“Fine,” Professor Johnson said to Pappy. “Lead the way. We’ll follow you into City Hall.”
“You’ll follow me into City Hall, what?”
“Pardon me?” Professor Johnson asked. He glanced at his aunt, who was still wearing her shell-shocked beauty-queen smile.
“You’ll follow me into City Hall, Your Highness!” Pappy said, grabbing another of Cleo’s bags from the professor and heading toward the tilted buildings. He must have been carrying sixty pounds, but walked as if he were carrying a briefcase with nothing more than a newspaper inside.
“It’s not Your Highness,” Professor Johnson said to Pappy’s back. “It’s Your Honor!”
“What was that?” Pappy asked.
“Your. Hon-or.” Professor Johnson pronounced every syllable carefully.
“Just so we understand each other”—Pappy turned to Cleo—“that’s one serious boy you got there.”
“I’m glad we’re providing you with some entertainment,” Professor Johnson said. “But this is not what the Founding Fathers had in mind, you know.”
“Look around, Professor,” Pappy said, turning around. The ramshackle buildings of Fat Chance, Texas, were starting to absorb another day of sun. “I think this is about as far from what the Founding Fathers had in mind as you can get. We’re on our own!”
Pappy pivoted and continued walking. It could have been the heat or the luggage, but as hard as they tried, Professor Johnson and Cleo could not keep up with Pappy.
Cleo looked down at Thud, whose wrinkled, drooling face seemed even sadder in Fat Chance than it had in Los Angeles. She wondered how long it would take until all of them looked like that.
Pappy might have been joking when he referred to himself as Your Highness, but there was no denying the man was the very definition of large and in charge.
“So, like I said,” Pappy reiterated to the assembled group that now included a dehydrated Cleo, “I run the bank and the jail. I’m going to declare City Hall a neutral space. We can air our differences here any time.”
“Seems like we’d need a space about the size of the Empire State Building for that,” Professor Johnson said, as Pappy ushered them into one of the buildings.
Instead of sitting in the assembled seats with the others, Professor Johnson leaned against a back wall to protest the handling of this local government. Thud stared back evenly at the group, but neither he nor the professor stirred.
“Thought that might smooth some feathers around here,” Pappy said under his breath. “Now, I’m going to distribute these buildings and they’re yours to do with what you will.”
Dymphna couldn’t begin to imagine what anyone could do with the buildings.
“I’m going start with the buildings in town,” Pappy said, waving vaguely around. “You know, the ones that are all connected. Cutthroat made sure each building was stocked with enough supplies to get you going.”
“This is bullshit,” Wally Wasabi said. “What? Are we on Survivor? Is this some lame reality show where challenges are made up?”
Dymphna hadn’t thought of that. She found herself feeling hopeful that somehow this was just an elaborate joke, and within moments they would all be in the hands of a TV crew pointing out the hidden cameras. As she looked around, she could see that the idea appealed to almost everyone in the room.
“No,” Pappy said. “These challenges will all be real. But Cutthroat was a good businessman. He always bought in to a good idea—he never started from scratch. He’s just offering you all the same as he took, that’s all.”
The moment of hopefulness deflated like an air mattress after the guests had gone.
Pappy went on. “OK,” he said, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him. “Powderkeg—” He looked up and scanned the room. Powderkeg raised his hand in a salute.
“Powderkeg?” Cleo asked, jumping to her feet. She sounded absolutely outraged. “What is wrong with you, Marshall?!”
“Powderkeg,” Powderkeg said gravely.
“This is not a joke,” Cleo said.
“Oh, I think we might as well have some fun. Don’t you? Try it out! Powwwwwwderkeg!”
Dymphna, who was sitting between Polly and Titan, tried her best to look straight ahead. But Titan reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. A tiny snort escaped her lips, which sent Polly into a fit of silent laughter as well. They tried to compose themselves as Cleo glared at them.
“I’m glad I can be of some amusement for the three musketeers,” Cleo said, sitting down.
It was not in Dymphna’s nature to be rude, and she did feel sorry for Cleo, who obviously wasn’t one to roll with the punches. But as sorry as Dymphna felt for Cleo, she enjoyed becoming part of a group of friends. Polly, Titan, and she had sort of gravitated toward one another. It was like being back in grade school, alone and adrift until you finally settled in with a few people who might just have your back when the chips were down. Dymphna wiped her eyes and caught a wink from Powderkeg. It was clear he felt the three musketeers were on his team!
“Can we move on?” Pappy asked, looking around the room. Once everyone had settled, he continued. “OK, Powderkeg, the building on the northwest corner is the woodshop. That’s yours. There’s electricity and some tools that I hope make sense to you, ’cause they sure didn’t to me—and some lumber.”
Dymphna saw a slight shift in Powderkeg’s cocky attitude. He looked genuinely emotional.
“That—” Powderkeg said. “That’s very generous. Thank you. I never had my own shop.”
“Don’t thank me and don’t blame me later,” Pappy said. “Moving on. Next in line is the Chinese laundry. That goes to Wally Wasabi for obvious reasons.”
Now it was Wally’s turn to leap into the air.
“I’m Japanese,” he said, pounding his chair up and down. “I knew that capitalist pig was a racist!”
“Oh, calm down, Rocket! I was just having some fun with you,” Pappy said, then added, sotto voce, to the room, “I won’t try that again.”
Everyone in the room was so rattled by Wally Wasabi’s outburst that Pappy’s calming tone did little to soothe the electricity in the air.
“Anyway, there’s probably not even a way to make a go of a laundry out here,” Pappy continued. “Cutthroat left you a store. Just like the one he sold from under your great-grandpa.”
“Whatever,” Wally said, slumping back in his seat.
“Polly,” Pappy said. “You’re next.”
Dymphna could feel Polly stiffen next to her.
“I seriously don’t have any idea what Cutthroat had in mind when he decided this,” Pappy said, shaking his head. “He left you a millinery.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Polly said to Dymphna in a panic.
“It’s a hat store,” Dymphna said, not sure if that was any comfort or not—what was anybody supposed to do with a hat store in the middle of nowhere?
“What am I supposed to do with a hat store in the middle of nowhere?” Polly asked Pappy.
“You got me, girl,” Pappy said.
“I mean, I know how to sew, but that doesn’t have anything to do with hats!”
“The place has more than hats. There’s lace and feathers and all kinds of crazy things. You’ll have to make some sense of the place yourself.”
“May I ask where you bought all these supplies?” Cleo asked.
“I didn’t buy anything,” Pappy said. “Cutthroat did. Supplies have been arriving for over a year. Got to the point that the UPS guys wouldn’t even carry the boxes down the hill anymore. Jerry Lee and I had to haul it all down ourselves. That’s one reason I’m glad you all are finally here. I was getting tired.”
Dymphna felt the anticipation mount, waiting for her name to be called.
Pappy flicked through some notes. “Carpenter shop . . . grocery store . . . millinery . . . OK, here we are. Next are the bank and the jail. Thought that was kind of poetic. And as you know, they both belong to
me, seeing as I’m the banker and the sheriff.”
Dymphna turned to look at Professor Johnson, who noisily cleared his throat in the back of the room.
“Oh, what now?” Old Bertha asked, clearly as anxious as Dymphna to find out what this old codger had in store for her.
“Well, I’m sure this is of no interest to anybody,” Professor Johnson said, “but sheriff is an elected office as well.”
“You’re right,” Powderkeg said. “That’s of no interest to anybody. Come on, man, this is the Old West—get with the program.”
“Am I done here?” Wally said. “Can I head out to the store?”
“You’re free to go,” Pappy said. “The place isn’t locked. Be careful, though.”
Wally almost sprinted to the back of the room to pick up his backpack and duffel bag, but turned around and looked at Pappy. “Careful of what?”
“Fancy.”
Dymphna thought it was impossible for Wally to look any more annoyed, but she was wrong. She could see his jawline pulsing.
“Fine,” Wally said. “I’ll bite. Who is Fancy?”
“You’ll bite?” Pappy slapped a Hawaiian-print knee. “Well, son, you may have met your match. ’Cause she might just bite you right back!”
“There’s somebody else here?” Wally asked.
“No . . . well, sorta.” Pappy let out one of his braying laughs. “She’s a buzzard. She’s got a bad wing. So she just hops around here making trouble. I’d give her a wide berth if I were you. You get too close, you could lose a finger.”
Wally looked out the door. “Crap,” he said, putting down his duffel bag and taking his seat.
Dymphna was curious if Fancy was on the sidewalk, but wasn’t sure if she really wanted to find out.
“I hate buzzards,” Titan whispered to Dymphna.
She felt him shudder beside her. “I don’t really know much about them,” she said.
“Me either,” Titan said. “But I hate them in theory.”
Dymphna wasn’t really looking forward to meeting Fancy, but she was a firm believer in the natural order of things. If there was any place a buzzard had a right to be, it was in the middle of Fat Chance, Texas.
“Marshall . . . ,” Cleo said.
“Powderkeg,” Powderkeg reminded, wagging a finger at her.
“All right, fine! Powderkeg! Do you have your gun with you? What a stupid question. Of course you do. Go out there and kill that bird.”
Powderkeg didn’t move a muscle. “I’m not killing anything that hasn’t caused me or anyone else any harm—and is named Fancy. Pappy, let’s get back to business.”
“OK,” Pappy said. “Well, the next building in line is this one—City Hall. And then . . . Cleo, you’re up next.”
Dymphna studied Cleo, who stared straight at Pappy. Cleo betrayed no emotion. She looked no more concerned than if she were waiting to see if she won the cruise at a charity auction. Only when she looked a little closer could Dymphna see Cleo was biting her lower lip.
“Well?” Cleo asked. “What did Daddy leave for me?”
“The café,” Pappy said.
Cleo looked down at her shoes and shook her head. Everyone waited for more of a reaction, but none was forthcoming.
“What are the chances that woman can cook?” Polly asked Dymphna in a low voice.
Dymphna shrugged. She didn’t want to be unkind, but she was wondering the same thing. She hoped Wally Wasabi’s store had something she could prepare herself—if she had a kitchen. Leaving herself in the hands of Cleo’s cooking seemed like even more of a gamble than moving to Fat Chance.
“Professor, you’ve got the saloon next to your aunt’s café.”
“A saloon?” Professor Johnson said, standing straighter. “You mean, a bar? That’s crazy. I don’t drink!”
“It gets crazier,” Pappy said. “There’s no alcohol.”
“How am I supposed to run a bar with no alcohol?”
“You seem to think I’m the answer man,” Pappy said. “You’re supposed to figure it out, remember?”
Professor Johnson slumped back against the wall again as Pappy continued.
“OK, Bertha, now we come to you,” he said. “I don’t know if you noticed the large building off to the west.”
“I did,” Bertha said, narrowing her thick eyebrows. “It’s crooked.”
“It is crooked, but it’s sound,” Pappy said. “Tested it myself. That’s the hotel. And it’s yours.”
“What am I supposed to do with a run-down hotel?” she asked.
“What are any of us supposed to do with anything?” Wally asked.
“You folks really are not in the spirit of this thing at all,” Pappy said. “Give it a chance! Anything can happen out here.”
“Whatever,” Wally said.
“OK, Titan,” Pappy said. “We’ve already discussed that you’re going to take over the forge that’s right across the street.”
Titan smiled and nodded, but as soon as Pappy looked down at his paperwork, Titan whispered to Dymphna, “I still don’t know what that means!”
“You make horseshoes,” Pappy said. “And other things out of metal.”
“Like titanium?” Dymphna asked. “Titanium for Titan?”
“Oh, how cute would that be?” Pappy smiled, then quickly returned to his scowl. “No, not titanium. That’s a little rich for our blood. We’ve got some iron and some steel back there.”
Titan looked panicked. “I don’t know how to do anything like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dymphna said. “I think there’s a steep learning curve ahead for everybody.”
“Maybe I could trade with Polly,” Titan said. “I’m good with hats.”
Dymphna realized Pappy was speaking to her. She squeezed Titan’s hand as she realized she was the last one to be getting a new . . . what? Home? Profession?
“So, Dym . . . Dymph . . . how do you say your name?”
“It’s Dymphna. Like a woodland nymph with a D in front of it. I’m named after the patron saint of the insane.”
“Are you now?” Pappy said. “Well, that sounds just about perfect for Fat Chance, doesn’t it?”
Dymphna smiled. Being named after Saint Dymphna clearly didn’t give her any special powers to determine whether Pappy was out of his mind or not.
“Well, Dym . . . do you mind if I call you Dee?” Pappy asked. “Cutthroat really felt bad about the wrong turns he took with all of you, but you being the last, well, that kind of stuck with him. So he’s set you up on that little farm on the rise just outside of town.”
“I saw it when we came in,” Dymphna said. “It looked like it had a few animals in a pen.”
“That’s right,” Pappy said. “You got yourself a few Angora goats and chickens. You know what you’re doing with animals? The goats have been sheared for the season, but they’ll be needing shearing again in five months. You’ll still be here and I have to be able to count on you. I mean, the rest of these folks can screw up and nobody gets hurt. But you’re going to be in charge of living, breathing creatures. I’ve been watching over those animals myself for a good long while, so I got a vested interest in their well-being. Can I trust you?”
“Yes, sir,” Dymphna said, not believing her luck. She would have animals to care for! “You can trust me.”
Thud suddenly started barking furiously. Cleo screamed and jumped up on her chair.
“What’s going on?” Polly yelled over the noise.
“Git!” bellowed Pappy.
Dymphna looked at Pappy just in time to see him throw the gavel at the front door. Standing in the doorway was an enormous red-beaked buzzard. As much of an animal lover as Dymphna was, she would be hard-pressed to come up with anything positive to say about Fancy. Her feathers were mottled, her head bald and scorched looking. Her gaze was fierce and bold, one eye darting around the room and the other scrunched shut.
The gavel clattered at the bird’s feet.
Fancy s
tood there, glaring at her new neighbors.
CHAPTER 11
Cleo stood in the doorway of the café. She was no novice to restoration. She sat on the board of several Los Angeles conservation groups and had passionately fought to save more buildings than she could name. She recognized arrested decay when she saw it, that befuddling business of shoring up dangerous old buildings but not restoring them to their original condition.
Fat Chance had arrested decay written all over it.
The café had a solid wooden floor, tables and chairs in various degrees of disrepair, a podium, a long counter, and two ceiling fans. She located the light switch and turned the fans on. Miraculously, they worked.
Why ceiling fans but no air conditioner?
How had her father made these arbitrary decisions? Would she ever know? She walked through the doorway into the galley. Had he decked out the place in Viking and Wolf appliances to look like an old-timey kitchen, or did he just get some old relics to wheeze through this madness with her?
Relics it was. There was an old gas stove (at least it wasn’t wood burning), a dented refrigerator, deep steel sinks, scarred wooden countertops, and a redbrick floor. She pulled open several of the drawers and discovered all the essential utensils: a whisk, measuring cups and spoons, a ladle, a carrot peeler, several sharp knives, and a honing steel. Cleo moved to the sink and turned on the water. The spigots ran hot and cold—good news. Opening the refrigerator, she saw that it was stocked with essentials. Eggs, butter, cheese, milk, some vegetables. Where did they come from? How had they gotten there and how long had they been there?
Cleo banged around the cupboards until she located a saucepan. New cookware. Thank God. She filled a pan with cold water and gently floated an egg in it. The egg hovered indecisively for a few seconds, but ended up balanced on its smallest tip, with the large tip reaching for the top. Translation? It was probably close to three weeks old. Still good, but not perfect. Cleo wondered if her father had this sort of experimentation in mind when he’d sent her to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris all those years ago.
Thud came bounding through the kitchen doors, followed by Professor Johnson, who was carrying some of his aunt’s luggage. Thud put his paws on the kitchen counter and started sniffing.
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