Much Ado in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  I managed not to flinch. “At your request, of course.”

  “Goodness gracious, Arly, you don’t think Perkins’s eldest would snoop through Jim Bob’s office on her own, do you? Not all the burners on her stove get real hot.”

  “It’s just what we thought!” Ruby Bee said before I felt obliged to mention conspiracy, theft, theft by receiving, and so on. “It says we’re supposed to enter our local championship team. It doesn’t say anywhere that Jim Bob can just put his supermarket’s name on the uniforms and send the team out to advertise for him.”

  “We don’t have a local championship team,” Joyce contributed.

  “Because we can’t have a play-off,” Ruby Bee said, giving Estelle a sly look. “If there was another team in Maggody, the two teams could have a play-off like they do in the television leagues. Then we’d know which team was champion of Maggody.”

  The stage was set, but one of the players didn’t have a copy of the script. On the other hand, she had a long history of being manipulated by her mother, and she was beginning to catch the drift of the production. “You thinking of sponsoring a team?” I asked.

  “What a novel idea,” Ruby Bee said, getting slyer by the second. “And that way, Joyce’s little niece Saralee could have an equal opportunity to play instead of being made to be a cheerleader. This letter says the players have to be entering fifth or sixth grade this fall. It doesn’t say one word about boys; it says players.”

  “Saralee’s going into fifth,” Joyce said.

  “Hizzoner’s not going to like this,” I said, shaking my head.

  Ruby Bee slapped down the letter so she could get both fists on her hips. “And that’s going to keep me awake nights? How about you, Estelle—is that going to keep you awake nights? Joyce, you think you’ll lose sleep if Jim Bob Buchanon gets his comeuppance once and for all?”

  I climbed off the stool. “All I said was that he wasn’t going to like it. I have no objection whatsoever to any scheme that ruffles his tail feathers, ladies. In fact, I’ll make myself a tissue-paper pom-pom and sit in the first row of the bleachers. I’ve got a date now, so I’m going to run along and let you all work on the list of all the things you’ll have to do. Ciao!”

  I almost made it to the door.

  “Just hold your horses, Miss Social Gadabout,” Ruby Bee barked. “You come right back here and explain about this list. I’m sponsoring a baseball team, not going into Starley City to shop.”

  I held my horses, but also my ground. “Okay, for starters, you need a minimum of nine players, and you’ve got one. You need uniforms, balls, bats, gloves, bases, a league rule book, a field for practice, and a couple of coaches.”

  Joyce Lambertino slid off the bar stool, mumbled something about the waxy buildup on her kitchen floor, and escaped past me with the look of a homeowner on Elm Street who’s just heard about the newest neighbor.

  Ruby Bee and Estelle stared at me, and I stared right back at them as Joyce’s station-wagon door slammed shut and the engine growled to life. We continued to stare as tires ground across the gravel parking lot. We stared some more as tires met hot pavement and squealed away.

  “No,” I said flatly.

  “I am your own flesh and blood,” Ruby Bee began, but that’s all I heard, because I was out of there and fully intending to stay out of there until the Maggody World Series was decided.

  Ivy watched Alex as he took the empty crates from the trunk of the car. At times, he was more trying than their son, she thought with a grimace. Send him to the co-op in town for gunnysacks and fertilizer, wait the best part of the afternoon, and watch him return with crates and a stupid grin. He’d probably gotten lost.

  His overalls needed patching, his bootlaces needed tying, his hair and beard needed trimming, and she was fairly sure his eyeglasses needed cleaning, because they always did. It was a miracle he didn’t walk into a wall more often.

  However, when he offered the crates, she wordlessly took them from him and set them down on one of the big plywood tabletops.

  “I saw a scissor-tailed flycatcher on the utility wire,” he said.

  “Through those smudgy glasses? Give them to me so I can wipe them on my shirttail.”

  “I could see the distinctive silhouette, Ivy. It’s the first one I’ve seen all summer. It was down by the low-water bridge.”

  “Good, Alex.” She plucked his glasses off his nose and began to clean them, not bothering to point out that the bridge was not between their farm and the co-op. “At the rate business is going these days, we may have to fry it for supper. I don’t know what’s going to happen when that fancy supermarket opens.” She stopped as a dusty white Chevy parked in the nearby shade. “Ruby Bee, how are you today? I put aside some particularly fine tomatoes for you. I was going to call you later so you could come by and get ’em.”

  “I appreciate it, Ivy,” Ruby Bee said, more interested in a list she was glancing at. “Isn’t Jackie going into the sixth grade this year?”

  “He sure is,” Alex said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Ruby Bee went between the tables, nodding appreciatively at the piles of vegetables, and cornered Ivy in front of a stack of shallow wooden crates. “There’s something I want to discuss with you,” she began.

  Geraldo Mandozes sat at a small table in the storeroom of the Dairee Dee-Lishus, the bills fanned out in front of him like a deck of cards. Why was business so bad? He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair as he muttered a few choice Spanish curses. The goddamn deli wasn’t even open yet, and already he was feeling a squeeze. He was having to throw away more tamales than he sold.

  “Yoo-hoo,” called a voice from out front. “Mr. Mandozes? Are you home?”

  He abandoned the bills and went out to the counter window. “Yes, I am Mandozes. You want to order?”

  Estelle hastily looked up at the painted menu above his head. “Why, yes, I believe I’ll have a cherry limeade. It’s so hot today that my brain is bubbling like a pot of stew.”

  “You don’t want any tamales or some cheeseburgers?”

  “In this heat?” Estelle chuckled merrily, then rewarded the foreigner with a right nice smile while he fixed the cherry limeade and put it down on the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Mandozes. I’m sure this will hit the spot. I dropped by earlier, but you were closed up tighter’n a tick.”

  “I needed supplies, and the wholesaler will no longer deliver such small and insignificant orders.”

  “Well, imagine that. There’s a little something I wanted to ask you, if you don’t mind.” She hurried on in case he did. “I seem to recall you’ve got a little boy of about ten or eleven.”

  “Raimundo is ten,” Geraldo said suspiciously. He lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke through the screened window. “Has he done a wrong thing?”

  “Heavens, no.” Estelle took a big slurp of the cherry limeade while she tried to decide how best to continue.

  Buzz Milvin popped the top of the beer and grinned at the noise. Weren’t nothing finer than to come home to a cool living room, a cold beer, and some peace and quiet, ’cause God knows the factory got louder every day. With the mother-in-law and the kids out back fixing supper, all he had to listen to was the rumble of the window unit. Of course, later he’d have to listen to Lillith bitching at him about smoking too much (he wasn’t) and the kids whining about stuff they needed (they didn’t), but for the moment he figured he was in heaven, or a damn close fack similar.

  The doorbell rang. Buzz put down his beer, climbed out of the recliner, and tried to arrange a neighborly smile as he opened the door.

  “Howdy, Buzz,” Ruby Bee chirped, the list still in her hand. “Mind if I stop by for a minute?”

  “Not at all,” Buzz lied. He gestured for her to come in, then sat down on the edge of the sofa. “How’re you doing, Ruby Bee? I guess I haven’t been over to the bar since Lillith came to live with us a few weeks back.”

  “And how is that working out?” Ruby
Bee inquired politely.

  “It’s great, just great. Ever since Annie died, it’s been real hard to hold down a job and take care of the kids. Now I don’t have to fix breakfast, find their homework papers, and make sure they get out to the bus stop on time every morning. Lillith’s a real orderly sort.”

  Ruby Bee tilted her head and put her finger on her cheek. “Now let me think … isn’t Martin going on twelve and Lissie just about eleven? One going into sixth, the other fifth?”

  “Martin had a birthday last week. He’s twelve, and yeah, Lissie’s almost eleven. You got a real fine memory, Ruby Bee.”

  “Thank you kindly, Buzz. I ran into Lissie’s teacher at a church potluck awhile ago, and she mentioned being concerned about Lissie. I hope she’s doing better these days?”

  He gave her a wry grin. “She was out in left field there for a few months, trying to take Annie’s place and do all of the kitchen and laundry chores. I was so lost and confused that it took me some time to see what was going on. I think having her grandma living here has helped a lot.”

  “Left field?” Ruby Bee said brightly. “Funny you should mention that, because there’s something I want to talk to you about.” She settled into the cushion, giving herself plenty of time to consider her next move. After all, there was a possibility of two recruits and a coach.

  Estelle made a check next to the Mexican boy’s name, polished off the cherry limeade, and drove over to the Pot O’ Gold mobile-home park. She rattled across the cattle guard under the arch, wound through the metal boxes, and parked in a scanty patch of shade under a sickly elm.

  Ten minutes later, there was a check next to Earl Boy Nookim’s name and she was on her way to Elsie McMay’s, where she could expect a glass of iced tea, a homemade cookie, two more players of the grandchild persuasion, and a nice chat in front of the fan.

  3

  The pigeons at Piazzo San Marco. The glass of Campari and soda beneath a gaily colored umbrella. The day at the Lido. The night Riccardo poled us through the canals, crooning so softly that only I could hear him. After the frivolous lapse in Rome, I’d had to get back on the budget, but on page 127, I’d found a small pensione with a view of the Grand Canal.

  However, now it was time to leave the pasta marinara, the straw-wrapped jugs of dark red chianti, the sleek green bottles of mineral water (I was being quite careful not to succumb to any unspeakable maladies that might ruin my tour), the golden glow of Tuscany, and the verdant foothills of the Alps.

  I consulted the table of contents and flipped to page 311. Yes, the sun-drenched beaches of the French Riviera were calling me. The glitter of the casino, the yachts, the furs and diamonds. Monte Carlo, where the rich mingled with the commoners and anything was possible.

  “You’d just have to think anything’s possible these days,” Mrs. Jim Bob opined loudly. “Why, the next thing we know, women’ll be wearing pants to church and little children will be running wild in Sunday school. Don’t you agree, Brother Verber? I mean, what’s the world coming to anymore?” She stopped to blot the corner of her mouth with a pristine hankie, then gazed sternly at her companion, who seemed a little distant even though he was sitting not five feet away on her newly re-covered divan. “Don’t you agree?” she said, turning up the volume.

  Brother Verber looked up with a guilty twitch. “You know I always agree with you, Sister Barbara. You are the beacon of my flock, the light that shines so pure and bright, it makes the sinners’ eyes cross when they face it. And not to mention a most attractive woman.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob smiled tightly, because, of course, it was all true, what he’d said, but she was keenly aware of the sin of pride—among others—and wasn’t about to allow herself to be led astray. “Girls playing with boys! It’s a scandal to even think about it.”

  The images that flashed across Brother Verber’s mind had to do with girls playing with boys, but he figured that wasn’t at all what she was thinking of, and he whipped out his handkerchief to wipe away the sudden sweat.

  “I felt it my Christian duty to have a word with Joyce Lambertino,” Mrs. Jim Bob continued, oblivious to his discomfort. “I marched myself up to the door, fully expecting to be invited in for a nice visit, but Joyce wouldn’t even let me inside the house. She said the kitchen floor was slippery. I knew better than that, Brother Verber. Better than that.”

  “You did?”

  “I wasn’t born this morning. From the way she was blocking the doorway, it was as plain as the nose on your face—which you might want to tend to, by the way—that her house was a mess and she was embarrassed to let me see how slovenly she was. I have always had my doubts about her, what with her wearing her hair like a high-school girl.”

  Brother Verber tut-tutted, peeked at his watch, and wondered exactly why he was sitting on the newly recovered divan in Sister Barbara’s front room when he could be using the time more profitably. When he’d arrived, he’d hoped for a slice of chocolate layer cake or a warm, fresh cookie, but she hadn’t even offered iced tea. He cleared his throat, trying to sound a mite dry, and said, “I’m real glad to hear how you tried to steer Joyce back onto the path of righteousness. Would you mind repeating one more time how she was stumbling into sin?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob’s nostrils flared, but not so much that you’d notice unless you were watching real close. “Joyce’s husband is coaching the baseball team my Jim Bob organized. She wanted her little niece Saralee to play with the boys. I happened to overhear Jim Bob and Larry Joe discussing it, and I felt it my duty to make it clear that we are not going to have that sort of thing here in Maggody. Some folks have been flirting with sin ever since that wicked, wicked lawyer woman came here awhile back and told wives they could stop fixing biscuits from scratch and start wearing the pants in the family. The next thing you know, we were neck-deep in murder and destruction and the erosion of our Christian values.”

  “Let us get down on our knees and pray,” Brother Verber cut in smoothly. “Just recalling that unpleasantness has opened the door a crack for Satan to sneak in. Ah, could I wet my whistle before we begin?”

  “In a minute.” She waited while Brother Verber, who was sliding down the edge of the divan, caught himself and got settled back where he belonged. “There is something else I have to tell you about so you can put a stop to it. Edwina Spitz happened to mention that a few weeks ago she was taking her evening stroll down Finger Lane and halted out by the hydrangeas in front of Eilene and Earl’s house to catch her breath.”

  From the intensity of her stare, Brother Verber was aware that some response was required of him. He tugged on his nose for a minute. “I am most glad to hear Edwina’s enjoying good health,” he hazarded.

  “That is not the issue, Brother Verber. I am going to have to describe a very lurid scene now, and I’d like to think you’re clear in your mind that I’m only repeating what Edwina told me, and that she was only repeating what she accidentally overheard from behind the hydrangeas.”

  “It’s clear as spring water,” he assured her promptly, sitting up straight and preparing his handkerchief. “It’s your Christian duty to repeat this to me. No matter how difficult it is, don’t try to spare me by skipping anything, Sister Barbara. Not one tiny thing.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob related the shameful story of Kevin Buchanon and Dahlia O’Neill’s disrespectable encounter on the porch swing. Rather than skip anything, she may have embellished it so that he could appreciate just how terrible and depraved and lustful and truly sinful it was.

  And he did. She finally took pity on his bright red face and heaving shoulders and went to get him some mint iced tea. When she came back, he’d mopped away most of the sweat and his eyes looked a little less glassy.

  “So what are you going to do?” she demanded.

  Brother Verber gulped down the tea. His voice still was on the high side as he said, “What do you reckon I ought to do, Sister Barbara?”

  “Something,” Mrs. Jim Bob replied, her arms locked and her foot t
apping away like a woodpecker. “Both of those young people attend the Voice of the Almighty on a regular basis. I know for a fact Kevin has a lapel pin for not missing Sunday school for ten years. Dahlia’s granny lets her miss once in a while, but I almost always am obliged to nod to them after services.”

  “Should I kick them out?” Brother Verber asked, bewildered. “You know, excommunicate them?”

  “Excommunicate them out of the church? Of course not! That would not be the charitable, forgiving thing to do, Brother Verber, and I’m shocked you could say such a thing. Who knows what they might do next if they thought no one was minding their behavior, that no one was deeply concerned with teaching them to restrain their lust?”

  “I could denounce them from the pulpit, I ’spose. Tell the whole congregation about this shameful scene and ask everyone to pray for their souls right then and there.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob pondered this one for a second, imagining the two faces when their disgusting actions were aired in front of a good percentage of the town’s folks. Reluctantly, she realized Edwina would be in her regular seat at the end of the third pew and would wonder how certain graphic details had crept into the story. “No, we can’t have that sort of thing said aloud in the Assembly Hall where God can hear us. We’d be obliged to exorcise the building to get rid of the stench. What you need to do is call them in for premarital counseling, Brother Verber. Instruct them about how decent, God-fearing, betrothed couples behave. Warn them about going to hell for all eternity if they even think about bestial practices that no good Christian couple would ever engage in.”

  “What if they won’t come?” Brother Verber asked humbly, doing his best not to let his mind stray to his study material under his sofa, where bestiality was almost the order of the day.

  “You just tell them that if they won’t, you’ll be forced to try to save their souls anyways by speaking out during the Sunday service. I do believe you can make them understand, don’t you?”