The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  In the meantime, John Smith stopped at the bank to see Buford Pickett. Like Clem, Buford preferred to do his suffering in the dark. The curtains were drawn in his office and the ceiling lights were turned off. The only illumination came from his desktop computer which, according to John, gave his face an eerie, yellow-green glow. Directly behind him and partially concealed by shadow, there was a long list of places and dates written in blue marker on a whiteboard.

  John said, “His highness Lord Clem has instructed me to help you with an investigation into Mr. Moore’s background.”

  “So I was told. Shut the door and take a seat. I’ll have a list of places for you to start in a few minutes.”

  “Are you searching the Internet?”

  “Yeah. I’m on my seventh search engine. The dates and locations on the whiteboard refer to one Vernon Moore or another.”

  My son-in-law looked the list over as well as he could in the dark. “Those are all Vernon Moores?” Coming from a man named John Smith, that was a pretty odd question.

  “Every one.”

  “Okay, but a few of the dates you have up there are a hundred years old. What does the ‘d’ mean?”

  “Deceased.”

  “The date Vernon died?”

  “The date a Vernon died; that’s right.”

  “I take it that you’re eliminating the dead Vernons from the list.”

  Buford looked up from his computer with a glint in his eye. “No, I’m not,” he replied. “When I tell you the story, you’ll understand why.”

  Four years ago, Buford Pickett discovered that an Army Air Corps bomber named the Lady Be Good disappeared in the deep Sahara Desert after an aborted World War II mission over Naples, Italy. Eight of the nine crew members survived the crash, only to endure days of blistering heat, unrelenting thirst, and a slow, painful, agonizing death. Over the next fifty years, the remains of the entire crew were found, usually by accident, with one exception: a young radio operator named Vernon L. Moore, from New Boston, Ohio.

  Buford concluded, “Guess what? The middle initial of the Vernon Moore who is staying at Wilma’s is ‘L,’ and he’s from New Boston. Four years ago, I eliminated the possibility that the radioman on the Lady Be Good could have been any other Vernon Moore born in the state of Ohio after 1900.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, but it’s hardly conclusive. Didn’t you get the state police to run a fingerprint check on Mr. Moore two years ago?”

  “You need to ask? You were the bagman on the job.”

  “But I never got the results. What were they?”

  “Inconclusive. To be specific, the state police told us that they identified nine people who matched his fingerprints going back to 1954.”

  “Nine? Were they all named Vernon Moore?”

  “I don’t know. They refused to tell us.”

  “Why?”

  “The investigation was compromised. That’s all I was told except that we’re on our own this go-round, and Mr. Tucker will expect quick results.”

  John said, “But you’ve tried before, Buford, and you’ve come up empty-handed. What makes you think you’ll find anything new this time?”

  “Not a darned thing. I still believe that our Vernon Moore is the sole survivor of the Lady Be Good. There’s no other rational explanation.”

  “You call that rational? He can’t be a day over forty-five, fifty tops. Are you saying that he’s not a normal human being like the rest of us?”

  “I wouldn’t be the first to suggest the possibility. By the time we’re done, you may be in the same camp.”

  Bless his heart, my son-in-law replied, “No I won’t, Buford, not again. Whatever Mr. Moore is or isn’t, he’s an honorable man and a friend of my family. I won’t sign on to any mission that could run contrary to his interests. You’re on your own.”

  “I’m on my own? Did you tell Mr. Tucker?”

  “I made the decision about two minutes ago. I’ll tell him in the morning.”

  “But he’ll fire you in a heartbeat.”

  “He doesn’t have that many heartbeats left. If he wants to use one of his last to fire me, then I’ll find a way to live with it. The question is whether he will.”

  “Don’t count Clem Tucker out, John. If he lives, you won’t want to be on his bad side.”

  John Smith is long and lithe; the closest thing I have ever seen to a cougar dressed in black. Buford is more closely related to the marshmallow, at least in a physical sense.

  John stood, which meant he towered over the smaller, rounder man. “I pick my sides without fear,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”

  LORETTA PARSONS MILLET hasn’t knocked on my door since Methuselah’s bar mitzvah. She just wanders back to my kitchen like it’s her house, which is exactly how it should be. I had finished with the vegetables by then and the pot roast was safely in the oven, so I was slicing bananas, oranges, and mangoes for a fruit salad. Here’s another hint: add orange juice to your fruit salad when you’re done making it up. It will keep the bananas from turning brown for hours. You might add some grated coconut, too. It doesn’t do anything special; it just tastes good.

  Loretta gave me a hug with one arm and filched a banana slice with the other. “Where’s Vern?” she asked.

  “I sent him over to Beryl Williams’s place with an apple pie. He should have been back two hours ago.”

  “You sent him to see Flathead?”

  “Beryl asked. I didn’t see how it could do any harm. Do you?”

  “I’m not so sure. I worry that Vernon won’t be able to cope with all the attention he’s going to get this week.”

  “I have the same concern, but it’s not like we have a choice in the matter. Speaking of attention, how is Calvin dealing with Mr. Moore’s return?”

  Lo pushed a chair aside and plopped her enviable bottom on my kitchen table. “He says he’s okay, but he’s conflicted about it.”

  “Because Laverne is Mr. Moore’s daughter?”

  “And Vern is my former lover. That man has spent a whopping twelve days in Ebb in the last four years, but Cal sees him everywhere he turns: at home, at the store, at the bank, in the eyes of his wife and daughter. It must be hard for him.”

  “I see him everywhere, too,” I whimpered.

  Loretta didn’t bother to agree but I knew she did. Instead, she said, “Do you suppose Vern needs a rescue? Should I give Beryl a call?”

  “Let her keep him a little longer,” I suggested. “You can set the table and we can figure out what we’re going to say over dinner.”

  “That’s a good idea, Wilma. We need a plan, a devious plan.”

  Mr. Moore returned about an hour before dinner, but he went straight upstairs without saying hello. It seemed unfriendly to me at the time, but I didn’t find out until later that he had gone to see Clara, my permanent third-floor boarder. They couldn’t have said much to each other, but it must have been an amiable reunion. He was in a cordial, almost conversational mood by the time he came down for dinner, which I served buffet-style on the sideboard.

  After we had gotten our food and seated ourselves, Loretta asked, “How was Beryl?”

  “We had a lovely chat,” Mr. Moore answered. “You two have something in common; did you know that? She’s a voracious reader.”

  “I didn’t. What does she like to read?”

  “Mysteries, history, travel books. Beryl has never been farther from Ebb than Denver, Colorado. Her dream is to see an ocean before she passes on.”

  “I’d like to see one myself,” I whined. “Clem and I have talked about his time in Europe so often, but the closest I’ve ever come is the Venetian in Las Vegas. He’s been too wrapped up in his business and so have I. Now …”

  Loretta touched my arm without ever taking her eyes off of Mr. Moore. “Did you meet Beryl’s son?”

  “Jimmy? I did. He sat on the couch while we talked.” Jimmy is Flathead’s real name, but Beryl is the only person in town who uses it any
more. He even has fire-retardant overalls from the fire department with the name “Flathead” stitched in orange on the chest.

  “Did he talk?”

  “No, but we shared a box of Cheerios. It was very sweet.”

  “Did Beryl ask you to help him?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Is there anything you can do for the poor boy?” Loretta asked. I would never have brought that up myself, but she has always had more brass than a Marine band.

  With his usual clarity Mr. Moore replied, “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “The last we heard, you were going to ask for rain or for Clem’s life. I was just wondering if you had to make one of three choices now.”

  “I don’t think so, Lo. I’ll let you know if I change my mind, though.”

  “Can we discuss it now, Vern? Beryl is only the beginning. Wilma and I have gotten dozens of requests, and not just for rain.”

  I added, “They’re coming out of the woodwork, Mr. Moore. It’s Circle girls with family sickness and financial troubles mostly, but they all want to see you. What do we tell them?”

  He pondered our predicament for a minute, then inquired, “Can you make me a list?”

  “A list? Of everyone?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “But there are so many. You won’t possibly be able to see them all.”

  “I don’t intend to try.”

  “Then why do you need a list?”

  “I’m not the only fish in the sea, Wilma. Maybe there are others who can help.”

  “Like your widow friends?”

  “Possibly. If you and Loretta will be kind enough to make me a list, I’ll see what I can do. How is Hail Mary? Was she at the Abattoir today?”

  Loretta shrugged. “She sent her best. So did Lily Park Pickett and Bebe Palouse. They’re all looking forward to seeing you. Dot said hello, too.”

  “I understand that I was on the agenda, or was it my deal with Clem?”

  “The latter, mostly. Just out of curiosity, have you told anybody else about it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “We’re concerned that news of the deal might leak. If it does, I doubt that the people of Ebb will appreciate your position, probably because none of us do. We’re afraid we could have a small uprising on our hands. Do you understand?”

  “I do, Lo. You can report to the board that my lips are sealed. In return, all I ask is that you and the other members have a little faith in me.”

  “That’s not fair, Vern. We’re women; we’re the faithful gender. But none of us can figure out why you have to make a choice between Clem and the weather. You didn’t with me.”

  “As I recall, there was no shortage of rain when your heart stopped beating. Besides, I played no role in your recovery. That was either your pluck or divine intervention. I just happened to be venting my anger in the vicinity.”

  “Nobody buys that, Vern. The people of Ebb believe it was you.”

  “Then their faith is about to be tested, Lo. Yours, too. A deal is a deal.”

  That sounded like another kung fu conversation ender to me, but Loretta replied smoothly, “Uh uh, darlin’. You can’t test my faith because I know two things for certain: you’re going to do something extraordinary this week; and you’ll disappear when you’re done. Between now and then, Wilma and I will stand behind any decision you make and we’ll do whatever we can to keep the people of Ebb from assaulting you at every street corner. But in return, you have to reciprocate. You have to have some faith in us, too.”

  “But I do. I have complete faith in both of you.”

  “Then why don’t we know anything about you? If you have faith in Wilma and me, then answer three questions about yourself. Just three easy questions. We won’t tell anyone what you say; not Cal, or Clem, not anybody in the Circle. No one.”

  “Just between us?”

  “We won’t tell anyone; not a soul.”

  Mr. Moore put down his knife and fork and wiped his hands on his napkin. Then he pushed his chair back from the table, crossed his legs, and said, “Okay.”

  Before he could change his mind, Lo asked, “Where have you been in the last two years?”

  “In the western half of the United States, plus England, Italy, Japan, and North Africa.”

  “Do you help people in those other places like you help us here?”

  “From time to time, but only in the U.S. as a rule.”

  “Do you work with your widow friends? Are they involved?”

  “Yes.”

  There it was, and without a word of explanation. I couldn’t help it. “They are?” I said. “How?”

  Mr. Moore scooted his chair up to the table and picked up his fork. “That was question number four,” he remarked, and then he plopped an orange slice into his mouth.

  Like my goddaughter said, it was darned frusterating. But after four years of nothing, a country girl will take three of something.

  Chapter 9

  THE DROUGHT CYCLE

  I DON’T KNOW HOW it was in the old days, but there is a cycle to modern drought that is defined by the constant, up-to-the-minute availability of bad news. At night, right before bedtime, you turn on the Weather Channel to see if the forecast has changed. It never does in a drought — that’s why they call it a drought — so you say a little prayer and go to bed depressed. In the morning, you turn the Weather Channel on again to see if the forecast was revised overnight. After you learn that it wasn’t, you head downstairs to get the newspaper. When you open the front door, you are hit by a blast of tepid morning air and you see nothing but a translucent yellow haze stretching across an empty, cloudless horizon, so you take the paper to the kitchen and open it to the weather page, where you hope for a change in the long-range forecast. When there isn’t any, you say another little prayer, and then you hunker down for another day of relentless heat.

  It couldn’t have been an hour after sunup on day one hundred and nineteen, but Mr. Moore’s car was already gone by the time I got downstairs. After I fixed myself a cup of coffee and read the same-old, same-old weather report in the newspaper, I moseyed into the den fearing the worst. For the second day in a row, I had more e-mails than spam, which is a mite depressing when the spammers only want to steal you blind but the e-mailers want miracles. I found the official Buzzword from Hail Mary Wade about halfway down the screen. It read:

  Dear Bees:

  As you have no doubt heard, Mr. Vernon Moore is visiting us in Ebb this week. I want everyone to know that he is aware of the drought and working closely with your board of governors. You can help by routing any requests for a visit with Mr. Moore to Wilma Porter, but by e-mail only.

  You can also show our support for Mr. Moore by stopping at Millet’s after noon today to pick up a free umbrella, courtesy of the Quilting Circle. Please carry your official Quilting Circle umbrella everywhere you go. It could rain at any time.

  Mary Wade, Queen Bee

  I thought it was well written, all in all, and it gave me hope that I could turn on my telephone again some day. Just as I was beginning to feel better about our prospects, I noticed a second Buzzword at the bottom of the screen:

  Dear Bees:

  On a day when we have so many reasons to be hopeful, I’m sorry to report that Herb and Barb Knepper disappeared from their farm last night. They will be sorely missed. Let’s keep them in our prayers.

  Mary Wade, Queen Bee

  The Kneppers owned a small bean and alfalfa spread that had been in the family for more than a century, and Barb had been a member of the Circle for fifteen years. She must have gotten the word that Mr. Moore was in town, but they didn’t try to stick it out.

  Maybe they were worn out; maybe the Bowes were, too. A lot of farmers in this neck of the woods were on the brink long before the drought — from year after year of being battered by dry weather, deaf banks, dumb government, greedy commodities traders, and bottom-dollar foreign competition, all at once. Even when they succe
eded in getting a crop to market, only a few made more than a living wage. That’s not much upside for backbreaking, fifteen-hour days, especially when the downside is next door to poor.

  I’m all for capitalism, I really am, but I will never understand why we pay the people who feed us so little and the people who entertain us so much. That can’t be smart in the long run.

  Chapter 10

  THE SCOREKEEPER’S LOT

  LOUISE NELSON, THE TOWN NURSE, met Mr. Moore at the door of the River House that morning. She’s a perky gal who hails from a small town in Tennessee. “Welcome back,” she announced with a big smile. “Pearline’s off today, so it’s my shift, and I am so glad to see you! Now everything’s going to be okay.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Louise, and congratulations on your marriage to Deputy Samoa. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” Luther Salevasaosamoa, who is Louise’s husband and Dot’s chief of county corrections, is normally referred to as Deputy Samoa when he’s in earshot and Deputy Giant when he’s not. He is six foot seven and used to play football for the Cornhuskers, but Louise has since slimmed him down to a reedy three hundred pounds, plus or minus.

  “I guess you didn’t get the memo, Mr. Moore. We eloped to Samoa and got married on a beach in front of four hundred of Luther’s looniest relatives. His father roasted a pig in a sandpit and we danced until dawn. It was so pretty and everyone was so sweet, and so large. My Lord, they were large. I didn’t want to come back, but Luther said we had a duty to the county.

  “How are you?” she continued, barely taking a breath. “Are you well? You look like you haven’t aged a day. Have you been watching your diet and getting plenty of exercise?”

  “I’m fine, Louise, thank you.”

  “Well, you certainly look fine, and I have to thank you. Luther is terrible at cards but he just loves to play. I’ve never been tempted to use those special skills you taught me. Speaking of skills, I got an e-mail from Hail Mary Wade last night. It says I’m not supposed to talk to you about the weather, so I won’t. If you need my help, though, all you have to do is give a holler. Would you like to see Clem now?”