marked her cheeks and forehead, and purplish age spots dotted the paper-thin skin on her hands. Even in the summer, she wore a lavender, hand-me-down cardigan over hunched, tired-out shoulders.

Long ago, Beryl's son fell out of the bed of his daddy's pickup truck while they were turkey hunting in the Sand Hills out west. The fall knocked him out cold and made him vomit afterwards, but her husband wouldn't go to a doctor until he got a turkey to bring home. By then, the poor boy had suffered permanent brain damage. He spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in the hospital and never returned to school. After his parents split up, a cousin gave him a job at his auto repair shop, where he acquired the
nickname “Flathead.” In later years, he drove the town snowplow and did odd jobs for the fire department, but he never left his mother's care.

“Can you come in for some tea?” I asked.

“Oh no,” Beryl replied. “I mustn't stay. I dropped by to have a word with Mr. Moore. Is he in?”

“Not at the moment. Can I give him a message?”

“I was hoping he could see my boy. Do you think he would?”

“It's not up to me to say what Mr. Moore will or won't do, but I'd be happy to inquire on your behalf. Would that be alright?”

“That would be very nice, Wilma. Thank you.” Just before she turned to leave, Beryl reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out a pretty red apple, which she handed to me.

That was so sweet, but all I could see in my mind's eye was a line of Beryls and Connies and Danas and Caseys that stretched two-by-two from my front door to Main Street. One of Dot's deputies was directing traffic around the procession, and street concessionaires were selling lemonade and cotton candy and big straw hats to ward off the sun.

I closed the door and turned on the phone just long enough to call Hail Mary Wade, the Queen Bee, but she wasn't even remotely interested in Beryl and my sad tale of woe. She had just heard about Mr. Moore's “Clem-or-rain proposition” from Lily Park Pickett, who had heard it from Marie Delacroix, who had heard it directly from Pearline O'Connor. Since I'd been out of touch all morning, it was a fierce shock to me. After Mary filled me in, we determined that I would confirm Lily's report with Mr. Moore, and then we would let the Circle board of governors decide what to do.

Mr. Moore showed up in my kitchen while I was slicing apples for two crumble-crust apple pies: one for Beryl and one for my guests. I put down my paring knife and said, “I am so relieved to see you. We have to talk.”

He gave me a kiss on the cheek and sat down at my table. “Relieved? About what? Have your friends stopped calling about the drought?”