Merry Wives of Maggody (11 page)

“Do we have to donate all of it?” asked Crystal, who had already talked to a used car salesman in Starley City.

“How about ten percent?” Millicent suggested. “That’s what the Bible says to tithe.”

Brother Verber, who’d materialized toward the end of the lesson, perked up at the mention of the Assembly Hall. He swallowed a mouthful of brownie and said, “The fourteenth chapter of Deuteronomy instructs us to tithe corn, wine, oil, and firstlings of your herds and of your flocks. With inflation shooting up these days, it’d come to at least twenty percent, or even twenty-five.”

Mrs. Jim Bob knew she was on thin ice. “I’ll amend my proposal to fifty percent. Think of the shame of having your name on a park with cheap swing sets and rickety picnic tables. You’d be embarrassed to hold up your head when you drove by it. Why, you might even be sued if some poor child got hurt. As for the chances of eternal damnation… I shudder to think about it.”

She faked a small shudder. “Do I hear a second on the proposal?”

“Second,” Joyce said in a sulky voice.

“All in favor?”

No one dared vote against the proposal. Mrs. Jim Bob rewarded them with a tight smile. “I’ll write out our agreement and everybody can sign it before they leave.”

“And may the Almighty be watching over you,” Brother Verber said. “As we’re told in Psalm Seventy-two, verse seven, ‘In his days the righteous will flourish; prosperity will abound ’til the moon is no more.’ And if you Christian servants aren’t righteous, well, nobody is. Hallelujah!” He tried to look humble, but he couldn’t stop thinking how well his mail-order seminary had done by providing a verse for any situation. Marriages, funerals, confessions of the wickedest sins—yes, he was well armed.

“Amen,” said Mrs. Jim Bob.

• • •

Ruby Bee was in a tizzy. Not only had the guests with motel reservations shown up, but all kinds of other folks in town for the golf tournament were clamoring for lunch, along with the regulars and a few truckers. Some were happy with the blue plate special (fried catfish, hush puppies, green tomato relish, beans, and slaw); others demanded salads with dressing on the side or dainty sandwiches on silly-sounding bread. The jukebox was blaring, and everybody was yelling at her like they thought she was deaf as a post. It was worse than the county fair midway on a Saturday night.

She went on into the kitchen to start a batch of hamburger patties.

She was too busy breading catfish fillets to notice the black 1966 Imperial Crown Coupe glide by as the stoplight turned green.

Five

A
couple of dozen golfers milled around under the tent. A decrepit barn, long since weathered into gray, tilted ominously. Rolls of chicken wire and rusty car parts were scattered in the mud.

The nearby sty produced an acrid stench. Many of the ladies held tissues to their noses and rumbled with displeasure. Expressions ranged from shocked to appalled.

Tommy Ridner found Dennis and Amanda. “You been out on the course yet?” he asked as he joined them. Emanating lethal radiation waves, Amanda turned her back on him and walked away.

“Trying to get up my courage,” Dennis said. “Somebody reported spotting a rogue sow, if there is such a thing. Others swear they saw copperheads in the rough and water moccasins in the ponds.”

Tommy handed him a flask. “C’mon, let’s play a round. I want to know if I should be using a wood or a wedge off the tees.”

“I’m not in the mood to step on a snake.”

“The real reason is that you’re terrified of Amanda, aren’t you?” He retrieved the flask and took a swallow. “Don’t be a wuss, Dennis. Just go tell her you’re going to play. She can go hide out in that crappy motel and read her magazines. That’s assuming she doesn’t want to hang around”—he glanced at the barn—

“the club house and have martinis.”

“Why would I be terrified of Amanda? She’s devoted to me, in case you haven’t noticed. You’ve been trying to get her into bed since you were my best man. I admire your perseverance, but one of these days you’ll have to admit defeat.” He put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders and grinned at him. “As they say, two’s company and three’s a crowd. But we’ll always be friends, right?”

“I’m surprised she’s letting you play at all. She seemed like she was really pissed off the other day.”

“Just a little spat when I got home,” Dennis said lightly. “She loves to come to tournaments with me, since we have the evenings to dine, dance, and enjoy ourselves in a romantic suite. The facilities here are substandard, to put it kindly. The only way I could placate her was to promise to use my winnings from the bet to take her on a Mediterranean cruise.”

“You’re not taking this bet seriously, are you?” Tommy said. “It was the booze talking. The bass boat’s the real prize.”

Dennis was offended by the idea that a boat was more valuable than his wife’s amorous company. “We made the bet, Tommy, and you’re not backing out of it. Amanda wants to sunbathe on a Greek island.” He gestured at the rutted pasture. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is the course. The fairways are the stubby weeds, the rough is the waist-high weeds. The greens are probably covered with dandelions. You can walk across the algae and scum in the ponds, if the alligators don’t drag you under.”

“It’ll be a challenge,” Tommy admitted. He pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Hey, there’s Natalie and her boot camp lesbian. Let’s get up a foursome. I’ll take Janna as a partner and you can have the princess. Match play, twenty bucks a hole between you and me.”

“Tempting, but I don’t believe the Coulter woman plays anymore, and Amanda will have a fit if she sees me hanging around Natalie. I think I’d better walk the course, then take Amanda out for a leisurely stroll. I must remember to take along a blanket. We might find a grassy clearing alongside the creek.”

“Hard to imagine her wading with the crawdads.” Tommy punched Dennis on the arm, then assessed the crowd for potential gamblers. Quite a few people had left, he noted, but they weren’t out on the course. He was sure that at least half the field would fail to show up at their appointed tee times the next morning.

Those who remained didn’t offer much of a threat. Dennis would be too distracted by the possibility of snakes to focus on his game. He’d checked out Bonaparte Buchanon (of PGA infamy) and decided to offer him a few stiff Bloody Marys before the first round. This would not be hard, since Tommy’s trunk contained a well-stocked bar, with a variety of liquor, plastic cups, jars of olives, a customized ice cooler, corkscrews, swizzle sticks, and cocktail napkins. It was his version of tailgating, a Southern tradition at which he excelled. He doubted he could serve anything other than a Virgin Mary, the alcohol-free version, to Natalie.

Her personal gargoyle would see to that. The best he could do was to keep harping on the abundance of bugs and spiders.

He winced when he saw Kale Wasson and his pasty-skinned mother walking toward the tent. Kale was a punk, but he could hit the ball and had trophies to prove it. His mother was a leech, adept at finding ways to insinuate herself into every conversation and steering the topic to her wonderful, handsome, talented, intelligent son. after all, what could be more fascinating than a pimply, grungy, rude, seventeen-year-old smart-ass?

Other than those, Tommy recognized a few duffers from the Farberville club, and a couple of guys he’d played against at a Hot Springs tournament. Three boys from the Farber College golf team were already drunk. One of them tried to move in on Natalie, but Janna cut him off and sent him slinking back to his friends.

Tommy approached them. “Hey, wanna play a round? Ten bucks a hole?”

They regarded him with arrogant contempt. One of them said, “Sure, old man, but I’d better warn you we’re pretty damn good. Can you afford it?”

“Maybe I’ll pick up some pointers,” Tommy said modestly.

• • •

Mrs. Jim Bob had insisted that Bonaparte return for lunch. They ate chicken salad sandwiches and the last of the butterscotch brownies on the patio while Perkin’s eldest cleaned up the kitchen and mopped the floor. The sky was clear, the sunshine pleasant.

Robins and sparrows hopped about on the lawn, amiably avoiding each other.

She refilled his glass from a pitcher of iced tea and added a sprig of mint from her garden. “So when did you decide you wanted to be a professional golfer?” she asked him. Not that she cared, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

“It was blind luck, Mrs. Jim Bob. I started caddying at a golf course in Springfield to pick up some extra money. The worst thing about it was watching these rich people in their fancy clothes, using the priciest clubs, taking private lessons from the pro, strutting around like they invented the game. Then they’d proceed to hit their balls in the water hazards or the woods. I took to thinking I could play better than that. When there wasn’t no one around, I’d borrow a driver and hit some balls off the practice tee. Turns out I have a real knack for the game.”

“How nice for you,” Mrs. Jim Bob said. “When did you and Frederick meet?”

Bony had a feeling the truth wouldn’t sit well. “Oh, some time back. I was in Vegas, doing commentary on golf tournaments on TV. The customers seem to really cotton to the idea of a real professional analyzing every shot for them.”

“Frederick was a customer in this… establishment?”

“It’s, uh, kind of a place where sports fans hang out. There’s always something going on somewhere in the world—horse racing, soccer, tennis, even cricket. Now there’s a sport I can’t figure out.” He took a swallow of tea, wishing it was bourbon and Coke.

“You see, you got these men in white shorts, and they stand by what’s called a wicket, and—”

“Is Frederick a gambler? I would be very disappointed if he were. He’s such a gentleman. I can’t recall when I’ve seen such clean fingernails on a man. Jim Bob comes home looking like he clawed his way up the driveway. He most likely thinks a manicure is what doctors do in veterans’ hospitals.”

Bony puzzled over this for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I get it. Aunt Eileen warned me that you have a sly sense of humor.”

“Did she?” Mrs. Jim Bob’s eyed narrowed.

“Anyway,” he said, scampering to higher ground, “Frederick and I got to talking one evening. He was real interested in Maggody, for some crazy reason. I told him it wasn’t no more than a wide patch in the road, but he wanted to know all about the folks who live here and what they do. You’d have thought he was going to write a book about this place. Damned if I know why anybody’d bother to read it.”

“Maggody has a long and rich history,” she said automatically, still distracted by the very idea of Eileen Buchanon having the nerve to call her sly. It was clearly a case of envy. She took a breath and exhaled vigorously to cleanse her mind of unkind thoughts.

“Has Frederick mentioned anything about his personal life? Is he a widower or a bachelor?”

“He’s never mentioned a Mrs. Cartier. For some reason I get the impression he’s from Mississippi or Alabama, but he wouldn’t say when I flat-out asked him.”

“What about his profession?”

“Beats me,” Bony said. “He’s smart, and dresses in expensive clothes. Could be he’s a lawyer or a banker. He seemed to know a lot of the big spenders in Vegas. He doesn’t ever have to call his office or anything like that.”

“And he’s interested in Maggody.” Mrs. Jim Bob watched the birds as she thought this over. She was so engrossed in speculation that she failed to notice when Bony slipped inside the house, or Perkin’s eldest’s screech seconds later.

• • •

On Saturday I ambled into Ruby Bee’s for a late breakfast (in other places, it might be called brunch, but I doubted the proprietress would appreciate being enlightened). Estelle sat on her stool, while Ruby Bee tidied up behind the bar. Their conversation stopped when they saw me.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll both be delighted to hear that Maggody’s first charity golf tournament is under way. Parking wasn’t a problem, since a lot of people who’d registered either failed to show up or took a look and got back in their cars. It could have something to do with Marjorie watching them from the porch swing. Did you know that sows can grind their teeth?”

“They can not,” Ruby Bee said.

I sat down on a stool. “Maybe I was hearing Raz grind coffee beans in his kitchen. How about a plate of biscuits, gravy, and sausage?”

“Do I look like a short order cook? I don’t know why you think you can waltz in here like a duchess and bark orders at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was raised in a barn.”

“Living in Manhattan,” Estelle said, waggling her finger. “Those Yankee manners must have rubbed off on you.”

Ruby Bee dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll rustle up something for you to eat, but it’s only because of your condition. Anything that Mexican sells at the Dairee Dee-Lishus is liable to give you heartburn.”

Yeah, or heartache. I gazed at a neon beer sign until Ruby Bee reappeared with a heaping plate of all that I’d requested, as well as scrambled eggs and hash browns. It would definitely hold me until lunch.

“What all’s going on at Raz’s pasture?” Ruby Bee asked as she started filling salt shakers.

“Mrs. Jim Bob seems to have everything under control. The tent’s up, and there are tables and chairs. Once she realized no one else was going to show up, she made a new sign with tee times. None of the wives are playing with the local men. Since the two groups aren’t speaking to each other, it’s probably a good idea. A bunch of the teenagers are standing around. One of the players offered them beer, but Mrs. Jim Bob overheard him and started squawking like a Canada goose with a feather up its ass.”

“I can guess who offered them beer,” Ruby Bee said in a tight voice. “There’s a man staying out back who caused all manner of trouble last night. He and some of the others got stinkin’ drunk here, then went to his room and partied ’til three in the morning. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear ’em.”

“Not just out-of-towners,” Estelle contributed. “Plenty of locals like Jim Bob, Jeremiah, Earl, and Larry Joe were having themselves a fine time, too. They got crabby when Bony showed up, since he was giving golf lessons to their wives, but he weaseled himself into their favor after he swore none of the women could hit the ball more than ten feet.” She rolled her eyes. “Not in the direction they were aiming, anyway. Bony was saying how he takes cover whenever Mrs. Jim Bob tees up. The other day she hit three balls on the roof of some church, and they’re still in the gutter.”