The Widows of Eden (6 page)

“It's just the opposite, Mr. Moore. I can't turn on my phone or check my e-mail anymore. People are even coming to my door. They all want to talk to you, and not just about the weather. Most have other problems, too. What can I tell them?”

“I apologize for being so much trouble, Wilma. Would you like me to find a room elsewhere?”

“Good heavens, no! You're right where you belong. I just need a little direction, that's all. What do I tell these people?”

“Perhaps I'm the one who needs direction. What would you like to say?”

“I know you can't fix everybody's particular problem, but can I at least say that you're going to pray for a good, old-fashioned gully-washer? That couldn't do any harm, could it?”

Mr. Moore thought it over for a while, then he said, “I'd rather you didn't.”

“Why?” I asked innocently.

“Because I made a deal with Clem.”

I laid my hand across the top of my bosom and exclaimed, “A deal? With my Clem? What kind of deal?”

“I promised that I would ask for rain or his life at the end of the week. The decision could go either way, so I can't say for sure that I'll ask for rain.”

I shook my head, which I've done a lot around Mr. Moore over the years. “My gracious Lord. Clem made you an offer, didn't he?”

“Yes.”

“How much? How much money did he offer to pay you?”

“We didn't discuss specifics, but I agreed to consider his request.”

“I can't believe you'd take Clem's money, Mr. Moore. That's not like you. That's not like you at all.”

Mr. Moore frowned. “I haven't agreed to take a penny, Wilma, but his money could prove to be a factor in my decision. Besides, I thought you wanted me to help him.”

“I do, but not this way. Can't you just forget about the money and pray for rain
and
Clem's life?”

He replied, “Do you ever keep the wishbone from a chicken?”

That's like asking a country girl if she takes a pocketknife on a first date. “Lo and I have a home-and-home series, but you know what? Ever since you brought her back, she seems to get the big piece all the time.”

“Then why risk losing, Wilma? Why not pull both ends of the wishbone yourself? Aren't you sure to get your wish?”

“But, but … It's not the same thing, is it?”

“You're right; it's not. Uncertainty is the spice of life, and a deal is a deal.”

“You won't change your mind?”

“No.”

“Oh dear!” I moaned. “What am I to tell the Circle?”

“Tell them what I'm going to tell Clem: to have faith.”

“I'm supposed to tell them to have faith?”

Mr. Moore became reflective for a minute, then he said, “Clem believes that God abandoned him somewhere along the way. That's no way for anyone to feel, especially a man who may be terminally ill. Between now and the end of the week, I'm going to try to sell him some faith. Perhaps you can sell some faith to the Quilting Circle, too.”

“The women of the Circle have plenty of faith in God, Mr. Moore. It's their faith in you that has me worried.”

“Don't. If their faith is in God, which is where it belongs, then I'm off the hook.”

Some people are good at starting conversations and others are good at ending them. It is my impression that I have a talent for the former and Mr. Moore is a kung fu black belt at the latter, so I did what any good hostess would do: I fixed him a ham sandwich. While he ate, I rolled the dough for the pie shells and we talked about Winona, my younger daughter. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Council Bluffs, just across the river from Omaha, but her marriage is more like an uneasy détente than a loving alliance. I wonder how much longer it can last.

Near the end of his lunch, Mr. Moore said, “Have you seen Silas the Second lately?”

I believe I mentioned that Silas II built the Come Again after the Civil War and has haunted the place on a irregular basis ever since. “He stopped by last spring when I had the air-conditioner replaced, but I haven't seen boo of him since. Maybe he doesn't care for the heat.”

“I'm sympathetic. Is there some way we might be able to induce him to visit?”

“I can't say, Mr. Moore. As I recall, you tried a note last time, but that didn't work. Silas is normally more interested in the Come Again itself, as if he is keeping track of his investment. If I was to add a bathroom or put up new siding, I'm sure he would show up.”

“I don't suppose you can think of something a bit less substantial?”

“Not off the top of my head, but maybe your widow friends will draw him out. Every Tucker in the line has fancied himself a ladies' man. Maybe old Silas will take to them.”

“Maybe so,” Mr. Moore agreed. He thanked me for his meal — he has always been the politest person — and then he went off to see Laverne and Loretta. After he was gone, I put the pies in the oven and phoned Hail Mary to corroborate Lily's report. I
should have seen it coming; she called an emergency meeting of the Quilting Circle board of governors.

L
ORETTA
WAS
WEARING
blue denim jeans and a pink knit top that revealed an inch of midriff when she met Mr. Moore at the door of the Angles House. I swear: Calvin Klein patterns his jeans after her bottom. It's a tad irritating.

“Hello, Lo,” my famous lodger said cheerily. “Can Laverne come out and play?”

“In this heat? Don't be silly. Come on back. She's having an after-school snack in the kitchen.”

Laverne was eating a peanut butter sandwich at a little, green turtle table next to the kitchen counter. When she saw her other father, she jumped up and yelled, “I said you were coming but Mommy made me finish my sammich!”

Mr. Moore picked her up and gave her a huge hug. “She just wanted me to herself for a minute. How was school today, sweetheart?”

“It's only preschool. Can you stay? Mommy has a
meaning
.”

“I got a call from Hail Mary Wade not two minutes ago,” Loretta explained. “She's convening an emergency meeting of the board. I don't suppose you know why.”

“I don't, but I'd be thrilled to sit with Laverne, even grateful.”

“Nice try, Vern, but you're not getting off the hook that easily. The meeting is about you. According to Hail Mary, you've made some sort of pact with the devil. Is that right?”

“Hmmm. I did reach an agreement in principle with Clem, but it's personal. I can't see why it would be worth an emergency meeting.”

“That's not what I heard. I heard that you agreed to ask for rain or Clem's life at the end of the week. That's from two separate and unimpeachable sources, by the way. The same two
sources say that Clem offered you a king's ransom, and not for rain.”

“That isn't quite right, Lo. Clem and I discussed money, but only briefly. No sums were mentioned.”

“But the rest of the story is true.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Why? You were never a slow-witted man, Vernon Moore; don't start now. The people in this town have faith in you. If they hear about your deal with Clem, they'll be mystified. They'll be hurt; they'll be afraid you abandoned them when they needed you most.”

“How about you, Loretta? Is that how you feel?”

“Well, you can file me under ‘mystified,' darlin', that's for sure. I have no idea why you'd make a deal like that with anybody, much less a man like Clem Tucker. Even Wilma is baffled, and he's her Fiancé in Perpetuity. What do his illness and his money have to do with the county's need for rain?”

“They just do. That's all I can say.”

“Well, it's a heck of coincidence, that's for sure.”

“A coincidence? How?”

Loretta never went to college, but she reads incessantly and she has the vocabulary of two English professors. She said, “‘Clement' is a word, Vern. It means ‘fair' or ‘mild,' as in the weather, but we need rain, which is ‘inclement' weather. This deal is a clash of perfect opposites: Clement, or inclement. Was that intentional, or not?”

“They're just words …”

“Can we play, Daddy?” Laverne pleaded. “I have a big, pink castle in my room. You can take it apart and put it together again, like a puzzle.”

Mr. Moore gave his daughter another squeeze. “There's nothing I'd like better, sweetheart. When will you be back, Lo?”

My best friend heaved a deep sigh, then she said, “It's an emergency meeting. It could last one hour or six. I'll give you a call if we haven't adjourned by five.”

“No problem.”

“Laverne can have juice while I'm gone, but no pop or junk food. Is that clear, soldier?”

Mr. Moore saluted. “Yes, ma'am. You can count on me, ma'am.”

Loretta bent down and gave Laverne a kiss. “See you later, alligator.”

My little goddaughter replied, “After a while, crocodile.”

She is the sweetest child.

Chapter 7

 

T
HE
C
IRCLE
P
URCHASES AN
U
MBRELLA
P
OLICY

T
HE
HEAT
IN
N
EBRASKA
is generally accompanied by intolerable humidity, but that was not the case during the season of the drought. The downtown air was as dry as old bones, and deathly quiet because the bugs and birds had migrated to Mississippi. It was the only summer in living memory that you could drive down a Hayes County road without getting bug juice all over the windshield. Instead, your car got covered in dust.

My panama hat notwithstanding, I practically melted into a puddle on my walk to the Abattoir, where we hold our Quilting Circle meetings. If you have ever had a job in the meatpacking industry, you might be aware that “abattoir” is a pretty French word for slaughterhouse. We bought the place for pennies on the dollar after Old Man Jenkins declared bankruptcy and remodeled it for our purposes. The general meeting area is where the main floor butchery once was. A conveyor belt used to run across the ceiling and some of the old hardware is still in place. We hang Christmas lights and ornaments from it during the season.

Both bathrooms are for women now, although we left a urinal for the janitor. For all their hunting prowess, some men cannot hit a toilet from two feet. Old Man Jenkins's corner office was
converted into our boardroom, complete with an elliptical, oak-veneered conference table, eight matching chairs, and a sideboard made of genuine, aged oak. In my opinion, the sideboard makes the other furniture look cheap, but I wasn't on the decorating committee when it was acquired.

Hail Mary Wade, the Queen Bee, and Dottie Hrnicek were already seated when I arrived. Mary is a diminutive, fast-talking woman who dresses in expensive Ann Taylor suits and high heels. She took a quick glimpse at my limp hair and sweat-soaked armpits and said, “There's a new invention, Wilma. It's called a horseless carriage. These days, they come with another cool invention called air conditioning. I recommend both this time of year.”

“You drove here from the county courthouse? It can't be five blocks.”

“It's more like ten when you factor in the heat index, and I'm in heels. I rode over with Dottie. Hang on; Lily is bringing lemonade.” Lily Park Pickett is Buford's wife. She has been the treasurer of the Quilting Circle for eight years running, and she represents the Circle on the board of Millet's Department Store along with Hail Mary.

“Where are Loretta and Bebe?” I asked. Bebe Palouse is the general manager of Millet's and the best-dressed woman in the Circle, Hail Mary included.

“They're on the way,” Dot answered. “While we're twiddling our thumbs, what's this I hear about some acquaintances of Vernon's coming to town? I thought he worked alone.”

“They're widows. Mr. Moore says they want to meet his friends.”

“Widows, huh? No disrespect intended, but they'll be able to meet his friends in a phone booth if he prays for Clem instead of rain. I heard that your fiancé told Buford Pickett to look into your lodger's identity. Is Mr. Moore aware of that?”

“He didn't mention it, but Clem has been to that well twice before. Mr. Moore even tried to help him, but he came up dry anyway.”

“So his identity is still a mystery.”

“Either that, or he is who he says he is.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Dottie asked.

“A retired salesman.”

“Uh huh, and I'm Shania Twain. I wonder: where'd I put my diamond-encrusted guitar?”

A tick or two later, the three missing board members filed into the room. Lily had a country-sized pitcher of iced lemonade in one hand and a stack of red plastic tumblers in the other, Loretta was carrying sliced zucchini bread on a red plastic platter, and Bebe had paper plates, paper napkins, and plastic forks.

Loretta looked me over from head to foot. “You walked, didn't you?”

“I like to walk. It's the best exercise a woman can get, and I wore a hat.”

“That nasty old hat won't do you a bit of good when it's four hundred degrees outside, darlin'.”

Lily handed me a glass of iced lemonade, which I chugged part way. While she and Loretta served everybody else, Hail Mary called the meeting to order. “This is an emergency session of the Quilting Circle board of governors,” she declared. “According to the bylaws, we're required to dispense with normal business and cut to the case at hand.”

Lily raised her hand. “I'd like to bring another matter before the board if I may.”

“That's against the rules, Lily. What's it about?”

“Buford.”

“Your husband? That can't be good. Is it urgent?”

“Sorta. It's about the Bowe place.”

“The Bowe place? I'd love to talk about it now, but it's one farm and we have the makings of a countywide catastrophe on our hands. Can we put Buford on the back burner for now?”