Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas

by Celia Bonaduce

  Cleo felt sick. Why was her father confessing now? What good was this going to do? The silence in the room was almost unbearable.

  “Once I started making my list of people I needed to own up to, I thought about your great-grandfather. Well, I figured he was long dead, so I tried finding your grandfather instead. I was actually relieved that he was dead, too—I wasn’t too keen on talking to him. Two old-timers slugging it out over an ancient injustice seemed a little pathetic. So that brought me to your dad, but he was off the radar. Figured he’d gotten it together and was leading a quiet life somewhere. Don’t get me wrong—I could have found him. It just would have cost me a few more dollars. But then I found you. A police report full of petty crimes. You come from a good family and you’re throwing that away. Would things have been different if I had kept my promise and returned the store? Maybe not. But . . . maybe. And that’s why you’re here.”

  Cleo’s eyes had adjusted to the light. She thought she saw the young man flip off the screen with his middle finger. She looked back at the screen and saw her father was looking through his notes again.

  “Next up,” he said. “Old Bertha.”

  “Hey, dead man,” the old woman with the gray hair said. “I’m still here, so don’t ‘Old Bertha’ me.”

  “Now, Bertha, you . . . I can’t say I never thought of you again.”

  Cleo watched a smile stretch across her father’s face. He looked twenty years younger for a fleeting second, before returning to his notes.

  “The year 1955 was a great one. America was at peace and the economy was going strong. I bought a hardware store and hired pretty Bertha Belmont to run the cash register. She was the prettiest girl in town. I was crazy about her. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out the feeling was mutual. In the evening, when I turned the sign in the window to Closed, Bertha would make us some tea, I’d put the radio on, and we’d dance to ‘Only You’ by the Platters. But one day, I got a lead on investing in a restaurant. I already had a nose for success and I smelled a winner. The only way to go for it was to sell the hardware store. I also had a little stash put away because I was planning on buying an engagement ring for you, Bertha.”

  Cleo heard a gasp in the dark.

  “I knew this restaurant was going to take all my time and money and . . . well . . . I always figured I’d meet another girl,” Cutthroat continued.

  It was Cleo’s turn to gasp. Did he mean he hadn’t met another girl he loved as much? What about her own mother? Until her mother’s death many years ago, her parents always seemed to have had a very respectful marriage. Cleo had always assumed that the fact that her father never remarried was a testament to their love. Perhaps their union could have had more passion—but who wants their parents to be passionate?

  “Not the last time that I’d pick money over love. They always say you never forget the first time. If I hadn’t run out on you, Bertha, you might have been my wife. Everything you’re seeing around you—and more—would have been yours.”

  “You think I ever gave you a second thought?” Bertha snarled at the screen. “You big-headed fool! You became a billionaire, not God.” She sat back, arms folded over her bosom.

  “Okay—Ray Darling,” Cutthroat continued. “Ray, I know they call you Titan and from the pictures I’ve seen, it’s with good reason. Of all the people in the room, I feel the worst about you.”

  “I don’t understand this,” Titan said, as everyone turned to look at him. Dymphna reached over the little table between them and squeezed his hand.

  “By 1990 I had my hand in everything—real estate, oil fields, technology, politics. If there was money to be made, I was there. And one place to be making money in the eighties and nineties was entertainment. The days of a singer taking the stage with talent and a guitar were long over. I started backing those big tours with all the pyrotechnics. We needed acts that could keep people’s attention. We were going for a look, talent be damned. Well, Titan, I don’t need to tell you the rest, but I do need to let everyone else in the room know why you’re on my ‘make amends’ list.”

  Cleo watched Titan as he put his hands over his face and plugged his ears with his thumbs. He obviously knew what was coming—even if no one else did. And he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Your mother could walk into a room and all eyes would turn to her. She was a pure spirit—just waiting for someone like me to make her a star. She knew how to dance and could go on forever. So what if she couldn’t sing? Technology would take care of that! So we threw an act together. Your mom was tiny and cute as a bug, so we called her Sweet Darling. We put her on the stage and all the charts. She won a Grammy, for Christ’s sake. There were rumors in the press that your mom wasn’t actually singing, but we were cocky. We figured nobody cared as long as they were being entertained. Sweet kept begging us to come clean. She said she felt ashamed of winning that Grammy! Then, at one of the shows, something went wrong. I don’t know what. But it was obvious your mom wasn’t singing. She ran off the stage.”

  Cleo tried to keep her eyes on the video, but she kept looking toward Titan, who had not lifted his head.

  “We didn’t think it was going to be a big deal. Your mom was a sensitive soul . . . a real sensitive soul. We told her we’d be doing damage control. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  Cleo could see her father fighting to control his breathing.

  “She ran out of the building. She wasn’t looking where she was going and got hit by a car.” Once again, Cutthroat stopped talking. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water from a glass just out of sight of the camera. He continued, but in a husky whisper. “There was speculation that she ran into that car on purpose, but I know that isn’t true. Ray, I swear, your mom would never have left you.”

  Titan continued to look at the floor. Cleo could see his shoulders softly shaking.

  Cleo thought back to those days. Sweet Darling’s death had been in all the papers, magazines, and TV news. She remembered her father being withdrawn and anxious. Every family get-together was interrupted by phone calls and messages. She never knew why. She never asked. Her remembrance was interrupted as her father continued his narrative.

  “Sweet used to talk about you all the time. I kept meaning to do something for you. But my advisers said that I couldn’t make any sort of reparation without admitting guilt. So I let the lawyers duke it out. But that is no excuse! No excuse not to do something for a little boy who must have been in pain over losing his mother.”

  Cleo bit her lip. Although by the nineties, she was an adult—married, then divorced and living her own life—she was always close to her father. Or so she thought until today. So many secrets.

  Their family had had their own share of tragedy during those years. She could tell her father was struggling to keep his emotions under control.

  “I lost my son and daughter-in-law just months after. My own grandson, Elwood, was left an orphan. But I just browbeat my newly divorced daughter into taking him in, rather than pay him any attention myself.”

  Cleo looked over at Elwood, who was taking in everything in his stoic fashion. She didn’t want him to think she only took him in because his grandfather insisted. It was true, but she certainly didn’t want her nephew to know it.

  “It was as if... if I admitted my little grandson needed me, I was somehow admitting that Sweet Darling’s son needed something from me, too.”

  Cutthroat paused and took another sip of water.

  “I also lost my friend and partner, Sebastian Pennyfeather, that year.” Cutthroat smiled grimly. “But enough about me. Elwood, let’s move on to you. You’ve done all right for yourself. You might not care about money, but that’s probably my fault. You most likely didn’t see anything particularly rewarding on that path. I’m just guessing, of course, since I never asked you. I know I haven’t said this—but I’m proud of you. But I still owe you. I owe you a grandfather. But, since I don’t have time to give that to you, I’m adding you to my li
st. And one more thing, Elwood. You’re just too damn serious. I’m hoping this little scheme of mine loosens you up a bit. I’ve never met a young person so dead set against a good time. OK, who’s next?”

  Cutthroat pulled his notes close to his face and put them down again.

  “Now, I won’t pretend to think I was powerful enough to stop the 9/11 tragedy. But I was working in politics—behind the scenes, of course—and I donated a lot of money to protect our interests in the Middle East. Did I ever think that something like 9/11 would happen? God, no. But did I do anything to protect America against it? No, again. So, Polly, if you’re in the room, and I hope you are, I kind of picked you at random—to represent all the kids of the first responders who didn’t make it out. The fact that your dad was just about to retire really nags at me. But I guess that doesn’t really change anything.”

  Polly, who had her long legs tucked under her, and had been typing on her cell phone through most of the morning, stopped typing. While she didn’t look at anyone, she blinked up at the ceiling, fingers pressed under her eyes to keep her makeup from running.

  “You seem like a good kid who got an unlucky break, Polly. For whatever part I played in that, I’m sorry. And if any of this goes according to plan, I hope you can pay it forward to other kids in your situation.”

  “According to what plan, you damn fool?” Cleo heard Wally yell at the screen. “Like the old lady said, you weren’t God.”

  Cleo raised her eyebrows. Her father did think he was God and nothing that ever happened in his life had made him think otherwise. Cutthroat Clarence, of course, couldn’t see or hear any of this and just continued.

  “That was the worst of it, but I still could be an asshole once in a while, just to keep in practice,” he said. “Which brings me to Dymphna Pearl.”

  As Dymphna’s name was spoken, Titan raised his massive head from his hands. It was now his turn to be the protector, it seemed.

  “Sweet little Dymphna Pearl, who wanted nothing more than to raise a few sheep in the hills of Malibu and spin yarn,” Cutthroat said.

  Cleo was puzzled by her father’s tone. Was he making fun of the young woman? Admiring her? Cleo had given up guessing.

  “But that was not to be, was it, Dymphna?” He looked back at the camera, eerily posing the question. “I already knew I was dying when I got an offer to buy several prime acres in Malibu. The land you had your sheep on was among them. What can I say? I bought the acres. I don’t even know what happened to you.”

  Cleo looked over at Dymphna, who sat, shoulders hunched and head bowed, Titan’s huge hand on her shoulder.

  “Well, that’s just about everybody,” Cutthroat continued. “Cleo, I’ve robbed you of your chance at the American Dream, too. Being handed everything is not all it’s cracked up to be. I may be criticized for the way I built my empire—and rightly so. But I built it myself. There’s nothing in the world like doing it yourself. I want you to have the chance to experience that.”

  Cleo bristled. Had she ever complained about her life? When her friends turned forty and wanted to make something of themselves by opening boutiques and spas, did she feel even a twinge to follow suit? No, she did not. If she wanted the American Dream, she would have just bought it.

  Cleo looked over at the man in the winged-back chair. Had her father forgotten someone?

  “OK, Cleo, one last thing. If you’re not mad at me now, this will probably cement the deal,” her father said to the camera. “I know I said you’d get your inheritance if you gathered all these people together, and I’m sorry to say, I lied to you. There is just one more step before that money is in your hands.”

  Cleo felt as if she’d been turned to stone. What did he mean? What did she have to do now? At that moment, the man in the winged-back chair leaned forward.

  It was Marshall Primb, her ex-husband.

  “I’m also including you and Marshall in this,” Cutthroat said on-screen.

  “Uncle Marshall?” Elwood’s voice pierced through the stillness in the room.

  Marshall Primb winked quickly at Cleo then turned his megawatt smile on Elwood. “How’s it going, kid? Long time, no see.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Dymphna felt the color rising from her collarbone as her friends stared at her. Erinn, Suzanna, and their mother, Virginia, listened as Dymphna recounted what had happened at the mansion. Unlike the lavish buffet set up at the Beverly Hills house, Suzanna had laid out some simple scones and homemade lemon curd in her closed teashop. It was perfect. Dymphna was starving, but could only manage a small bite now and then.

  “Go on.” Suzanna, who was just starting her fourth month of pregnancy with her second child, stood up and was refilling tea mugs. “So the gazillionaire tells Chloe—”

  “Cleo,” Erinn corrected.

  “Dear, it’s Dymphna’s story, let her tell it,” Virginia said, patting Erinn’s arm.

  Dymphna smiled at Virginia’s mild correction. Erinn might be forty-something, but once a mother, always a mother. Suzanna sat down heavily in her chair, propped her head on her fists, and turned her complete attention to Dymphna. All three women appeared to be galvanized.

  Dymphna took another quick bite of scone and continued. “When Cutthroat Clarence told Cleo that he also needed to make amends to her ex-husband, Cleo totally lost it. She took turns screaming at the video, screaming at her ex-husband, and screaming at the lawyer. I got up to leave—I was terrified, but my friend Titan . . .”

  “The bodybuilder who is a dresser in Las Vegas, who lost his mother,” said Erinn.

  Dymphna flinched. Titan’s pain had been palpable. But Erinn was a TV producer and was a little more hardened than she.

  “Good memory,” Dymphna said.

  “I’m taking notes,” Erinn replied, indicating a legal pad in front of her. “This is a lot to take in.”

  “Titan said we had to stay,” Dymphna said. “He pointed out that we still didn’t know why we were all there.”

  “I assume you found out,” Virginia said.

  “Never assume, Mother,” Erinn said.

  “Well, in this case,” Dymphna said, “it’s all right to assume, because we did find out.”

  Suzanna’s stomach started to growl. She rubbed her hands over her belly. “Sorry! The baby is demanding some jelly beans,” she said, getting up and going to an antique hutch in the corner of the shop. She stretched to reach a high shelf and pulled down a jar of jelly beans in a glass jar with an ornate lid. She went back to her seat, where she grabbed a handful of candy and pushed the jar to the center of the table, indicating that the candy was up for grabs.

  “Mr. Tensaw got everybody seated and started the video again.”

  “Didn’t you say it was a DVD?” Erinn asked. “Although it could have been originally recorded on digital videotape, I suppose.”

  “Oh my God, Erinn,” Suzanna said. “Nobody cares! Go on, Dymphna!”

  “Cutthroat said that he knew he’d done each of us harm,” Dymphna said. “But he didn’t want to just give us money, he wanted to give us back the thing he stole from us.”

  “Which was?” Virginia said, digging through the jelly beans. Dymphna knew she was looking for a coconut-flavored one.

  “The American Dream,” Dymphna said.

  Virginia stopped digging and the three women stared at her.

  “Pardon me?” Erinn said, looking up from her notepad.

  “He said he stole our chance at the American Dream,” Dymphna said.

  “What a cheapskate,” Suzanna said. “Tell him you want the money.”

  “He’s dead, dear,” Virginia said to Suzanna, then turned to Dymphna. “Besides, it doesn’t sound as if he actually took any money from any of you.”

  “Is he planning on giving you something as abstract as a shot at the American Dream?” Erinn asked. “Can you speak of a dead person’s directive in the present tense? Shouldn’t it be ‘Was he planning—’”

  “Mom, just make her stop,”
Suzanna said. She looked pleadingly at Virginia and then back to Dymphna. “What happened next?”

  “This is where it gets strange,” Dymphna said.

  “Oh no,” Erinn said. “It’s been strange for a quite a while now, but go on.”

  “He’s leaving us a town,” Dymphna said.

  There was dead silence at the table. The intensity of her friends’ expressions unnerved her. She looked down at the table, taking a sudden interest in her phone, which was upside down on the table. The case, a gift from Erinn, featured a picture of Snow D’Winter that Erinn had taken. Erinn considered Snow to be Dymphna’s most photogenic rabbit, although Dymphna loved all six equally. At one time, her animals were her only family. Dymphna thought about the three women who had since become her surrogate family. Dymphna’s introduction to the Wolf family had come about in the quintessential SoCal way. She’d been looking for a house in Santa Monica with a yard that would accommodate her furry brood and she’d answered Erinn’s ad on craigslist. Erinn had a lovely Victorian with a perfect guesthouse and large yard. Now, when Erinn’s mother, Virginia, introduced her daughters, she said, “This is my eldest, Erinn, this is my younger daughter, Suzanna, and this is Dymphna, my daughter from craigslist.”