by Joan Hess
The opening credits were reappearing on the screen when he heard a series of staccato raps on the trailer door. The sound was familiar. Panicked, he turned off the TV, stuck the glass of wine behind the couch, kicked the cassette box under it, and made sure his bathrobe was tightly belted before he opened the rectory door.
“Why, good morning, Sister Barbara. What a delightful—”
“I need to talk to you.” Mrs. Jim Bob brushed past him and sat down on an armchair. “I have to go home shortly to make refreshments for after the golf lesson.” She looked at the bare coffee table. “I hope I’m not interrupting you in the middle of writing your Sunday sermon.”
“You are always welcome, Sister Barbara. No, I wasn’t writing my sermon. It was more like I was contemplating the wisdom of the Good Book for how to best shoo sinners back to the path of virtue. Temptation of the most bewildering kind is all around us.” He glanced at the remote control, then willed himself not to allow certain images to cloud his mind. “I shouldn’t burden you with my fears of the impending Apocalypse, when the Four Horsemen bring forth the end of the world and all that can be heard is the wail of sinners as they’re sucked into the fiery furnace. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just fixin’ to put the kettle on. I’m afraid I don’t have any cookies or cake, but I can make you a real tasty cheese and pickle sandwich.”
“No, thank you,” she said. She glanced at the corner of a box sticking out from under the couch, but she couldn’t make it out. She was reaching for it when Brother Verber plopped down.
“You feel the need to bare your soul?” He beamed at her as his heel nudged the box into the netherworld of dust bunnies and wine bottle caps. “I hope you’re not troubled, but I’m here for you if you want to pray over whatever has caused that tiny wrinkle to mar your forehead.”
“I’m not here out of vanity, Brother Verber, but out of the need for spiritual guidance. During what some might call a disagreement yesterday with Jim Bob, I recalled a snippet from my wedding vows all those many years ago. You know, the love, honor, and obey part. Is it really a sin for a wife to disobey her husband?”
“It’s a matter of interpretation, Sister Barbara,” he said cautiously. “Ephesians, chapter five, verse twenty-two, says, ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church.’ Then again, we are talking about Jim Bob.”
Her eyes grew beadier. “I’d as soon submit to a blind dentist. Anyway, he lied about taking golf lessons long before I did. If he’s the head of the church, I’d rather be a pagan and make pot roast out of missionaries.”
“Ah, the golf tournament.” Brother Verber belched softly as he searched his biblical knowledge for an escape clause. “First Peter, chapter three, verse one, says, ‘Likewise, ye wives be in subjection to your own husbands.’ It goes on after that, but it gets kind of muddled. However, it doesn’t say anything about golf. Not one single word. Maybe it was left out intentionally.”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Jim Bob took a lace-trimmed hankie out of her purse and began to twist it. “Does the Bible say anything about husbands being in subjection to their own wives? That would help, since we’d cancel out each other. I told Jim Bob in no uncertain words that he has no business playing in the tournament out of nothing more than greed. All he and the other men want is the bass boat. He’s never said one word about helping golf widows.”
Brother Verber winced. It was more than likely that Jim Bob had helped more than one golf widow, he thought, but not in a way he wanted to bring up for discussion. “You have a good point, Sister Barbara, a very good point. It’s like one spouse voting Democrat and the other Republican. No harm, no foul. The fact that you’re motivated by charity tilts in your favor. Shall we pray for the Almighty Lord to keep you out of the rough and on that fairway to heavenly bliss?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. It was as smooth and supple as a fish fillet, he thought. Her fingernails glistened like pearls. The simple gold ring around her fourth finger represented a blessing from the Almighty Lord. He was so touched by her saintly presence that he felt a warm glow in his privates. “Come sit here on the sofa next to me so I can comfort you. I can’t tell you how much I admire all the time and work you’ve put into this tournament. You must be exhausted, Sister Barbara. Why don’t you take off your shoes and let me massage your feet?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m in a hurry, Brother Verber.”
“All these sacrifices will be recorded in St. Peter’s ledger book. When you get to heaven, you’ll be upgraded to a celestial suite.”
“I’m not sure making butterscotch brownies qualifies as a sacrifice.”
He wasn’t either, but he plowed ahead. “You’re making them for the betterment of the tournament, which is all about Christian generosity. It’s like”—he fumbled for a moment—“when Jesus fed the multitude with loaves and fishes. You’re doing the same thing with butterscotch brownies and iced tea.” He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Would you like me to drop by after the lesson and say grace?”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary, Brother Verber,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, unwilling to make enough brownies to feed even a minor multitude. She pulled her hand free and stood up. “You can plan to say grace Saturday evening before we serve the barbecue, and on Sunday afternoon when we present the trophies. Oh, there is something else you can do this afternoon. The trophies are at a sports store in Farberville. I had the bowlers replaced with loving cups and the plaques engraved with the name of the tournament and the date. Pick them up and hang on to them until the ceremony. If the store demands payment immediately, the committee will pay you back.” She scribbled the name of the store on the back of an old grocery list and gave it to him.
He waited until he heard her car drive off, and then another minute just to be on the safe side, before he retrieved his glass of wine and picked up the remote control.
• • •
Roy Stiver was sitting in a Louis XIV Barcalounger outside his store, dressed in overalls and a splintery straw hat, waiting for unwary tourists to wander into his lair. He hollered at me, so I walked across the road.
“You heard what all’s going on?” he asked me.
“I don’t know if I’ve heard all of it, but I’ve heard enough.”
He took out a corncob pipe and began to fiddle with it. “What do you think of this tontine crap?”
I sat down on a battle-scarred pew. “I haven’t heard about that. It has to do with the bass boat, I suppose.”
“It’s based on the very feeble assumption that one of them will actually make a hole-in-one. Jim Bob’s idea, naturally. He had some lawyer draw up the document, but I’m not sure that it’s legal on account of providing the members with too much incentive to bump each other off. You ever read The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson? A tontine may work as a plot in mystery novels, but even then it’s far-fetched.”
I realized that Kevin had been groping for the word when he was at the PD. A tutu was a lot more amusing. “The usual suspects?”
“Pretty much. Jim Bob, Larry Joe, Jeremiah, Earl, Big Dick, Ruddy, Rip, Tam, Kevin—that makes nine. Lemme think. Yeah, and Bopeep’s current boyfriend, a guy named Luke Smithers. You know anything about him?”
“He drinks a lot of beer at Ruby Bee’s. Other than that, I haven’t had any reason to waste time speculating about him. Bopeep’s had more boyfriends than my apartment has roaches. Should I keep an eye on him?”
Roy finally had his pipe smoldering to his satisfaction. “No, not that I know of. He seems kind of shiftless, but so do a lot of other people in this neck of the woods. If he were dumber and uglier, he’d make a fine Buchanon.”
“Harsh words, Roy.”
“You recall ol’ Bangcock Buchanon? He decided that squirrels were Russian spies, so he got a box of dynamite and blew himself to kingdom come.”
Kevin’s tom-tom was nothing more than a silly, illegal do
cument. My dream was shattered; Hizzoner was not a closet ballerina.
As soon as he could, Bony called an end to the final golf lesson. Most of his students were a menace to themselves, as well as anyone within fifty feet—and that was with a putter. He declined to stay for tea and brownies, and after unhappily agreeing to return for lunch, he hustled down the driveway to have a stiff drink before Aunt Eileen showed up.
The ladies retired to Mrs. Jim Bob’s sunroom to fortify themselves for the following day’s challenge. Once they were all settled and cheerfully clucking among themselves, Audley Riley held up a hand. “I’d like to say something.” Since she rarely opened her mouth, the room fell silent. “Our husbands have come up with this nonsense about a tontine. Earlier this morning I called my nephew Bryce down in Little Rock on account of him being a lawyer. He told me that a tontine is where everybody signs an agreement that the prize belongs to the group. In the end, the last person alive gets it. Bryce says it’s not legal.”
“Then why should we care?” asked Eileen.
“Damn craziness,” Bopeep said. She realized that she’d stepped over the line, and quickly added, “Darn craziness, I meant to say. The men are acting like a bunch of grubby little boys that build a clubhouse in the woods with a sign that says ‘No girls allowed.’ As if any girl with common sense would want to join.”
Mrs. Jim Bob ignored the snickering as she thought it over. “It is craziness, I agree, but it bothers me. It’s like each one of us has to beat all ten of them. The odds don’t seem equal. If someone like Jeremiah wins, for instance, then all of our husbands benefit. That doesn’t sit right with me.”
“You got a point,” Joyce said. “The very idea of Larry Joe getting a share of the boat even if he hits every ball in the rough . . .”
“It’s just not right,” Millicent said firmly. “We should do something. Can we have them arrested, Audley?”
“Bryce didn’t seem to think so. He said that it was unenforceable, that’s all. The winner gets the boat, and the losers can sue ’til the cows come home, but they can’t win in court. Being from Little Rock, Bryce doesn’t understand how things are enforced around here.”
“I can’t see any of them backing out,” Eileen said, then paused. “Except for Luke. It’s not like he has any ties to Maggody.” She looked at Bopeep. “Unless, of course, you two are aiming to tie the knot sometime in the future. I mean, this could be the guy for you. I never meant to imply that y’all are . . .”
“Living in sin? No, we’re just living in a double-wide for the time being.” Bopeep popped her gum to express her disdain. “I couldn’t care less if he gets a load of buckshot in his backside or strung up from a sycamore tree. Besides, he doesn’t have a car. No way he could take off with the boat.”
“So you think he might take off?” asked Joyce.
“Probably afore too long. He’s waiting for a disability check from the army. Something about a foot injury, but he moves real fine. It’s not like I’d bring home a cripple.”
This prompted Crystal to talk about her bigamist cousin, which led to Cora’s demented grandmother, which was drowned out by Lucille’s complaints about her years of slavery when Big Dick’s mother was alive. The stories grew downright gruesome as the pitcher of iced tea and plates of brownies were passed from martyr to martyr.
Mrs. Jim Bob came to a decision, although she wasn’t sure how it would be received. She tapped a teaspoon on the sugar bowl. “We all agree that this ten-against-one is unfair. We have to take action. I propose that we sign a paper that says if any one of us wins the boat, then she’ll donate it to the town to pay for a park. We can build it next to the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, with swings and sand boxes and picnic tables. A memorial park, I think, dedicated to deceased golf widows. The donor can have her own name on a brass plaque.”
Eyes flickered and lower lips were nibbled as they pondered her words. Finally, Eileen said, “I was thinking of selling the boat and using the money for myself.”
“The Almighty Lord does not look kindly on displays of greed and self-indulgence,” Mrs. Jim Bob countered coldly. “He blesses gestures of Christian generosity and humility. Besides, you get your name on the plaque. Your grandchildren and their grandchildren will have a reminder of your contribution to the community.”
“Do we have to donate all of it?” asked Crystal, who had already talked to a used car salesman in Starley City.
“How about ten percent?” Millicent suggested. “That’s what the Bible says to tithe.”
Brother Verber, who’d materialized toward the end of the lesson, perked up at the mention of the Assembly Hall. He swallowed a mouthful of brownie and said, “The fourteenth chapter of Deuteronomy instructs us to tithe corn, wine, oil, and firstlings of your herds and of your flocks. With inflation shooting up these days, it’d come to at least twenty percent, or even twenty-five.”
Mrs. Jim Bob knew she was on thin ice. “I’ll amend my proposal to fifty percent. Think of the shame of having your name on a park with cheap swing sets and rickety picnic tables. You’d be embarrassed to hold up your head when you drove by it. Why, you might even be sued if some poor child got hurt. As for the chances of eternal damnation . . . I shudder to think about it.” She faked a small shudder. “Do I hear a second on the proposal?”
“Second,” Joyce said in a sulky voice.
“All in favor?”
No one dared vote against the proposal. Mrs. Jim Bob rewarded them with a tight smile. “I’ll write out our agreement and everybody can sign it before they leave.”
“And may the Almighty be watching over you,” Brother Verber said. “As we’re told in Psalm Seventy-two, verse seven, ‘In his days the righteous will flourish; prosperity will abound ’til the moon is no more.’ And if you Christian servants aren’t righteous, well, nobody is. Hallelujah!” He tried to look humble, but he couldn’t stop thinking how well his mail-order seminary had done by providing a verse for any situation. Marriages, funerals, confessions of the wickedest sins—yes, he was well armed.
“Amen,” said Mrs. Jim Bob.
• • •
Ruby Bee was in a tizzy. Not only had the guests with motel reservations shown up, but all kinds of other folks in town for the golf tournament were clamoring for lunch, along with the regulars and a few truckers. Some were happy with the blue plate special (fried catfish, hush puppies, green tomato relish, beans, and slaw); others demanded salads with dressing on the side or dainty sandwiches on silly-sounding bread. The jukebox was blaring, and everybody was yelling at her like they thought she was deaf as a post. It was worse than the county fair midway on a Saturday night.
She went on into the kitchen to start a batch of hamburger patties. She was too busy breading catfish fillets to notice the black 1966 Imperial Crown Coupe glide by as the stoplight turned green.
Five
A couple of dozen golfers milled around under the tent. A decrepit barn, long since weathered into gray, tilted ominously. Rolls of chicken wire and rusty car parts were scattered in the mud. The nearby sty produced an acrid stench. Many of the ladies held tissues to their noses and rumbled with displeasure. Expressions ranged from shocked to appalled.
Tommy Ridner found Dennis and Amanda. “You been out on the course yet?” he asked as he joined them. Emanating lethal radiation waves, Amanda turned her back on him and walked away.
“Trying to get up my courage,” Dennis said. “Somebody reported spotting a rogue sow, if there is such a thing. Others swear they saw copperheads in the rough and water moccasins in the ponds.”
Tommy handed him a flask. “C’mon, let’s play a round. I want to know if I should be using a wood or a wedge off the tees.”
“I’m not in the mood to step on a snake.”
“The real reason is that you’re terrified of Amanda, aren’t you?” He retrieved the flask and took a swallow. “Don’t be a wuss, Dennis. Just go tell her you’re going to play. She can go hide out in that crappy mo
tel and read her magazines. That’s assuming she doesn’t want to hang around”—he glanced at the barn— “the clubhouse and have martinis.”
“Why would I be terrified of Amanda? She’s devoted to me, in case you haven’t noticed. You’ve been trying to get her into bed since you were my best man. I admire your perseverance, but one of these days you’ll have to admit defeat.” He put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders and grinned at him. “As they say, two’s company and three’s a crowd. But we’ll always be friends, right?”
“I’m surprised she’s letting you play at all. She seemed like she was really pissed off the other day.”
“Just a little spat when I got home,” Dennis said lightly. “She loves to come to tournaments with me, since we have the evenings to dine, dance, and enjoy ourselves in a romantic suite. The facilities here are substandard, to put it kindly. The only way I could placate her was to promise to use my winnings from the bet to take her on a Mediterranean cruise.”
“You’re not taking this bet seriously, are you?” Tommy said. “It was the booze talking. The bass boat’s the real prize.”
Dennis was offended by the idea that a boat was more valuable than his wife’s amorous company. “We made the bet, Tommy, and you’re not backing out of it. Amanda wants to sunbathe on a Greek island.” He gestured at the rutted pasture. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is the course. The fairways are the stubby weeds, the rough is the waist-high weeds. The greens are probably covered with dandelions. You can walk across the algae and scum in the ponds, if the alligators don’t drag you under.”
“It’ll be a challenge,” Tommy admitted. He pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Hey, there’s Natalie and her boot camp lesbian. Let’s get up a foursome. I’ll take Janna as a partner and you can have the princess. Match play, twenty bucks a hole between you and me.”