Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas

by Celia Bonaduce

  “So now we’re going to celebrate Fat Chance?” Titan asked.

  “Exactly!” Dymphna said. “We can call it the Spirit of Fat Chance.”

  “Fat and Wild?” Wally snickered.

  “That sounds like a reality show,” Old Bertha said.

  “I think we should call it Cowboy-Up,” Polly said. “It means muscle through, doesn’t it? And that’s what we did. Plus it’s the only cowboy term I know.”

  “But,” Cleo said, “we’re not cowboys. That’s the point. I think we need a name with some sophistication—some sizzle.”

  “Fandango?” Titan offered.

  “Fandango-Up In Fat Chance!” Dymphna cried.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Powderkeg said. “I’m in.”

  “Who’ll come to see it?” Old Bertha asked.

  “The people from the Rolling Fork and Spoonerville,” Dymphna said.

  “Our whole bowling league,” Rock added.

  “My friend Erinn might be able to get us some publicity,” Dymphna said.

  “And Maurice can get the word out in Las Vegas,” added Titan.

  “I might have a contact or two,” Wally said.

  Everyone stared at him.

  “What?” he asked. “You think I don’t know anybody?”

  Suddenly there was a chorus of voices as everyone threw out ideas.

  “We can attack the town!”

  “We don’t have any horses.”

  “We can use Jerry Lee!”

  “Dude, we don’t want to get laughed at.”

  “We can attack on our ATVs!” Rock said.

  “I think Polly and Wally should attack with us,” Rodney said. “You know, the outlaws.”

  “And Titan,” Rock added. “Dude, you should be with the outlaws, too!”

  “But these people are my friends,” Titan said.

  “It’s all in fun,” Dymphna assured him.

  “What would we wear?” Titan asked.

  “We’ll figure something out!” Polly said, pumping her fist in the air. “I can’t wait!”

  “If Old Bertha can lend me a hand, I can make the food,” Cleo said.

  “Maybe we could have booths, too, to sell some of the stuff we’ve been making,” Powderkeg said, then winked at Cleo. “Like the old days.”

  “You used to be able to sell leather to a cow,” Cleo said, poking him in the ribs.

  “It’s going to be a lot of work getting this right,” Powderkeg said. “We’re gonna have to order a bunch of stuff—and it would sure be helpful to get the Covered Volkswagen running. This is going to take everything we’ve got.”

  “Maybe we should try the dry ice thing again,” Professor Johnson said.

  “I told you, that won’t work,” Powderkeg said. “We could try putting water bags over the vents.”

  “I’m telling you, the dry ice concept will work, it just needs a few kinks worked out,” Professor Johnson argued.

  “May I borrow your phone?” Cleo held out her hand to Dymphna.

  Dymphna turned it over without a word, but followed Cleo out onto the street.

  “Do you think a Wild West Weekend is anything like your father had in mind for us?” Dymphna asked.

  “Maybe not. I agree that we should attempt it, but frankly, it was always impossible to make Daddy happy, so I wouldn’t start worrying about it now.” Cleo punched at the buttons on the phone.

  Dymphna stood back as Cleo turned her attention to the phone call.

  “Wesley, darling, it’s Cleo. Be a dear, would you, and send me a Volkswagen engine?”

  Cleo paused and furrowed her brow. “I am very aware I don’t have the capital for that; that’s why I’m calling you.”

  Dymphna pretended not to listen, but it was impossible. Thankfully, Titan came out to the boardwalk. They both pretended not to listen.

  “Wesley, darling, I’m going to be a very powerful woman in less than a month. I suggest you figure out a way to get a Volkswagen engine and deliver it to Fat Chance, Texas, this week . . . No, darling, just to the top of the hill will be fine. Be creative! Of course I’m not threatening you . . . but call me when the engine is on its way. Kisses . . . oh, and send a new set of tires—the bus was built in 1972, I believe. Buh-bye.”

  She snapped the phone closed, but Titan was right behind her, waiting for the phone. He stabbed at the keypad and while he waited, he looked at Dymphna, crossing his fingers in a “here’s hoping for the best” gesture. While Dymphna had no idea what they were hoping for, she crossed her fingers, too—both hands.

  “Hello, Maurice. Is there any way I can borrow those Wild West costumes for a few days at the end of the month? Oh, thank you! We’re putting on a show! I’m going to be an outlaw! Send them all, but especially that gorgeous cowboy hat with the rhinestones and feathers! It’s going to be fab!”

  Titan and Cleo went back into City Hall, heads together, plotting ideas for the show. Dymphna stared at her phone. What had she gotten them into?

  CHAPTER 36

  Everyone in Fat Chance was standing at the top of the trail, looking at the Volkswagen bus, which stood proudly on four glossy new tires. Tools, discarded cans of oil, and a large gas can littered the turnout. Powderkeg, Professor Johnson, and the twins knelt shoulder to shoulder, looking inside the engine.

  “That should do it,” Powderkeg said.

  Fancy perched on Titan’s sheathed arm, but looked down threateningly at Thud, who periodically jumped up to see her.

  “I can’t watch,” Titan said to Dymphna and Polly, covering his eyes with his free hand.

  “They seem to know what they’re doing,” Dymphna said.

  “The bus only has to get us to Spoonerville and back to pick up supplies,” Polly added. “It’s not like it has to be perfect.”

  “I don’t think that’s how an engine operates,” Cleo said. “It either works or it doesn’t.”

  “I just don’t want to hear any more arguments about that damn dry ice,” Old Bertha said.

  Professor Johnson looked up at Wally, who was leaning against the bus, and gave him a nod.

  “OK, Pappy,” Wally yelled to Pappy in the driver’s seat. “Start her up.”

  As if reacting to a secret signal, everyone backed away from the bus. Pappy cranked the engine. It started with a clatter and then a roar, which sent Thud running down the hill and Fancy crab-walking up Titan’s shoulder.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Titan said, coaxing Fancy back onto the leather sheath.

  The rest of the Fat Chance occupants danced around the bus, hugging and high-fiving each other. Polly and Rodney shared a kiss, then another, then another.

  “Get a room,” Wally said sourly.

  “Dude,” Rock said. “Seriously.”

  Powderkeg whooped and hollered, throwing a startled Cleo over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and spinning her around. Dymphna spontaneously threw her arms around Professor Johnson. Mid-hug, she realized this was the first physical contact the two had shared since the professor moved back down the hill. She was relieved to find the hug didn’t send him scampering down the hill after Thud.

  “I can’t believe you got that old thing going,” Old Bertha said.

  “Back at ya,” Pappy said.

  “Pardon?” Old Bertha asked, confused.

  “You got this old thing going,” Pappy said, pointing to himself.

  “I haven’t been harassed this much since the nineteen fifties,” Old Bertha said. “You should try a new approach.”

  “Would a new approach get me anyplace?” Pappy asked.

  Old Bertha started to shake her head but stopped. She stared at him. “It might.”

  Pappy, a tint of scarlet in his leather cheeks, called out, “Everybody who’s going to Spoonerville, be ready to roll in twenty.”

  Everyone wanted to go to Spoonerville in the resuscitated vehicle, but it only held four passengers and the driver, since the center seat had been removed long ago.

  While a carnival atmosphe
re surrounded the resuscitation of the Covered Volkswagen, there was no reason to go insane. It was still a cantankerous vehicle. Rock, Rodney, and Polly agreed to follow the bus on the ATVs, just in case the bus broke down. Powderkeg suggested he walk over with Jerry Lee and his saddlebags, since the supplies for Fandango-Up in Fat Chance were coming in. Even an empty VW wouldn’t hold everything. Professor Johnson volunteered Thud’s services as a pack animal as well. Dymphna quickly did the math. If she walked to Spoonerville, that would leave just four—Titan, Old Bertha, Wally Wasabi, and Cleo—to ride in the bus.

  “I’ll walk over, too,” Dymphna said, casting a sideways glance at Professor Johnson. She couldn’t tell if the news made him happy, annoyed—or if he didn’t care at all. She knew Thud would be happy to have her along.

  “Since I’m heading over on foot,” Professor Johnson said to Powderkeg, “I can handle Jerry Lee if you want to ride over in the bus.”

  Dymphna bit her lip to hide her smile. Maybe this meant he wanted to walk with her and her alone.

  “Just in case something goes wrong,” Professor Johnson said. “Might be good to have at least one of us riding along.”

  Dymphna’s hopes were dashed. The professor and Powderkeg exchanged a manly handshake as Powderkeg took a seat on the floor of the bus.

  “Oh, Wally,” Dymphna called into the bus. “Can I grab some of my jam off your shelves to sell in Spoonerville? I’ll replace them tomorrow.”

  “Whatever,” came the response.

  Dymphna and Professor Johnson stood on the turnout watching the bus clatter down the road, while the ATVs roared up and down the hills, Polly waving from the back of Rodney’s vehicle.

  “We should have a parade,” Dymphna said to Professor Johnson.

  “That might be difficult, since everyone just took off.”

  “Not now,” Dymphna said. “For Fandango-Up in Fat Chance. Don’t you think that would be fun?”

  “I have no idea. I tend to deal more with the tangible.”

  “Parades are tangible.”

  “Not at this stage of the game. Get back to me when you have the Grand Marshall.”

  Was that a joke?

  They headed down the hill to harness Jerry Lee and Thud. Dymphna let herself into Wally Wasabi’s grocery store. She thought he kept a few baskets behind the counter, but she couldn’t find any. She looked around the store, and then wandered into the back room. She spotted a beat-up rattan basket on the floor beside a desk. The desk was tidy, but there was a letter and torn envelope on it, as well as his computer, which sat open. The envelope was addressed to Wallace Watanabe at his Spoonerville P.O. address. She smiled. Everyone in town gently ribbed him about his obsession with going to Spoonerville for his mail. She couldn’t read the letter without moving the envelope, and she thought that was an invasion of his privacy. But the envelope had a black rose as part of its New York City return address. She had to admit, her curiosity was piqued. Was he in some steamy pen-pal correspondence?

  Seems a little old-school for Wally.

  As she bent to pick up the basket, she jarred the desk and the computer screen came to life. She hadn’t meant to look, but she was so surprised to see sentences filling up the screen that curiosity got the better of her. She knew he had no signal in this part of town, so whatever this was, he must be just using the word processing program—which in turn meant—he was writing.

  He carefully lifted the hair off the back of her neck and kissed her throat near her right ear, softly moving her pearl-drop earring out of the way with his tongue. Her small breasts rose and fell with each breath. She was wearing a sundress the color of the sky, with spaghetti straps, which were thin and worn from too many washings, tied at the shoulders.

  Wally Wasabi knows the term “spaghetti straps”?

  She kept reading:

  He untied one string, which fell away from her shoulder in a whisper. Her breathing quickened. He ran one finger along her delicate collarbone and then untied the other.

  “Jerry Lee and Thud are ready to go,” Professor Johnson called from the front of the store.

  Dymphna bolted upright. She had no right to read this. But what exactly was she reading? She took one final glance at the header. It read:

  The Cowgirl in the Ride-’Em-High Boots

  Dymphna grabbed the basket and ran from the room.

  For the first time since meeting Professor Johnson, she was glad he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Dymphna didn’t want to spill Wally Wasabi’s secret, but she was afraid if they started talking, she’d spill the beans.

  Polly had announced her devotion to Mimi Millicent’s romantic texts in the RV and then again when they first got to Fat Chance. Was it possible he hadn’t heard her declaration either time?

  Not likely.

  And you would have to be blind not to know Wally was smitten with Polly. He must be writing a romance to impress Polly. The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.

  “Is everything all right?” Professor Johnson’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re carrying an empty basket. That struck me as a little odd.”

  Dymphna looked down at the battered basket.

  I forgot the jam.

  CHAPTER 37

  Dymphna, Professor Johnson, Jerry Lee, and Thud rounded the bend in the road that led to Spoonerville. The tiny town looked like a busy retailer before Black Friday. The ground around the Volkswagen was covered with boxes of every shape and size. Cleo and Old Bertha had their heads together and were going through a checklist with their pens. Rock was standing with a few young men Dymphna didn’t know—the bowling team, no doubt. All of them shot admiring glances at Polly from time to time. Polly, oblivious, sat on the ground, digging into a box of lace trims and holding them up for Rodney to see. Titan stood beaming, running his massive hands over two antique steamer trunks covered in decals, probably Maurice’s costumes. Dymphna could see Powderkeg off in the distance, staring at the ground. She had gotten used to the sight of him picking up interesting pieces of wood to turn into utensils and bowls.

  At least Powderkeg isn’t spending any money.

  While she was pleased that her neighbors had embraced Fandango-Up in Fat Chance, she knew that many of them were going out on a limb financially to make it a reality. There was no denying that it was going to be expensive. While Cleo was game to front the money, Wesley was prepared for her call this time, and had cut her off. However, Cleo’s successful strong-arming of one of the most powerful attorneys in Los Angeles opened the floodgates of fancy financial wheeling and dealing. Old Bertha, with her background in finance, sat down with Dodge and laid out their plan. Between everyone’s credit cards and Dodge’s agreement to finance the balance until the Fat Chance inhabitants got their money, Fandango-Up was proceeding full speed ahead.

  “We need nine hundred people to attend over the course of three days to break even,” Old Bertha said.

  “There aren’t nine hundred people anywhere around here,” Pappy said. “They’d have to come from Austin, and that’s asking a lot.”

  “Dodge says he can all but guarantee nine hundred people himself,” Cleo said. “He has friends and family all over Texas who are just looking for something to do.”

  “If Dodge can bring in the folks,” Old Bertha said, “there’s no reason this shouldn’t work.”

  “I wouldn’t be trusting Dodge Durham,” Pappy warned. “Back in the day, him and his daddy could have given Cutthroat a run for his money—no offense, Cleo.”

  “No offense taken,” Cleo said. “I don’t recall Daddy objecting to everyone making money. He was very democratic that way.”

  “I’m with Pappy,” Powderkeg said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Oh, you don’t trust anybody,” Cleo said.

  “And we can all reach out to friends and family,” Dymphna offered, turning to Professor Johnson. “What do you think?”

  “I think
it all sounds like magical thinking.”

  “Most of us have pretty much survived on magical thinking to this point,” Powderkeg said. “Let’s go for it.”

  Feelers to the outside world were not going well. Erinn would be on a shoot, Virginia had to stay in Santa Monica to take care of the rabbits, and Suzanna’s baby was due any day. Titan was hoping his friend Maurice could make the trip from Las Vegas—maybe even bring some show members—but while Maurice was generous enough to send Titan some costumes, he really didn’t visualize himself in Fat Chance, Texas. Cleo absolutely refused to tell any of her Beverly Hills friends where she was, let alone ask them to come—and the rest of the group didn’t have anyone to ask.

  Planning for Fandango-Up had the inhabitants of Fat Chance in Spoonerville almost as often as in their own town—supplies being ordered, supplies being delivered, wrong orders being sent back.

  They all knew that nine hundred people attending a Wild West Weekend would neither set the world on fire nor turn Fat Chance into an instantaneous destination spot in Central Texas. But in their own way, they would make the statement that they had been there—and that they had mattered. It would be a salute to Fat Chance, even if this was probably not exactly what Cutthroat Clarence envisioned for them. And if fate was with them, they’d turn a profit!

  Now that would be exactly what Cutthroat Clarence had had in mind.

  It had been almost a century since anything resembling Fandango-Up in Fat Chance had taken place in this part of the Hill Country. Rodney and Rock were working on a bowling exhibition. Powderkeg was helping them design an outdoor bowling lane in a prime spot of real estate between the Creakside Inn and Polly’s Tops, Hats & Tails.

  On this umpteenth trip to Spoonerville, Dymphna looked around for Wally. He was sitting on the porch of Dodge’s store, tapping away on his phone. Dymphna studied him. Could the surly Wally really be capable of such passionate prose? Perhaps there was another explanation. As if Wally sensed her interest, he looked up and gave his chin a slight tilt, his trademark ultracool greeting. Dymphna couldn’t stand keeping secrets. While she wasn’t proud of the fact that she’d been inadvertently snooping, she felt it was in Wally’s and her best interests if she confessed.