Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas

by Celia Bonaduce

  “Polly says you’re going to work on a wagon train,” Maggie said. “That sounds fascinating.”

  Erinn thought Maggie was laying it on a little thick, but she had to admit, the job did sound interesting. Poet just shrugged. It occurred to Erinn that Poet was going to have to up his game if he was going to spin the illusion of a wagon train reenactment in the twenty-first century. She waited impatiently for the business to be concluded.

  “Here you go,” Herman said, putting a large battery-powered lantern on the counter. “Gotta love the barter system.”

  Poet and Herman lugged the saddle out of the shop. Powderkeg returned to his seat and Erinn to hers. Maggie gave up all pretense of keeping herself busy and sat down on a sawhorse.

  “You took an old lantern in exchange for that beautiful saddle?” Erinn asked.

  “Yeah,” Powderkeg said, looking over at the squat lantern on the counter. “I’m still working on my designs and the kid needed a saddle. And this lantern is a classic.”

  “A classic what?”

  “A World War II electric navy lantern,” Powderkeg said. “Don’t see too many of them around.”

  “No,” Erinn said, “I suppose not. Shall we get started?”

  “I thought we had,” Powderkeg said.

  “Please introduce yourself and spell your name,” Erinn said.

  “Powderkeg,” Powderkeg said. “P-O-W-D-E-R-K-E-G, just like it sounds.”

  “I meant your given name.”

  “Powderkeg is my given name. I gave it to myself.”

  What is it with these people and their names? Erinn thought.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Erinn said. “But aren’t you Marshall Primb, decorated war hero from the Vietnam era? You were married to and subsequently divorced from Cleo Johnson-Primb, making you the ex-son-in-law of Cutthroat Clarence Johnson.”

  Powderkeg just stared at her.

  “Well?” Erinn said, breaking the silence.

  “You said to correct you if you were wrong,” Powderkeg said. “You weren’t wrong.”

  Erinn thought she heard a snort from Wesley, but when she looked at him, he was as poker-faced as ever.

  He was a very distracting production assistant.

  “I understand that Cutthroat’s motivation for resurrecting Fat Chance was to make amends for taking the American Dream away from several of the people here . . . but not you,” Erinn said. “Cutthroat didn’t feel he owed you a shot at the American Dream.”

  “Is that a question?” Powderkeg asked.

  This time the tittering came from Maggie, who was not as adept at hiding her mirth as Wesley.

  “If Cutthroat didn’t feel he owed you a chance at the American Dream, what did he owe you?” Erinn asked.

  “Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that many times,” Powderkeg said, suddenly turning serious. “Maybe he felt he owed me a chance to get back with my wife.”

  “Do you feel as if he ruined your marriage?” Erinn asked.

  “He sure didn’t help,” Powderkeg said. “I wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for Cleo, I can tell you that much. I never had a dime—and never wanted one. I sold hand-tooled belts at craft fairs across the country. He didn’t see that as a life for his little girl. And you know, he was right. Cleo couldn’t take the ups and downs of real life. She stuck it out with me for a while, but once her brother and his wife died, Cutthroat saw to it that Cleo would be taking care of Elwood. He pretty much circled the wagons on his family. He just wanted me gone.”

  “Did you go?”

  “After ’Nam, I recognized a losing battle when I saw one. I knew I couldn’t fight Cutthroat Clarence. Besides, Cleo was pretty much done with me by then.”

  “So Cutthroat paid you to divorce his daughter?”

  “He did,” Powderkeg said. “Which was pretty funny when you think about it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because all he had to do was ask. Cleo could never live the life I wanted to lead and I couldn’t live the life she was forced to lead.”

  “And you just moved on?”

  “I managed,” he said. “But the whole thing never set easy on me. I haven’t made much of myself, but I’m not a quitter. I feel like I quit on Cleo—and even though he wasn’t my kid, I quit on Elwood . . . Professor Johnson. I don’t mind telling you, he was a weird little guy. He could have used a father figure. All he had was Cutthroat and his henchman.”

  “His henchman?”

  “His right-hand man,” Powderkeg said. “Sebastian Pennyfeather. You know, I always thought Cutthroat reveled in his own bad publicity. I swear he’s the role model for Donald Trump. Wanted to look like a total badass. But he never did the actual dirty work. He left that to Pennyfeather. Pennyfeather always cut the checks. But I guess somebody had to.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Oh, plenty of hard feelings.” Powderkeg smiled. “But what are you going to do? When I got my divorce papers, I sent Pennyfeather a hand-tooled belt with a copper buckle. It was the exact color of a penny. I etched the design of a quill feather into it.”

  “As a gesture of goodwill?” Erinn asked, surprised by the turn in the conversation.

  “As a gesture of surrender,” Powderkeg said. “Like I said, the thing didn’t set easy on me.”

  “As William Booth once said, ‘The greatness of a man’s power is the measure of his surrender,’” Erinn said, admonishing herself for getting personal during an interview. She saw herself more as an Anderson Cooper rather than a Barbara Walters. But this man’s story touched her. She knew all about having to surrender.

  Powderkeg nodded.

  “What happened when you and Cleo both found yourselves in Fat Chance three years ago?” Erinn asked, getting the interview and herself back on track.

  “Let’s just say I think old Cutthroat would be proud of me, if I gave a rat’s ass what he thought of me anymore. I tried to give Cleo and me a second chance and for a while it looked like it might work. But I was dreaming. We just repeated all our same mistakes. In the end, she hightailed it back to Beverly Hills.”

  Just then the door to the shop crashed open. Cleo staggered inside with two large duffel bags. She was panting from the strain of carrying the bags.

  “Hey!” Maggie said, jumping up from the sawhorse. “That’s my stuff.”

  “I know it’s your stuff,” Cleo snarled. “Old Bertha said you’re not staying at the inn anymore and demanded I bring it down here.”

  “Old Bertha is being a damn fool,” Powderkeg said. “But fine. Maggie can stay here with me.”

  “Like hell,” Cleo said. “She’s young enough to be our daughter.”

  “Our daughter?” Powderkeg grinned.

  “Come with me,” Cleo said, dumping the bags at Maggie’s feet.

  “Where are we going?” Maggie said, picking up her belongings.

  “To jail,” Cleo said.

  “Jail?” Maggie squeaked. “That old woman was stealing the scraps, not me! Put her in jail.”

  “You’re not under arrest,” Cleo said. “For one thing, Pappy was the sheriff—”

  “I thought he was the mayor,” Maggie said.

  “That too,” Cleo said. “But he was also the sheriff, so he was in charge of the jail. It’s empty now, so you can make yourself right at home there.”

  Maggie waited for someone to say something, but when she was met with nothing but silence, she slung her bags over her shoulders and stormed out.

  “Wait for me,” Cleo said, racing after her. “I’ve got the keys to the cell.”

  “Interesting that Cleo doesn’t want Maggie bunking with you,” Erinn said. “Proprietary interest? Any thoughts you might rekindle the flame?”

  “Nope,” Powderkeg said. “Not really in the mood for that flame to burn me one more time.”

  Erinn and Wesley packed up the gear while Powderkeg went back to work. When she was done, Erinn paused at the door and turned back to Powderkeg.

 
“One more question,” Erinn asked, acutely aware that the camera was packed and she was asking this solely for her personal edification.

  “Go ahead,” Powderkeg said, looking up from the pair of boots on which he was working.

  “Why send a gift to Pennyfeather instead of Cutthroat?”

  “Couldn’t think of a polite way to carve a ‘Johnson,’” Powderkeg said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Chapter 19

  When Dymphna and Professor Johnson had returned to the kitchen, and Dymphna served new plates of rice and vegetables, she made a vow that she was going to be more patient with the lovely man who was her partner. She felt she was making progress. Having Maggie show up in Fat Chance made Dymphna want to run. Running away was always her answer. But as she got older, she began to realize running probably was not the answer. No matter where you went, the one constant would be yourself. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that everywhere she went, there she was. Now with Maggie up close and personal, Dymphna had to make up her mind. Stay and face the music—and Maggie—or get out of Dodge.

  “We need to teach Thud to stay off the table,” Professor Johnson said, eyeing the dog, who had bits of rice in his whiskers.

  “He’s fine,” Dymphna said. “I always make extra.”

  They ate in contented silence, touching hands across the table. Dymphna wished it could always be like this. Professor Johnson looked at her over his glasses.

  “Thank you for lunch,” he said. “This is very tasty.”

  Was that a compliment? Even if he’d used the goofy word “tasty,” she was pretty sure that was a compliment. Maybe Professor Johnson was doing his own soul-searching.

  “Thank you.” Dymphna beamed. “Everything OK in the barn?”

  “Everything seemed fine.”

  “Rabbits fine?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  Dymphna pushed the broccoli around her plate. The last few months had been full of heated arguments at the dinner table. Was it possible that if they weren’t debating, there was nothing to talk about?

  “The ranch hands have been saying there might be a few storms moving in,” Professor Johnson said.

  Really? We’re going to talk about the weather?

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Dymphna said. “This town has been here a long time.”

  “The town has been flattened twice by twisters,” Professor Johnson reminded her. “And now we have the grapes to worry about.”

  Dymphna pushed her plate away. She knew he was right, but why did every conversation have to circle back to the town? She waited for him to mention the road. She silently dared him to mention the road.

  “And then there’s the road,” he said. “A big storm won’t do us any favors if Main Street turns to mud.”

  Later, as she headed down the hill with Thud at her heels, she told herself that storming out wasn’t really leaving. She was just cooling off. She almost ran to the forge. The front door was open a crack. Titan was using the anvil, working on a pair of horseshoes, when she slipped through the door.

  “I think it’s time to head over to Spoonerville,” Dymphna said.

  “Oh no,” Titan said. “Are Professor Johnson and Fernando fighting?”

  “No,” Dymphna said. “Professor Johnson and I are fighting.”

  “Even worse,” Titan said. “But I’m not sure our plan will help you guys.”

  “I think any distraction will help. Anyway, it can’t hurt.”

  Titan whacked the iron horseshoe a few more times, concentrating on his work. Dymphna waited. She spotted Fancy’s lair in a darkened corner of the shop. One of the first pieces Titan had forged was a metal tree for Fancy. It had branches she could maneuver, even with her bad wing and eye. It made Dymphna’s heart hurt to see it. She was suddenly a little ashamed of herself for being annoyed with Professor Johnson. At least he didn’t just disappear.

  Like I did. Like I always do.

  Her cheeks burned. She never really thought about the pain she caused other people when she moved on. Maybe Maggie had her reasons for being resentful.

  Titan moved methodically from one situation to the next and she didn’t rush him. He tapped lightly on the anvil with the hammer. Dymphna knew this was a sign he was finished with his project.

  When Titan was first bequeathed the forge, he knew nothing about the art of blacksmithing. Pappy showed him the ropes. Pappy told him that it wasn’t necessary to tap on the anvil in order to cool down the tools, but there was a legend about the devil, hobbling lamely into a forge. He demanded the blacksmith make him some shoes for his hooves. The blacksmith recognized his visitor and purposely shod him poorly and painfully. The devil never returned. The tapping is supposed to discourage the devil from entering the smithy.

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Pappy had said, landing one final tap on the anvil.

  After Titan was satisfied the forge was clean and the fire put to rest, he opened the front door. Sunlight streamed in, giving the place a more welcoming look. The two of them left the forge, planning to walk to Spoonerville, when Jeffries pulled up in the limousine. He rolled down the passenger window and asked for directions to Spoonerville.

  “This whole area seems to have stumped the GPS satellites,” Jeffries said.

  “We were just heading over there ourselves,” Dymphna said.

  Jeffries stared straight ahead, squinting into the sun. Dymphna wondered if he had the authority to offer them a ride. She suspected he was asking himself the same question. He turned back to face her.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked. He started to get out of the limo, but Dymphna called him off.

  “You don’t have to open our doors,” Dymphna said. “We can just climb in.”

  She opened the passenger door, but Thud beat her to the shotgun seat. She and Titan exchanged a look and a shrug and got in the back.

  After determining that no other townspeople wanted to hitch a ride, the limo was on its way. Jeffries carefully maneuvered the limousine up the trail, onto the highway and across to the dirt road leading to the majestic entrance to the Rolling Fork Ranch.

  “Spoonerville is on a ranch?” Jeffries asked, as he drove under the elaborate archway that announced they had arrived.

  “That threw all of us, too,” Dymphna said. “The ranch is huge and Spoonerville is the supply town. Until we resurrected Fat Chance, there wasn’t anywhere else to shop for twenty miles.”

  “The ranch hands must have been glad to see you succeed,” Jeffries said.

  “Some were,” Titan said. “Anybody looking for a decent meal, for one thing. But they now have competition from Powderkeg’s carpentry work and leather shop.”

  “Not to mention your horseshoes,” Dymphna added.

  “Just keep on this road,” Titan said to Jeffries, deflecting Dymphna’s compliment. “You’ll see a couple of buildings that make up about as much of a town as Fat Chance does. The store is at the end of the street.”

  The general store sat above the road, up a steep set of stairs. A few ranch hands were sitting on the long, wide porch. Dymphna could see them sit up as the limo pulled up.

  Jeffries got out of the driver’s seat and started toward the back of the limo to open the doors for Dymphna and Titan, but they were already getting themselves out. Dymphna pulled the front passenger door open and Thud bounced out, heading up the stairs to meet and greet.

  “Hey, Thud,” a ranch hand named Jake said. “How are ya, buddy?”

  Dymphna and Titan exchanged a look. Since Fernando had started feeding the cowboys, trips to Spoonerville had become much more pleasant. But this was a recent development and they were still on their guard. The three of them climbed the steep stairs.

  “Hey, little lady,” Jake said to Dymphna, as he tipped his hat. “I heard you left town.”

  “I’m back . . . Jake,” Dymphna said. She knew his face and name from breakfast at the café. She was surprised that news from Fat Chance was of any interest to the Sp
oonerville crowd.

  “We knew that! Remember, she came back with a bunch of rich folks from Los Angeles. That’s where the limousine came from,” another cowboy, Freddy, said to Jake. Then, turning to Dymphna for validation, he asked, “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Dymphna said. She wondered if she needed to protest the “rich folks” comment, but decided against it, considering they had just pulled up in a limousine.

  “This limo your new ride, now that Pappy left with the Covered Volkswagen?” Jake asked, looking down from the porch at the limo, which gleamed despite the dust.

  “For now,” Dymphna said. “Until Pappy gets back.”

  Cowboys and ranch hands, both male and female, wandered in and out of the store, or sat on the few chairs and the railing that skirted the porch. Dymphna was always amazed how many people the porch could hold. The porch could be a hotbed of gossip, but gossip Texas-style. Just a comment or two, said in passing, about the latest goings-on on the ranch. She remembered the first time she and Powderkeg had stepped up onto the porch after Powderkeg learned that his sweetheart, Lacey “Mikie” Carmichael, had been offered—and taken—a job as a pilot in New Mexico.

  “Sorry to hear about Mikie,” one of the old-timers had said.

  Powderkeg had wheeled on the man, expecting to see a smirk on the weather-beaten face. But all he saw was concern.

  “There’s a lot of work in New Mexico right now,” another cowboy had offered. “But you never know, she might come back.”

  “Yeah,” Powderkeg said. “Thanks.”

  Dymphna had followed Powderkeg into the store. She knew Powderkeg was not about to explain why Mikie really left—and she suspected the men on the porch didn’t want to hear it. She knew that Lacey sensed Powderkeg’s devotion to his ex-wife, no matter how valiantly he fought against it. The day she left, Mikie took Dymphna aside and confided in her.

  “I know Powderkeg is going to go all macho-idiot and clam up about us, the way men do,” Mikie had said. “But I want you to know why I’m bailing.”

  Dymphna suspected what was coming. Mikie poured out her heart, saying that Powderkeg would never love her the way he loved Cleo. Mikie couldn’t accept being second place, but loved him too much to hang around. When the offer came from New Mexico, she jumped at it.