The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “How’s the old man feeling?”

  “Not well, I’m sorry to say. He’s been vomiting off and on since daybreak and he got bad news to boot.”

  “Bad news?”

  “He should tell you himself.”

  Clem was asleep when they entered his room. Louise turned on the bedside light and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Tucker. You have a visitor.”

  Mr. Moore took a seat on the chair near the head of the bed.

  Clem was still groggy when he rolled over. “What? Who is it?”

  “It’s Vernon Moore. He’s come to see you.” Louise wiped a drop of spittle off Clem’s chin with a hanky and helped him sit up. “Is there anything I can bring you, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Yeah. You can fetch the Japanese sword set from my office. Give Vernon the long sword; I’ll take the short one. If I throw up one more time, I’m cutting my goddamned guts out. Vernon will behead me once the deed is done.”

  Mr. Moore put his hand on Clem’s forearm. “Give yourself a little time. You should feel better later today.”

  Clem jerked his arm away. “What was that, the laying on of hands? Did I just get an early dose?”

  “No, but your color is better and you look rested. It could be a better day.”

  “Bullshit! The day has already been crap. Would you excuse us please, Louise? Vernon and I have business to discuss.”

  She nodded and took up the nurse’s station just outside the door. Meanwhile, Clem continued, “I guess you haven’t heard the news. John Smith walked into my bedroom this morning and resigned, just like that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Why?”

  “Because I asked him to help Buford Pickett look into your background again, that’s why. I told him you wouldn’t mind but he quit anyway. He thinks you’re a goddamned saint.”

  Louise couldn’t see what was going on, but she could hear every word. She said Mr. Moore sounded almost sarcastic when he replied, “How unfortunate.”

  “I can’t afford to lose a man of that caliber, Vernon; not now. I don’t suppose you could get him to reconsider. Tell him it could be an extremely short mission. Maybe that’ll help.”

  “No problem. I’ll drop by and have a word.”

  “You’re a gentleman and a scholar. I suppose that brings us to the business of the day. Would you like some iced tea or lemonade? Louise would be happy to get it.”

  “I’m okay, Clem. How about you? I know you’re hurting, but how are your spirits?”

  “My spirits? Screw my goddamned spirits! Did you ever meet Buzz Busby, my golfing buddy? He fell off a ladder back in the nineties and had to have back surgery. Do you know what he said when I visited him a few days later?”

  “No.”

  “He said he felt better than two dead men. I thought it was funny at the time, but I sure as hell don’t now. I feel better than two dead men myself, and barely at that. When I can muster up the energy, I get mad. When I can’t, I’m just scared shitless.”

  “Everyone who faces death is scared, Clem. Everyone.”

  “Maybe, but I have a helluva lot more to lose than everybody else.”

  “You do? That’s quite a statement, even from you. Why?”

  “Was I the only person in the room yesterday? I had the perfect life until I took over that goddamned bank up in Omaha. Now I want it back. It’s that simple.”

  “Then let’s discuss it. How much does a perfect life cost these days?”

  “What? Why do you give a rat’s ass what my life costs?”

  “You’ve offered me an unspecified sum to extend your life. In order to price myself fairly, I need to get an idea of how much your perfect life costs. I can make an educated guess, but I’d be surprised if you didn’t have it down to the decimal point.”

  “Confidentially?”

  “Not a word will pass my lips.”

  Louise could hear Clem squirming around in his bed, like he was trying to get comfortable. “I won’t bother you with all the grimy details. You’ve seen the staff, the plant, et cetera. It costs me upwards of a million per year, after taxes.”

  “You pay taxes?”

  “Move on, Vernon.”

  “Fair enough. If you retired tomorrow on a million per year, you’d need what — twenty million dollars in the bank? Twenty-five million at the most?”

  “I suppose I could scrape by.”

  “Good. We’ve established a baseline. Now, how much are you worth?”

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s a simple question, Clem. How much money are you worth? I don’t need a precise number; round figures will do.”

  “Jesus! I’m not telling you that. It’s highly confidential.”

  “Okay. Let’s try a different approach. My guess is that you’re worth between three hundred and four hundred million dollars.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Save your strength for an argument you can win. I did my homework. I know how much stock you own in the National Bank of the Plains, how much you’ve divested since the takeover, and at what price. Thanks to the SEC, it’s public information.”

  “Your calculations aren’t worth a tinker’s damn, Vernon. That isn’t my stock and it’s not my money. They belong to the Tucker Trust.”

  “Your sister reviewed my figures.”

  “What? You saw Clara? When?”

  “Last night. She couldn’t tell me how much of the trust you own, but she confirmed that you hold a bit more than she does, and her share is thirty-one percent.”

  “How could you talk to Clara? She only says yes and no, and that’s on a windy day.”

  “It’s amazing how much you can learn from a friend if you ask the right questions, regardless of the limits of their vocabulary. Now, if I peg your trust ownership at thirty-three percent and value your holding in the National Bank of the Plains, inclusive of disposals over the last two years, I get a net worth in excess of two hundred and sixty million dollars, before accounting for any personal holdings outside the trust. How am I doing so far?”

  “If you’re headed down the path I think you are, you can forget it.”

  “I can? Great! I’m perfectly happy to forget the whole deal. In fact, I’m relieved. Everyone else in the county is desperate for rain.”

  “So I heard. How much are you going to charge them?”

  “How witty, Clem! As you know, the majority of farmers in this county are already deeply in debt. How much do you think they can come up with? By the way, I noticed that NBP’s stock price is down a third in the last sixty days. Is the drop attributable to the drought?”

  “We’re still profitable as hell. What do you think?”

  “So, how much has the drought cost the Tucker Trust so far? Oops! I happen to have that number on hand. Your end of the loss is around sixty million dollars, isn’t it? That’s a million per day and counting. From where I sit, you should be paying me to make it rain — but you aren’t. Why not?”

  When my Fiancé in Perpetuity didn’t reply, Mr. Moore said, “It’s because you’re dying, isn’t it? Therefore, we can conclude that you value your life more than your portion of the Tucker Trust’s sixty million dollars in losses. So, what’s the present value of thirty million dollars per month?”

  “I never put any stock in that present value bullshit, Vernon. It’s all funny money, and the goddamned drought isn’t going to last forever.”

  “Probably not. What’s your theory about death? How long does it last?”

  After another pause, Clem said, “How much do you want?”

  Mr. Moore answered instantly, “One hundred million dollars.” For the second day in a row, a Circle girl nearly peed in her pants in Clem Tucker’s hallway.

  “A hundred million? You call that a fair price? You’re a thief and a goddamned charlatan. I’ll dial 1-800-Kevorkian before I’ll pay you a tenth of that!”

  “Make the call. After you’re done, tell me what you’re going to do with all the money you saved. Yo
u won’t need it to support your rustic, million-dollar-per-year lifestyle. You’ve got that covered by a factor of ten — assuming you beat the odds and survive. If you die, the money will go where, to the heir of the Tucker Throne? How is your daughter, by the way?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “I’m so sorry, Clem. I had hoped …”

  “Save it. She ran out on me just like her mother did. End of story.”

  “Then who will inherit your fortune?”

  “That’s none of your goddamned business, and I’m not writing you a check for a hundred million bucks. You can forget it.”

  “I won’t need a check. A promissory note will do, but I’ll have to have it by the end of the week.”

  “You expect me to sign a hundred million over to you before I go under the knife?”

  “I leave Friday noon, and you still haven’t answered my question. What are you going to do with all that money if you don’t give it to me?”

  No response was forthcoming, so Mr. Moore said, “It’s hubris, isn’t it? It’s pride.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “How many animal heads are mounted on the wall in the dining room?”

  “Twenty. Why?”

  “How many did you put there?”

  “Eight. It would’ve been more, but I’ve been under the weather lately.”

  “Is that more or less than your father?”

  “My father preferred waitresses to big game, but my granddaddy put six heads on that wall. I put him in second place.”

  “It’s the same with the Tucker Trust, isn’t it? You’ve spent half your life running up the score against your father and your grandfather and all the Tucker czars who preceded you; against your high school and college buddies; against everyone you’ve ever met on the golf course. Now you’ve won big, and you’re not about to give up your margin of victory. Good for you! You face a fate shared by thousands of your fellow scorekeepers: you’re about to die a big winner, prematurely and anonymously. I wonder: will there be enough grievers to carry your casket?”

  “I can find six pallbearers for a shitload less than a hundred million.”

  “Then tell them to bury you in all the money you saved.”

  “Or I can write you a check. Is that your alternative?”

  “No, Clem. It’s your alternative. You wanted my help, remember? Now I’ve agreed, conditional on price. You should be dancing a jig.”

  Clem hesitated, then countered, “Dancing a jig? I’m half dead from cancer, you son of a bitch. I’ll pay you twenty-five million.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s wholly inadequate.”

  “Inadequate? Twenty-five million? You can kiss my ass, you greedy bastard.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Clem. There’s no way that I’ll attach my lips to an ass that has been kissed by so many, but I do want to thank you, though.”

  “Thank me? Why?

  “For being so predictably intractable. Now I can pray for rain with a clear conscience, but I’ll be rooting for you on Saturday. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

  “Yeah. You can sit down for a goddamned minute and let me think.” After a bit, Clem stated, “I’ll give you fifty million, but that’s the limit.”

  Mr. Moore replied, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I think you’re worth twice as much as you do. Since it’s also a price you can easily afford, I see no reason to change my original proposal, but not for very much longer. The offer expires in sixty seconds. Take it or leave it.”

  The room became so quiet that Louise could hear the grand­father clock ticking in the foyer, halfway across the house. It didn’t really tick, though; it was more like a thock. After maybe fifty-nine thocks, my fiancé said, “Seventy million; not a penny more.”

  “Make it eighty and we have a deal.”

  “Seventy-five, Vernon. That’s my final offer, and it’s conditional.”

  “On what?”

  “I’ll give you a promissory note, but it won’t be due for a hundred and eight days. That will get me past my sixtieth birthday.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I’ll take fifteen million in cash or equivalents on Friday and the rest in the promissory note. Can you live with that?”

  “I can, but maybe you won’t be so goddamned sarcastic about the second condition.”

  “Which is … ?”

  “I’ll have the note drawn up on Friday, but I won’t sign it until Monday. If I’m dead or a reasonable facsimile thereof, you won’t get a dime.”

  “Then the deal’s off. I’m leaving Friday afternoon.”

  “We’re talking seventy-five million dollars, Vernon. You can’t stay a few extra days?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll need a guarantee.”

  “A guarantee? Yesterday, you had me pegged at one in three. Now you want a guarantee?”

  “That was before you gave me a price equal to the goddamned trade deficit.”

  “No problem. If you want a guarantee, get it from your other supplier.”

  “My other supplier? What other supplier?”

  “My point exactly. Are we done?”

  It must have been a difficult position for Clem. He was used to being in complete control, not on Death’s Doorstep. I have no idea what was going on in his head at the time, but he cogitated for a while, then answered, “There’s one more condition.”

  “You’re the customer. What do you want?”

  “As you are well aware, I believe that God left us in the lurch long ago, and I’ve never seen a speck of proof otherwise. If you won’t give me a guarantee, then I’m not going to pay you a plug nickel unless you can convince me that He’s still on duty, and He’s on your side.”

  “What if I can convince you that He’s on everyone’s side, including yours? Wouldn’t that be better?

  “Maybe, maybe not. Do you have a plan, or are you going to wing it?”

  It was Mr. Moore’s turn to think a bit, then he said, “Wing it, mostly. You’re asking me to solve an ancient puzzle called the Deist’s Paradox.”

  “The what? What’s a goddamned Deist?”

  “You are. A Deist is a person who believes that God has abandoned us.”

  “Okay, so I’m a Deist. Take me off your Christmas list. Why should I give a shit about this paradox of yours?”

  “The Deist’s Paradox is a simple expression of your belief. It presumes that a benevolent God created Earth and can be stated as follows:

  A benevolent God would intervene in the affairs of men from time to time;

  But God has not intervened in the last two thousand years;

  Therefore, He has abandoned us.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me. So what?”

  “There are a lot of Deists out there, Clem. Do you know why?”

  “Nope, but I bet you’re about to tell me.”

  “Because the paradox has never been solved.”

  “Really? Then it’ll be a pleasure to watch you in action. But there’s one little detail I forgot to mention: I don’t want to hear a word of religious bullshit out of your mouth.”

  “Don’t worry. If the Deist’s Paradox could have been solved with conventional theological thinking, it would have happened centuries ago.”

  “I’m serious, Vernon. If I hear ‘God moves in mysterious ways’ out of your mouth even once, we’re done.”

  “You can relax, Clem. You’ll never hear an excuse like that from me. I believe that everything He does makes perfect sense; we just have to figure it out.”

  “Hold on there, cowpoke. Did you just say ‘we’? What do you mean by ‘we’?”

  “I have a theory in the back of my mind, but it’s never been tested. I’ll need your help to talk it through, say a half hour to an hour per day. Can you give me that much time?”

  “Look around, Vernon. There’s a chance that I can squeeze you into my otherwise hectic schedule. Will you need any visual
aids? Flip charts? A white board? Kneepads?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not much for props. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow? Why can’t we start today?”

  “I would, but a few friends of mine are arriving this afternoon.”

  “You have friends? No shit! I thought you worked alone.”

  “Nobody works alone, Clem. Get some rest. You should feel better later today.”

  Louise is quick on her feet. By the time Mr. Moore left the master’s suite, she was already on the line to Dottie Hrnicek, who reports directly to Hail Mary Wade, who had left her cell phone in her car — in my parking lot.

  Chapter 11

  A TEAL AND TURQUOISE SEA

  OVER THE YEARS, a lot of folks have asked me what it takes to run a bed and breakfast. There are differing opinions on the subject, but I believe that just about anybody can do it — as long as she or he (which I am legally obligated to mention) can decorate like a decorator, clean like a maid, cook like a chef, handle money like an accountant, and converse like a talk show host with lodgers of all persuasions, all day, seven days a week. You can study hospitality at college and there are a lot of good books on the subject but, in my experience, the one-stop shop for B & B education is motherhood, hands down. It will teach you a thousand little lessons about housekeeping, stretching a dollar, and caring for helpless, thankless guests that you can never learn in a classroom or a book.

  I finished up the cleaning while Mr. Moore was at the River House, and then I put my chef’s hat on and occupied myself with meal planning and food inventory. When I closed the refrigerator, I found Hail Mary Wade standing silently in my kitchen, holding a long-stemmed white rose and a greeting card. I would have fainted on the spot if she had been any taller than an eleven-year-old boy, and not because I never receive flowers, thank you very much.

  “I knocked, but nobody came to the door,” she said sheepishly.

  The brass knocker on my front door is the size of a ham hock. On a clear night, it can be heard in Kansas, or so I thought. “My head was in the refrigerator,” I hypothesized. “It’s probably soundproof for safety reasons. Is the rose for me?”

  “It’s for Vernon, from Connie Kimball. I found it on the porch.”