The Widows of Eden (23 page)

“I noticed. What did the man say?”

She blew her nose. “He got me a job, and after all the trouble I was.”

“He what?”

“Mr. Tucker won't be needin' me after Saturday, so Mr. Moore got me a job; a good-payin' job, too, and it's in Edgerton, just down the road from home.”

“Did you tell him you needed a job, Pearl? You didn't tell me.”

“I told Mr. Tucker; he must've mentioned it to Mr. Moore. Now, if you don't mind, I have to do my laundry. I need to get ready to go.”

“Where is Mr. Moore now?”

“With Mr. Tucker, in his office.”

“They're in the office? Oh no! You can't do your laundry now! You have to listen in.”

“No, I don't, Marie. I'm not spying on anybody anymore. Anyway, Mr. Moore said it would be okay if you listened in this time.”

At first, Marie reacted like any professional chef would. “But I have to cook a formal dinner for ten tonight!” Then she stopped dead in her tracks and said, “Mr. Moore knows?”

“He knows everything, and I mean everything.”

I got a call about two seconds later. Two seconds after that, you-know-who was on the hook for dessert, then Marie said, “Thanks for helping me out on such short notice, Wilma. You're the exception that proves the rule.”

“What rule?” I asked innocently.

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm not used to the boss helping out. That's all.”

“But I'm not your boss, Marie. I'm your friend, and a fellow Circle girl. We always help each other out. That's the rule.”

“Maybe so, but I appreciate it anyway.”

I probably should have been thinking about dessert, but “the exception that proves the rule” kept gnawing at my innards long after I had hung up the phone. It's another one of those old saws that makes no sense. To my simple mind, an exception is a clear indication that the rule doesn't work. For instance, there are three teaspoons in a tablespoon. Nobody ever says that the exception is two teaspoons, which proves that it's really three!

As long as I'm at it, I have a bone to pick with the first yokel who said, “It's the thought that counts.” My theory is that it was thought up by some empty-headed husband who forgot his anniversary, and then a thousand others bought into it. The next thing you knew, forgetful men everywhere were saying, “It's the thought that counts.”

In the country, a nice thought and four dollars will get you a latte at Starbucks. Effort is appreciated, too, but when a person is in trouble, they need results. I can't imagine one farmer calling up another and saying, “Hey, Bert. I heard you needed to borrow my tractor to get your corn in before the hailstorm, but I was playing pinochle over at the Corn Palace and plain forgot. It's the thought that counts, though.”

See what I mean?

Chapter 26

 

D
IVINE
I
NTERVENTION

M
Y
FIANC
é'
S
OFFICE
was an impeccably decorated shrine to the ancient and masculine art of killing things. A gun rack hung on each side wall: one for high zoot shotguns and the other for various and sundry hunting rifles, most with straps and scopes. Clem also kept a gun safe in the far corner that looked like a small refrigerator. I never saw what he kept in there, but I doubt that it was cabbage and cheese. The Japanese sword set sat in its own rack on a long, waist-high table in front of the window behind his desk, and his collection of Pawnee and Lakota Sioux artifacts was in a glass case on the bookshelf. A Remington bronze of a cowboy on horseback had been placed on the table next to a leather reading chair, and a red, white, and black Navajo rug covered most of the floor in front of his desk.

It was a man's room if I ever saw one; a well-heeled, well-armed man's room.

When Marie peered through the crack between the door and the frame, all she could see was a narrow slice of Clem sitting comfortably behind his desk. An invisible Mr. Moore was saying, “The widows and I are all looking forward to it, but I was wondering if you could ask Marie to set one more place at the table.”

“Who for? Not that imp Hail Mary Wade. She's been angling for an invitation to the River House for years.”

“Actually, I was thinking of your sister, Clara.”

“Clara? You're shitting me! She'd never come out here. I must've invited her a hundred times.”

“I thought you might have heard, Clem. I escorted her to the sunrise service at church this morning. She handled it well …”

“You've been seeing my sister?”

“You knew I had, Clem. We've been friends since my first visit to Ebb.”

“You told me you had seen her once. Since you two are pals, is it possible that you might have dropped a hint or two about our deal?”

“No. I thought I'd leave that to you.”

“To me? Why?”

“You go under the knife in two days, Clem. Don't you have some contingencies to cover with the people close to you? For instance, who will assume control of the Tucker Trust in the unlikely event that you die?”

“Calvin will continue as custodian of the trust. It's all arranged.”

“But who will become chairman, or should I say chairwoman?”

Clem mulled that over then said, “You know what, Vernon? You're absolutely right. I had a fixed impression of what this dinner was supposed to be, but I should've been broader in my thinking. Clara should be here. Tell her I'm rolling out the red carpet.”

“It'll be my pleasure.”

“Excellent! Now, do we have business to conduct, or do you need to knock a few more nuts off the family tree first?”

“Let's move on.”

Marie made a mental note to appear surprised when Mr. Moore mentioned that Clara was coming to dinner. In the meantime, my fiancé reclined in his chair and said, “As I recall, you had convinced me yesterday that God couldn't intervene in the affairs of men, but then you mentioned some sort of loophole. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“Then I take it that we're about to explore the loophole.”

“We are.”

“That's what I wanted to hear. Do you want something to drink?”

“I would, if you don't mind. A cup of tea would be lovely.”

Without getting up from his chair, Clem yelled, “Pearline! Marie! Would one of you come in here and see me, please?”

Marie counted to five and entered Clem's office. After a brief discussion, which included the “surprise” addition of Clara to the evening's guest list, she agreed to bring Clem a double espresso and Mr. Moore a cup of tea. No one was on station while Marie was in the kitchen, but it appears that little of the conversation was lost.

After she had delivered the men their caffeine, Clem said, “Yeah. I played baseball when I was a kid. Little League. Why?”

“Was your coach an ex – baseball player?”

“I'd hate to have a coach who wasn't. He played college ball at Concordia, up in Seward.”

“Was he a good coach?”

“He knew the game and he didn't molest anybody. Against modern standards, I'd say he was stellar.”

“So it would seem. Did your team ever get behind?”

“In a game? Sure. Once or twice anyway.”

“Did the coach put himself in to pitch?”

“I just love the way you think, Vernon. He was thirty-something years old. Why would an idea like that even enter a man's mind?”

“Why, indeed? The reason it wouldn't, of course, is that the result would be predetermined. That's why it's against the rules. Correct?”

“Yeah, but isn't the same true of God? Isn't that why he can't intervene, because the result would be preordained?”

“Not exactly.”

Clem took a sip of his espresso. “This is crap! There's not enough sugar! Everybody in my household is a goddamned nutritionist anymore. Now, explain to me why God can destroy uncertainty when that's supposed to be the one thing He wants more than anything else.”

“Let's try an example. Suppose God decided to intervene in one of your Little League games. What would have happened?”

“Depending on the side He picked, my team would've won or lost by a zillion to zero.”

“Meaning God would have destroyed the uncertainty of the game.”

“That's what I already said.”

“But you were only partially right. As it turns out, your uncertainty would have been destroyed, but God's wouldn't have been materially affected.”

“How the hell can you say that, Vernon? He fixed the goddamned ballgame. Are you saying that He doesn't care?”

“Not at all, but He's God. He exists on an entirely different plane than we do. What applies to us doesn't necessarily apply to Him, and vice versa.”

“I take it we're finally down to the loophole you mentioned yesterday.”

“We are, but it takes a little math to understand. Would you agree that an omnipotent God would live forever?”

“Hell yes. Otherwise, he'd be less than omnipotent.”

“Right. What's infinity minus one.”

“I got As in math, Vernon. It's still infinity.”

“Correct. In fact, what's infinity minus any finite number?”

“Same answer; still infinity.”

“That's the loophole, Clem. As long as God lives forever, He can intervene as often as He wants without harming His own uncertainty. It's still infinitely large.”

“Okay. So God can dabble on Earth to His heart's content. Good for Him, but what about us Little Leaguers? He'd sure as hell destroy our uncertainty. And for the record, I don't want to stand out there at first base for a million years while the other team scores a zillion runs. It would kill my knees.”

“But what if you lived forever, too?”

“Then I'd need new knees, and the game would still be ruined.” Clem picked up his espresso cup and walked to the door. Marie Delacroix is not a fleet-footed girl, but she managed to scoot into the great room before he shouted, “Marie!”

She stuck her face around the corner a five-count later. “Yes, Mr. Tucker.”

“Would you make me another espresso, please? And double the sugar; I don't care what Louise says. Espresso is crap without a quarter inch of raw sugar in the bottom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How's dinner comin'? Are you making me a green bean casserole?”

“Yessir.”

“Come on, Marie. You can't fool an old fooler. You have to be making a dish I didn't ask for; a fancy dish. What is it?”

“I wouldn't call it fancy. I'm fixing fresh asparagus with Béarnaise sauce.”

“Asparagus? Yum! What's for dessert?”

“Blueberry pies. Wilma's making them.”

“Wilma?”

“She wanted to, Mr. Tucker. What could I say?”

“Nothing. If Wilma wants to bake, let her bake. I have to powder my nose. I'd appreciate it if you could fetch me a proper espresso while I'm gone. Okay?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tucker.”

M
ARIE
FOUND
MY
LODGER
looking over the Japanese sword set when she returned. “Mr. Tucker won't be a minute. Can I top off your tea or bring you a piece of pound cake?”

“No thank you,” he said, as he ran his palm across the top of the long sword. “This is the katana. The short sword is called the shoto. They're beautiful pieces, aren't they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever been to Japan, Marie?”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Moore.”

“Go. Don't wait too long; just go. You'll find many excellent cuisines.”

“So I've read, but there isn't much call for seafood at the River House.”

“Try the yakitori and the shabu-shabu.” Mr. Moore turned to face Marie, and continued, “Do you know what else makes the Japanese so exceptional?”

“Their cars?”

“I was thinking that they're an honorable race. That's not to say they're perfect but, like the English, their culture was founded upon the tenets of honor and, like England's, it has endured a thousand years.”

“I thought our culture came from England, too, Mr. Moore.”

“It did, but it's not clear that the honor gene made it across the Atlantic intact. Do you suppose that a society based on greed and self-gratification will last even half as long?”

Clem reappeared just then with a big smile on his face. “Boy oh boy. I'm getting healthier by the damned minute! Thanks for the fresh espresso, Marie.”

“Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Tucker?”

“I'll call if I do.” While Marie left the office, Clem said, “Were you admiring my sword set, Vernon?”

“Yes. I was.”

“Eighteenth century, hand-forged and folded steel. Razor sharp; could cut through an engine block like whipped butter. I'd never give it a try, though. Too damned expensive. I left it to John Smith. He's still in to all that martial arts crap, but maybe you'd rather have it.”

“It's a nice thought, but leave it to John. I have a set of my own.”

“You do? Are you a collector?”

“Let's just say that I'm an admirer of bushido. Where were we before you excused yourself?”

The two men sat down again. Clem answered, “You were about to explain why God wouldn't mess with my Little League game.”

“Actually, I was about to explore the opposite case. What if He wanted to affect the outcome?”

“I'm confused, Vernon. Why would a God bother to intervene in a goddamned Little League game in the first place?”

“To make a point, to preserve a principle, to reward a good act. To answer a prayer.”

“Very clever, but I don't give a shit; He can't do it. He'd ruin the game for the rest of us. We already agreed.”

“We did at that, but what if there's a work-around? Did your coach ever call in a relief pitcher?”