The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  Lo took a step backward. “I’m well, thanks to you, and married. To Calvin Millet. We sent you an invitation. Did you get it?” She held out her hand so that Mr. Moore could see the ring, which was a two-carat solitaire that had once belonged to Calvin’s mother.

  “I couldn’t come, Lo. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t make it.”

  “Why not? If not for me, then for Lovey and Cal. He feels like he owes you a great debt. It almost kept him from proposing. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

  Laverne, who is three and a half going on thirty-five, said, “That’s okay, Daddy. Mommy isn’t mad; she’s just frusterated.”

  “And she has every right to be, sweetheart. But I’m here now and I want you to tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been gone.”

  Laverne looked up at her mother, who said, “Wilma is expecting you for dinner, Vern. Perhaps you can come back later; say eight o’clock?”

  “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  Mr. Moore picked up his daughter and hugged her again. She whispered in his ear, “Can I ax you something?”

  “You bet.”

  “I could tell that you were coming, but Mommy and Mee-maw couldn’t. How come?”

  “That’s a very good question. I’ll make sure you get an answer; maybe not tonight, but before the end of the week. Is that okay?”

  Like most of the women in Ebb, Loretta has a finely tuned sense of hearing. “Her mother has a few questions, too. Do you suppose you can fit her into your busy schedule?”

  Mr. Moore put his daughter down for the second time. “Why not tonight? If at all possible, Calvin should be with you. People are coming.”

  “People are coming? Here?”

  “With your indulgence, yes.”

  “With my indulgence?”

  Mr. Moore stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You sound like an echo, Lo. Relax. It’ll be interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  He put his finger on her lips ever so lightly, then he left without another word.

  A BLUE FORD MUSTANG rumbled into my parking lot not three minutes later. It was a low-slung, fast-looking affair with fancy chrome wheels, but the poor thing was waist-high in dust, as if it had forded a stream of medium beige blush-on. Through the parlor window, I watched Mr. Moore retrieve a large, roller-style suitcase from the hatch and pull it across the lot to my porte-cochere. Before he could knock, I yanked the door open, grabbed him around the neck, and wailed, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Moore. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Clem is so sick. He’s on death’s doorstep.”

  I was just warming up, but my sobs were drowned out by a police siren, and then a county sheriff’s cruiser came screaming around the bend with red-white-and-blue cherry poppers flash-dancing across its roof. Two shakes later, Dottie Hrnicek pulled under my porte-cochere with an ear-splitting screech. She shut the tumult off, thank God, and then she got out of the car and walked purposely up to my doorway, where she declared, “Vernon Moore, you are under arrest.” Then she looked at me and added, “What the hell’s wrong with you, Wilma?”

  I was slack-mouthed, but Mr. Moore acted like he had been in that sort of fix before. “Who dropped the dime on me, Sheriff?”

  “How many folks in Ebb drive a three-hundred-horse Mustang with custom wheels and Ohio plates? I got half a dozen calls.” Dottie checked her watch. “What I’d like to know is how you got past my deputies …”

  “Your deputies?”

  “I got a tip from the state police that you were coming. They were posted at the county line.”

  “Oh, sorry. I took a detour through Nebraska City to see some friends. Perhaps your deputies weren’t expecting me to come in from the east.”

  “Apparently not. I was just kidding about the arrest, by the way. You all can go back to hugging and crying now. I’ll see what’s cookin’ on the stove.”

  She strode past us both with a big grin on her face and headed toward my kitchen. Once she was out of sight, my infrequent lodger inquired, “Is there room at the inn?”

  Instead of answering like a grown-up woman, I started to cry again. Maybe it was “the change,” but I don’t believe it was.

  Chapter 3

  PAWNEE WISDOM

  BY THE TIME I had dried my eyes and gotten back to the kitchen, Dot was nursing a bottle of cold beer at the table and reading the Lincoln paper. I was about to suggest that she make herself at home when the phone rang.

  She was closer than I was, so she grabbed it and chatted for a minute, then she hung up and said, “That was Mary. Her nose is a little bent out of joint.”

  Hail Mary Wade is the county attorney and the Queen Bee of the Quilting Circle, which has had the effect of making her nose double-jointed.

  “Does she know that Mr. Moore is in … ?”

  Dot held her hand up like a traffic cop. “Of course she does, but don’t worry yourself for a minute. She’s just got a bee under her bonnet, that’s all, a jealous little bee.”

  The phone rang again and Dottie took a message. It was Dana Yelm, Clifford’s wife, who had also gotten the news of Mr. Moore’s arrival. She wanted to make sure that I told him about the drought and the Bowes’ disappearance, as if I needed a reminder. Two shakes later, I got a call from Billie Cater, who had the same identical concern.

  When the telephone rang the fourth time, Dottie said, “For God’s sake, Wilma. Turn the damned thing off! If you don’t, we’ll never have a moment’s peace.”

  The proprietor of a B & B cannot unplug the telephone. It’s in the manual. While I was putting it on auto-answer, I heard a faint, electronic rendition of “There Is No Place Like Nebraska” coming from another room.

  “Goldarnit!” I exclaimed.

  “Is that your cell phone?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the settee in the den, inside my pocketbook.”

  “You cook; I’ll shut it off.”

  Dot was back at the table and into her second beer when Mr. Moore came down the kitchen stairs. His outfit — a white oxford shirt with a button-down collar, creased blue jeans, and running shoes — reminded me of what the hip boys wore at Hayes High in the sixties, when I was too young to have a boyfriend but old enough to have a fresh crush every week.

  My brief reverie was interrupted by a peck on the cheek. “You must be the woman of the hour,” he said. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  Dot took a swig and replied, “It’s not us, hon. Everyone’s calling about you, and they’ve all got the same question I have. They want to know whose lives you plan to rearrange while you’re in Ebb.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry; that was the beer talking. Who do you plan to see this trip?”

  “My daughter and her mother, Wilma, old friends. Why?”

  “Why? The last time you blessed us with your presence, Mr. Vernon Moore, I had to run double shifts, call in reinforcements from Gage County on two separate occasions, fib about your whereabouts to the same state police who just bought you lunch, and coordinate an arson investigation with the fire department — in one week. If you’re planning to save us again, I’d like to warn my superiors.”

  “Does Ebb need to be saved again, Sheriff?”

  I blurted out, “Clem does! He has cancer!”

  Mr. Moore and my Clement have a history that dates back to his first visit four years ago. It was like they were joined at the hip from the get-go, but nobody could tell whether they were working together or against each other from one trip to the next.

  “I heard, and I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” he said mournfully. “What are his chances?”

  I hung my head. “The odds are not in his favor, Mr. Moore. He’s resting at the River House for now while the chemotherapy does its work, but he has to return to Omaha at the end of the week for a big operation. I’m driving down to see him after dinner tonight. Could you come
along?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m due at Loretta’s after dinner. Would you ask Clem if I can drop by in the morning, say ten o’clock?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off my chest. I answered, “Oh, I don’t have to do that. He’s been expecting you.”

  Dottie chimed in, “Half the town’s been expecting you, but it has nothing to do with Wilma’s Fiancé in Perpetuity. It’s because of this godforsaken drought.”

  Mr. Moore frowned, and then he looked at me like I was the local news expert and asked, “Is it as bad as the papers say?”

  “My Aunt Delphie once told me that Nebraska was the Pawnee word for bad weather,” I reported, “and now I know why. We haven’t seen a drop of rain for a hundred and seventeen days running, the corn stalks are knee high and half dead, nobody’s got any beans to speak of, and there isn’t enough alfalfa in the entire county to make up a hayride. A few weeks ago, Winnie and Rufus Bowe pulled up stakes and left without a word of warning. Winnie was a founder of the Quilting Circle, for heaven’s sakes! They left behind their farm and all their friends …” My voice trailed off. I didn’t want to think about it.

  “Has the governor declared the state a disaster area?”

  “He must’ve forgot,” Dottie said. “He left Friday on a trade mission to China. I hear he plans to sell them some USDA prime Nebraska steak. If they like it, maybe they’ll buy a heifer and a bull and we’ll get cheap, rice-fed beef in five years. Won’t that be tasty?”

  “No doubt. What’s the weather forecast?”

  “Hotter ’n hell and clear as a bell for as far out as anybody can see. Water is being rationed in thirty eastern counties including ours, plus most of Iowa and northwest Missouri. Surface water irrigation has been flat-out banned; half the water was evaporating before it hit the ground. You can’t barbecue on the grill or water your lawn, and don’t wash that car of yours either; that’s banned, too. But the Ogallala Aquifer, which has supplied this state with water since the Ice Age, is disappearing anyway, and faster than free booze at a Marine reunion.”

  “That fast?”

  “This fast.” Dottie chugged the last of her beer, and then she peered down the neck and observed, “Another dead soldier. May he rest in peace.”

  DOT SAW A FEW too many dead soldiers that night, so Mr. Moore bundled her into the cruiser after dinner and drove her home. She lives with Shelby Eisenhart, her partner of the past eleven years, on a little spread southwest of town. It must’ve taken Mr. Moore a while to walk all the way back to the Angles House, which is two blocks north of Main and across from the county courthouse, but at least it was cool by then.

  Besides being ultramodern, the Angles House is the only residence in Ebb that has been built from the ground up since 1985, as opposed to being towed in on a flatbed. Calvin bought the place from Clem Tucker — big surprise there — who had it built because he got tired of commuting all the way to town from the family hunting lodge, which is every bit of eighteen minutes away during rush hour, and eighteen minutes when it’s not.

  When Mr. Moore knocked, Calvin himself came to the door. He is a tall, redheaded man with green eyes and a gentle but weary smile. “Welcome, Vernon,” he said. “I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon, but I’m glad you could come again tonight.”

  Mr. Moore saved Millet’s Department Store the first time he came to Ebb, plain and simple. If he hadn’t, the downtown would be deader than Roy Rogers’s horse. Some folks say he saved Calvin Millet, too, although others have a different view.

  The two men shook hands across the entryway. Mr. Moore said, “How are you?”

  “If it wasn’t for the drought and the illness of a good friend, I’d be happier than any man has a right to be. Thank you for giving me a reason to live, or should I say two?”

  “It wasn’t easy, but you’re welcome.”

  Mr. Moore began to step inside, but Calvin blocked the doorway. “Just to make sure,” he declared, “you haven’t come to take them back, have you?”

  “No. I’m just here to visit.”

  “Are you certain, Vernon? It’ll be guns or knives on the courthouse lawn at dawn if you’ve come for Loretta and Laverne. I’m not losing a second family, not even to you.”

  “You always had an admirable sense of honor, Calvin. I’m glad to see that it hasn’t waned in the service of the Tucker Trust, but I’m a little worried about your inferential skills. I requested a get-together with Lo and you this evening. Would that have been the best opening move if I was planning to steal her away?”

  “Probably not, but I wanted to make sure that there were no misunderstandings between us. Come on back. Loretta is in the library.”

  “If you turn around, you might find that she’s standing about three feet behind you.”

  Calvin’s faced turned beet red. “You’re kidding.”

  Loretta said, “If you don’t let that man in this house, my left foot will have to be surgically removed from your tight vanilla butt.”

  Truth be told, Lo is a few years older than her husband, maybe more than a few, but a person could never tell. There is not a line in her milk-chocolate countenance and she has the figure of a debutante. That evening, she was wearing an ankle-length purple silk robe and pretty gold sandals. I don’t recall if her toenails were painted, but they usually were. Loretta owns the local beauty salon, so it’s not like it costs her anything.

  Calvin stood aside. Loretta said, “You’re late, Vern. Where have you been?”

  “Uh, the sheriff needed my assistance with a small transportation problem.”

  “So you’re back in form, and so soon. The girls will be glad to hear it. Come in.”

  The Angles House may be modern on the outside, but Loretta redid the interior after she and Calvin tied the knot. The living room is filled with antique mahogany furniture, the lamps and statuary are art deco, and the walls are lined with theater bills from the vaudeville era. You’d think you were stepping into the Roaring Twenties.

  “You have a lovely home. Have I met the decorator?”

  “She has many talents,” Lo said, referring to herself in the third person. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Too much spaghetti.”

  “Wilma fixed spaghetti? Damn! I wish she’d called. I would have invited us over.”

  Mr. Moore followed Loretta and Calvin to the rear of the house, where Lo had converted Clem’s billiards room into her library. Tall, glass-covered bookcases lined the walls, and an oblong-shaped conversation pit filled the center of the room. Calvin and Loretta sat down on a leather sofa while Mr. Moore took an Ames chair at the end, opposite a little red chair. “Did I miss Laverne?” he asked.

  “It’s past her bedtime, but she’s expecting to see you tomorrow. Cal had to turn off the phones so she could get to sleep. Do you know why?”

  “I don’t, actually.”

  “You’re too modest, Vern. Half the women in town called — about you. They all want to know when you’re going to make it rain. I told them to check with Wilma. She usually keeps your calendar, but she must’ve turned her phone off, too.”

  Mr. Moore sat forward. “Did I hear you correctly, Loretta? Did you say that the people of Ebb expect me to make it rain?”

  “You set a certain level of expectation on your last trip, Vern. You can’t be surprised.”

  Calvin interjected, “Clem has an expectation, too. Did you and Wilma have a chance to discuss his condition?”

  Poor Mr. Moore must have felt whipsawed to death. Nobody had seen him in two years, but all anybody wanted to talk about was the weather and my fiancé. “We did,” he replied. “I was very sorry to hear about it.”

  “He’s in deep, deep kimchee, Vernon. That’s why he sent for you.”

  “Clem sent for me?”

  “He has a business proposition for you. He believes you can help him and he wants to make it worth your while.”

  Mr. Moore glanced at L
o. She replied, “Don’t look at me. What could I tell the man?”

  “Has he shared this proposition with you, Calvin?”

  “No. I have my suspicions, but you’ll have to ask him yourself. When can you see him?”

  “Wilma’s setting something up for the morning, assuming he’s well enough.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Vernon. He’ll be well enough, and it’ll do his spirits a world of good. Give me a shout if I can help.”

  “Thanks, but what could be easier than curing cancer, unless it’s calling in a rainstorm? While I’m at it, there’s a favor I’d like to ask the two of you — if you don’t mind.”

  When Loretta is curious, her left eyebrow jumps halfway up her forehead but the right one stays put. “Why do I get the feeling that this favor is the main reason you came back tonight? Is it related to the ‘people’ you mentioned this afternoon?”

  “A few friends of mine are on their way to Ebb. With your permission, I’d like to introduce them to you and Laverne.”

  “Friends? That’s a surprise, Vern. Everybody thought you worked alone. What kind of friends are they? Business associates? Salespeople? Fellow miracle-workers?”

  “Fellow travelers, and widows.”

  “Widows? How many of these widows are coming?”

  “Three.”

  “I see. Do they have names?”

  “Eloise, Marion, and Bertha.”

  Calvin muttered, “Well, at least they aren’t Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar.”

  Loretta gave her husband a look that mothers save for naughty little boys, then she said, “You were a mystery when you left Ebb the first time, Vern, but now you’re a legend. People around here believe that you can raise the dead, make evil-minded preachers vanish into thin air, and beat Clem Tucker at his own game with one hand tied behind your back. Now, you’re bringing friends. The citizens of Ebb will wonder why you need the help.”

  Mr. Moore shook his head. “The widows are the nicest, sweetest women on earth, Lo. They want to meet you and Laverne. That’s all.”