The Widows of Eden Read online

  “You’d eliminate disappointment? Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How?”

  “I’m God. I’d remove the prospect of disappointment. It would be a piece of cake.”

  “Would you allow your subjects to eat the same cake?”

  “That depends. Am I a benevolent God or a prick?”

  “You’re benevolent.”

  “Okay, then I’m an equal-opportunity God. Nobody gets any disappointment.”

  “Fair enough. Suppose a dozen of your humans place bets on a single turn of a roulette wheel. In order to eliminate the prospect of disappointment, wouldn’t you have to let them all win, every turn of the wheel? How could you do that?”

  “I’m omniscient, Vernon. I’d figure it out.”

  “Suppose you did. Would the excitement of the game be preserved? How could it be if every player won every time?”

  Clem didn’t reply, so Mr. Moore continued, “What about free will? Wouldn’t you have to eliminate that, too?”

  “Why?”

  “What was the most disappointing day in your life?”

  “July fourth; the night my granddaughter died on my porch. She was my last heir.”

  “It must have been heartbreaking. How about the second most disappointing day?”

  Clem thought for a moment, then answered, “It’s a toss-up; either the day my wife ran out on me, or the day my daughter ran out on Calvin Millet and my dying granddaughter.”

  “So, in order to eliminate disappointment, you’d have to prevent your human subjects from leaving their loved ones behind. In other words, you’d have to inhibit free will. Would He do that, or would a truly benevolent God leave our free will intact?”

  “Okay, Vernon. I get free will, and I’ve been bored enough in my own lifetime to understand that excitement requires an element of risk. So what?”

  “You’re still God, Clem. What would happen if you intervened in anything on Earth: the birth of a child; the outcome of a baseball game; the illness of an old man; the path of a tornado? What would happen?”

  The room was silent for a long while, then Clem said, “Uncertainty would be kaput.”

  “That’s correct. In effect, you’d be unraveling the tapestry of uncertainty you deliberately sought to weave, and not only for yourself, but for your little human subjects as well. You’d be destroying everyone’s uncertainty, and the ramifications wouldn’t stop there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re God. You take pity on the people of Ebb, so you decide to drop down to Earth and end the drought. How do the locals react? What do they do?”

  “Now that you mention it, I’ve been in that position before. If I step in and bail everybody out, then they expect me to change their diapers, wipe their butts, and fix every other goddamned problem they have from that day onward.”

  “Right again. In a single demonstration of your power, you have not only destroyed uncertainty, you’ve destroyed self-determination. You’ve reduced your human subjects to less than parasites. You’ve turned them into whining, sniveling, inert little creatures with extraordinary expectations.”

  “I already have a bunch of those, Vernon; they’re called relatives. I take it that’s why God never answered my prayers. He didn’t want to turn me into a relative.”

  After a pause, Mr. Moore said, “That would seem to be the inevitable conclusion, wouldn’t it? Luckily, there’s a wee flaw in my argument.”

  “A flaw? What are you saying? Are you saying that God could’ve answered my prayers?”

  “More to the point, He still can.”

  “You’re contradicting yourself, Vernon. If He answered my prayers, the outcome would be predetermined. You said so yourself. He’d be destroying my uncertainty; His, too.”

  “So it would appear, but there is a solution. Actually, it’s more like a loophole.”

  “A loophole? No shit! I adore loopholes. What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why not now? If there’s a loophole that will allow God to answer my prayers, then I’d like to find out what the hell it is before it’s too goddamned late.”

  Mr. Moore stood up. “The loophole will have to wait, Clem. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”

  “Another appointment? Who with? Those widow friends of yours?”

  “No. It’s just a little homework.”

  “More homework? Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing; goin’ to night school?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ll tell you all about it in a few days. Between now and then, anything I say would be speculative.”

  “So you’re doing speculative homework.”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “You’re a pistol, Vernon, and a bona fide pleasure to do business with. I swear to God, I couldn’t have had a better distraction from the prospect of my own, hugely disappointing outcome. Regardless of what happens, I want to thank you for coming back.”

  “You’re welcome, Clem. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in China.”

  “If I pay you anywhere near seventy-five million dollars, you’ll be able to afford all the tea in China, you prick.”

  Chapter 17

  LOHENGRIN’S CHILDREN

  THE SILAS C. TUCKER county courthouse is an elevated, three-story, redbrick building with six Greek columns out front. Like so many of its ilk, it is a city block unto itself, inclusive of the grounds and the parking lot. On the inside, there is a domed, marble-floored foyer that has the rare quality of being acoustically perfect, which means that a person can whisper a word on one side and a person on the other can hear it as clear as a bell. For a hundred years, little boys and girls have gone there to tell each other secrets.

  When Dottie and Hail Mary walked into the foyer that morning, they found the Widow Meanwell sitting on a wooden bench under a brass plaque dedicated to the dearly departed Lucy Millet, Calvin’s daughter. Marion’s driver was leaning against the wall next to the elevator, reading a worn, paperback copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. After Mary made the introductions, Road Rage took a seat on the bench and the three women took the elevator up to the county attorney’s office on the third floor.

  Hail Mary sits in a cushy, black leather chair behind a polished mahogany desk in front of the window in her office. Her guests have the pleasure of choosing any one of four straight-backed, wooden chairs with iron-hard seats and cushions that are thinner than a tardy husband’s excuse. Nobody except Mary has a hope of getting comfortable, but the view out the window is pleasant — except during a drought, when every living thing in sight is half dead or worse.

  Once the three women had seated themselves, the Widow Marion remarked, “I don’t believe I’ve been in the office of a prosecuting attorney before. Have you two put dozens of miscreants behind bars?”

  “We’re Charlie’s Angels meets Law & Order,” Dottie replied. “My deputies catch ’em and Mary puts ’em away. Do you have a particular miscreant in mind?”

  “Oh no, dear, but I understand that you two have worked with Vernon in the past. Is that true?”

  “It sure is. He was helpful with one case in particular, if a tad unconventional in his ways. Even today, people argue about what he did or didn’t do. I don’t suppose you could shed a little light on the matter?”

  “Oh, I very much doubt it, Sheriff. Vernon is hardly the quiet type, but he rarely talks about himself. Instead, he seems to be selling something half the time. Does it seem that way to you, too?”

  Hail Mary chuckled. “It seems that way to everybody. According to legend, he was a traveling salesman when he first came to Ebb. Was he a salesman when you met?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe so, but we weren’t introduced in a professional capacity. Rather, it was when he was inducted into an association of travelers to which I belong. Birdie and Eloise are members, too.”

  “An association
of travelers; like a travel club?”

  “Yes. That’s it precisely.”

  “Does your association have a name?”

  “Naturally, dear. How else would we know what to call ourselves?”

  After a pause, Dottie asked, “Could you tell us what it is?”

  “We’re Lohengrin’s Children. It’s rather catchy, don’t you agree?”

  “Never heard of it,” Dot commented.

  Hail Mary asked, “Lohengrin, as in the opera?”

  The widow clapped her hands in delight. “Why, yes! Good for you! I take it that you’ve been.” Marion pronounced the word “been” like “bean.”

  “At the Kennedy Center, when I was interning in Washington. As I recall, Lohengrin was a knight with special powers and a protector of the Holy Grail.”

  “Quite so, but he could only use his powers if his true identity remained secret. It’s just a myth, of course, but the name seems to fit our mission.”

  “Your mission?”

  “Yes. All of Lohengrin’s Children share two goals: to see the world, and to help those in need. If my understanding is correct, the goals of your Quilting Circle are quite similar.”

  “Yes, very.” Hail Mary cleared her throat and continued, “By every account, Vernon has fulfilled your mission wonderfully in Ebb, and twice at that. But his third visit hasn’t been much of a charm, Marion. We’re in a bit of a quandary right now.”

  “Isn’t that the awful truth!” she answered. “So many good people are being hurt by this horrific drought.”

  “I’m referring to one person in particular. Have you heard of Clem Tucker?”

  “Why, yes. Vernon has spoken of him on several occasions, but we learned of his illness only recently. We’re all praying for his recovery, of course.”

  “Apparently, you won’t need to bother; us either. Vernon is going to ask for Clem’s life at the end of the week.”

  According to Dot, the Widow Marion didn’t appear to be the least bit surprised. “I don’t get your implication, dear,” she replied. “It almost sounds as if you would rather that Vernon didn’t pray for Mr. Tucker’s life.”

  “Not at all. If I had my druthers, he would pray for Clem’s life and rain, but he won’t. He says he’ll only pray for one and not the other, and he’s decided to pray for Clem — for a fee of seventy-five million dollars! On the off chance, did Vernon happen to mention this little transaction to you or your friends?”

  “We discussed it over dinner last night. Why? Does it worry you?”

  “Hell no!” Dottie barked. “The drought is only sucking the lifeblood out of my county like a giant, vampire sponge. Why the hell would I care that the one person who can save us has been bought off by the fourth richest man in the state?”

  “Oh my! What a curious point of view you have, Sheriff! I thought a woman in your profession would have learned to rely upon facts, but you seem to believe that Vernon has some sort of supernatural ability to make it rain. Does that make any sense?”

  Dot didn’t blink. “Vernon Moore has saved this town twice before, and in ways that made no sense to anybody. If anyone on this Earth can make it rain, he can.”

  Hail Mary continued, “And he was just bought off by Clem Tucker, so you can see why we’re so concerned. Do you know what fraud is, Marion?”

  “Not from personal experience, but I believe I could use it in a sentence. Why?”

  “Because I will have no choice but to send Vernon to prison if he defrauds Clem Tucker of seventy-five million dollars.”

  “Really? I had no idea! Ever since I arrived, the women of Ebb have been telling me that Clement Tucker is the meanest, most miserly businessman in the state. How can a man like that be fooled into paying so much for a prayer, unless he believes that he’s getting fair value for his money? Unless I’m quite mistaken, you believe it, too. If you didn’t, why would you so desperately want Vernon to pray for rain?”

  Hail Mary took a deep breath, then replied, “We all have faith in Vernon’s extraordinary abilities, Marion. What we don’t understand is the logic of this deal with Clem …”

  Dottie interrupted, “Nobody in this county — and I mean no body — understands why he can’t ask for rain and Clem’s life. That’s what’s so damned frustrating! It just doesn’t make any sense!”

  “So faith and logic have collided, dear. It’s a classic dilemma, but logic suggests, and rather strongly I believe, that Vernon could never make it rain in the first place, or heal Mr. Tucker for that matter. Since logic fails, it would appear that faith is your only rational resort.”

  “Did you just say that faith is our only rational resort? Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  “Heavens no, Mary! In His wisdom, God knew that we could never sort everything out for ourselves, so He gave us faith to fill the gap. But He made it optional, didn’t He? So you can choose to use your faith, or you can choose to leave a great, gnawing hole in your heart by ignoring it.”

  “So I’m supposed to fill my gap with faith. Is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s quite right. It’s what we’re all supposed to do.”

  “And what about the reservoirs and rivers in Hayes County? Am I supposed to fill them with faith, too?”

  The Widow Marion answered, “If you look into your heart, I believe you’ll find that faith is the most prudent choice you have.” Then she added, “It’s been lovely, but I have such a long list of people to see. Do you have a last question before I go? I sense that you do.”

  “Yeah,” Dottie declared. “I’ve got a bunch of ’em. I’d like to know where Vernon was born, and I’d like to have a date. I’d like to know once and for all if he has special powers, like that Lohengrin guy, and I’d like to know what he intends to do in my county for the rest of the week. Can you answer any of those?”

  “Only what he’s doing now, Sheriff. He’s visiting farms on Wilma’s list.”

  “He’s what? I thought you and the other two widows had divided it up.”

  “And so we did, but Vernon decided to make a few calls himself.”

  “But why?” Hail Mary demanded. “The list is so long and they’re all so needy! Isn’t there a risk that he’ll overextend himself?”

  Marion smiled and replied, “Oh no, dear. There’s no risk of that. Vernon always overextends himself. He wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  After the usual expressions of mutual appreciation, Dottie escorted the widow downstairs to meet Pokie, Luther, and her other day-shift deputies. Meanwhile, Hail Mary got on-line and searched for “Lohengrin’s Children,” and then she summoned the sheriff back to her office.

  Dot appeared in her doorway and announced, “The Widow Marion is holding court in the ‘pit’ downstairs. Deputy Giant is giving her the play-by-play of Vernon’s salvation of Matt Breck, and Pokie is so eager to talk about Loretta’s shocking recovery that she’s about to bust a gut. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my people as soon as possible. That woman makes me itch.”

  “Me, too. There’s no mention of ‘Lohengrin’s Children’ on the Internet. I just checked.”

  “None at all? Are you sure you spelled it right? It’s a foreign name.”

  Mary ignored her. “If their club charges even a dollar a year in dues, then it has to be registered somewhere. Look into it. Find out everything you can about Lohengrin’s Children.”

  “Me? I can hardly spell my own last name.” In case you forgot, Dottie’s last name is “Hrnicek.” Hardly anybody can spell it.

  “Then put Pokie on it. She’s a college girl. Are we all square?”

  “I’m not so sure, Mary. We’ve been lectured twice today about having faith in Vernon Moore, and it’s not even lunchtime. It seems to me that we’re not getting the message.”

  “Here’s the only message you need to get, Dot: the survival of the county is at stake and the devil’s own spawn has offered Vernon Moore seventy-five million dollars to hang us out to dry. We’re the elected representat
ives of the people of Hayes County. If we won’t fight for them, who will?”

  Chapter 18

  MORE LOOPHOLES

  I HATE TO KEEP DWELLING on the drought, but it was surely dwelling on us. That Wednesday was the hottest July day in Hayes County history: the temperature reached a hundred and nine in the shade. Hardly a woman could be seen on the streets, but the few I met on the way home from the Abattoir were carrying red parasols to ward off the sun. I guess things don’t always work out the way people plan, even when Mr. Moore isn’t involved.

  I had a little time to myself before I hitched a ride to the River House, so I sent an e-mail to Clara requesting an audience for Hail Mary, and then I cleaned up the kitchen and made sure that the bathrooms had plenty of toilet paper, hand soap, and whatnot. I stuck my head into Mr. Moore’s room, too, but it was neat as a pin: his clothes were put away; the newspaper had been placed in the trash bin in the bathroom; and his towels had been hung on the rack to dry. He had even made his own bed, and better than I could. There wasn’t a wrinkle in it.

  A modern psychologist might take the position that Mr. Moore was mildly obsessive-compulsive. In my opinion, he was just a tidy man, which was what you would expect of a man who had served his country in the U.S. Army. That was Buford’s theory, and I liked it better than the newfangled one for about seventy-five million reasons.

  In general, I believe that we should take the positive view until proven otherwise, but that was a hard row to hoe when it came to Nicky Molineaux, the Widow El’s chauffeur. He did his best to dress the part, but he was a thin, rat-faced man with slicked black hair, opaque sunglasses, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. According to Pokie, he had been convicted of forgery in California and served an extra “nickel” for knifing another inmate. If I had been on the jury, I might have voted for conviction based upon his appearance alone. Isn’t that terrible?

  Nicky the Knife knocked on my door at eleven a.m. on the dot. When I answered, he said in a nasal, northeast accent, “Hello, Ms. Porter. I’m supposed to drive Ms. Richardson down to the River House. She says you’re coming and you know the way.”