Merry Wives of Maggody (2 page)

“I see you got your hands full,” Bony said. “I was hoping to visit with Kevin, but I’ll go on to Uncle Earl and Aunt Eileen’s house. When Kevin gets home, you tell him that I said he was a lucky guy to land a prize like you, Dahlia. You still have that sexy, full-figured body I remember from all those years ago, when you used to charge me a nickel to touch your titties out in the barn.”

He left her standing on the porch, her mouth slack and her multiple chins quivering. She was still staring as he went out the gate and ambled down the road like he thought he owned it.

• • •

Mrs. Jim Bob (a.k.a. Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon) banged her gavel on the dinette table. “We need to get down to business. The first Maggody Charity Golf Tournament begins a week from Saturday. The Almighty Lord is in charge of the weather, but everything else is up to us.”

“Amen,” rumbled Brother Verber, eying the plate of lemon squares. They were mighty tasty, all tangy and crunchy. He realized the ladies were watching him. “May the Almighty Lord smile down on us in our humble endeavor to bring aid and comfort to the wretched golf widows all across this fine country of ours.”

“It’s downright tragic,” Mrs. Jim Bob added. “My second cousin’s sister-in-law told her that she saw some of these golf widows on
Dr. Phil
. They’re alone all the time and have nobody to rely on but each other. Most of them don’t even have jobs so they can support their children. They’re all thin as rails from malnutrition. Just thinking about how they bravely sit at home breaks my heart.” She plucked a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her nose. “It’ll mean so much to them to know we care.”

The members of the Missionary Society nodded their heads, but they’d all heard it so many times that no one was moved to sniffle. Brother Verber took the opportunity to sidle closer to the plate of lemon squares.

Mrs. Jim Bob had never gotten closer to a golf tournament than on the TV, but she’d done research and was confident that she could organize one. after all, she’d overseen countless church potlucks, rummage sales, and Christmas pageants, and they always went without a hitch. The golfers on TV were respectable and polite.

She opened her notebook. “Green committee?”

Eileen Buchanon shrugged. “Earl’s been mowing the fairways in Raz’s back pasture every other day, and it’s coming along. He plugged Bermuda on what’ll be the greens. They’d look better if Raz’s mule hadn’t trampled all over them after that rain the other day. We got two ponds for water hazards, three if you count that boggy bottom next to Boone Creek. There ain’t much Earl can do about the poison ivy, though. The golfers better stay in the fairways.”

“Hardly
our
problem.”

“I’ll have Earl take the posthole digger and plant tin cans on the greens,” Eileen continued. “Edwina Spitz is sewing the red flags to attach to the iron poles we found behind the old Esso station. They may not stand up real straight, but they’ll do.”

Edwina awoke with a jerk. When everybody looked at her, she said, “I agree.”

“Very good.” Mrs. Jim Bob ticked off the first item. “Hospitality?”

“I’ve arranged to borrow a revival tent from the Hickory Hollow Evangelical Lutheran Church,” Elsie McMay said smugly.

“Folding chairs and tables, too. Millicent’s gonna have Jeremiah and some of the boys fetch everything on Friday. The SuperSaver’s providing paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks. Saturday night we can use the buffet pans from the Elks Club in Farberville. We can just provide doughnuts and coffee on Sunday morning.”

“What about the rest of the time?” asked Brother Verber. Despite himself, he leaned toward the glistening lemon squares like the Tower of Pisa. “I hope we’re aiming to feed the golfers better than that. after all, man doth not live by bread alone. The Israelites would still be living in Egypt if they hadn’t been promised a land flowing with milk and honey.”

Mrs. Jim Bob ticked off the second item. “This is for charity. We’ll serve sandwiches at noon Saturday, a nice supper later, and doughnuts on Sunday morning. I’m quite sure the Almighty Lord will forgive us for missing church, since it’s for a worthy cause. The golf widows will fall to their knees in gratitude that anybody truly cares about them.”

“Hallelujah!” Brother Verber said with such piety that tears glistened in his eyes and droplets of sweat dotted his bald head.

He clasped his hands. “You’re a saint, Mrs. Jim Bob—and the Almighty knows it as well as the rest of us do. Hallelujah!”

“Let’s hear from the publicity committee,” she said.

Lottie Estes pulled out several sheets of paper, then settled her bifocals firmly in place and cleared her throat. “I sent press announcements to all the area newspapers, but there hasn’t been much of a response. A few of them said they’d run it in their community calendar column. The public golf courses promised to pin the flyers on their bulletin boards. Some smirky man from the Farberville Country Club called to find out if this was a real tournament, and I told him in no uncertain terms that it most assuredly was and that I didn’t appreciate his attitude one bit. None of the area television stations seem interested.”

“Well, they will be,” said Mrs. Jim Bob, “when they hear about our prize for the first hole-in-one. Yesterday I went to visit with Phil Proodle.” She paused while they gaped at her. “As you all know, he owns the biggest boat dealership in Stump County. after some persuading, he agreed to put up a bass boat that retails for more than forty thousand dollars.”

Joyce Lambertino looked as if she’d discovered a sea serpent in the inflatable pool in her backyard. “Phil Proodle’s all the time on TV, doing those crazy commercials. Do you recollect the one where he rode an elephant in the lot? I’d never seen anything like that in all my born days.”

“Wearing nothing but two skimpy towels, one wrapped around his head and the other around his privates,” Millicent McIlhaney added in a scandalized voice.

Mrs. Jim Bob frowned. “That is neither here nor there. What’s important is that we get all the publicity we can. This prize is for the first hole-in-one. Not that anyone will actually win it, mind you. Our golf course isn’t like those fancy ones you see on TV. There’ll be more golf balls in the ponds than beetles in a sack of corn meal. I made it clear to Mr. Proodle that a charitable gesture would get him better publicity than hovering over the lot in a hot air balloon or dressing up like a cowboy and chasing heifers between the boats. He finally came around to my way of thinking.”

“A forty-thousand-dollar boat,” Joyce said. “Larry Joe’s gonna turn pea green. His old rowboat sank last year, and he moaned about it for a solid month.”

“He must beware the deadly sin of greed,” Brother Verber said.

“The river that carries the righteous to heaven is strewn with temptations like fancy boats. The ark was good enough for Noah, even though it was mighty crowded. And don’t forget about baby Moses. He came drifting along in a basket made of reeds.”

Mrs. Jim Bob was beginning to get irritated by his interruptions.

His agenda was saving lost souls, but hers was more pressing.

She’d read about charity golf tournaments in the newspaper.

It’d seemed like an easy way to prove that Maggody was a town filled with generous Christians willing to do the Lord’s work on behalf of the less fortunate. The fact that Maggody lacked a golf course had not stopped her. A quick visit to a public course had provided her with an idea how to fit eighteen holes in Raz’s forty acres. She’d given Earl no choice but to help her design the course and then plow up the neglected pasture. When it was time for volunteers, the members of the Missionary Society had stepped forward, although some of them had needed a shove in the back.

The one thing she didn’t need was a running commentary from the pulpit. “Lottie, you need to send out new press releases immediately. Mention the trophies but emphasize the boat. Now we come to registration.”

Darla Jean McIlhaney squirmed as everybody looked at her.

Right offhand, she could think of a hundred other places she’d rather be. A slum in India, the dark side of the moon, the dentist’s chair, even the front pew of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, which was within spittin’ distance of the pulpit—literally. Her mother had volunteered her because Darla Jean was good with her computer and could use it to keep track of the names and addresses of those who’d signed up. It hadn’t been much of a chore. “Uh, as of this morning, seventeen people have sent in their checks for a hundred dollars. There may be more in the next week.”

“There’ll be at least one more,” Eileen said. “Do y’all remember Bonaparte Buchanon, that little hellion that visited here summers? He managed to stay out of prison and took up playing golf. He showed up on my doorstep yesterday. He’s a member of the PGA, and swears he earns his living from playing in golf tournaments.”

“The PGA? Is that one of those cable channels?” Eula Lemoy asked. When she was staying at her cousin’s house, she’d stumbled upon a show with naked people seated on couches and chairs, discussing politics. She’d watched it for most of an hour, unable to believe her eyes.

“The Professional Golfers Association, for pity’s sake!” said Mrs. Jim Bob. “Haven’t you paid any attention to what we’ve been talking about for the last three months? I swear, living in that trailer park must not be any better than living in a cave up on Cotter’s Ridge like Diesel Buchanon.”

Lottie nodded. “I’ll put that in the new press release, too. Having a real live professional golfer should help attract more players, along with the bass boat.”

“Hallelujah,” Brother Verber intoned. He needed to run along home and work on his sermon, but he figured they’d take a break for refreshments pretty soon. He hadn’t had a chance to sample Eula’s caramel-pecan coffee cake.

• • •

By the following day, there was only one topic being discussed in Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill, and it wasn’t the weather.

“One helluva fine boat,” said Jim Bob Buchanon, mayor of Maggody and owner of Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less. He had the Buchanon look about him—beetlish brow, yellowish eyes, and a curled upper lip. His boot camp haircut accentuated his lumpy skull. He was wilier than most of the clan, however, which is why he reigned over the town like a schoolyard bully. “I’d lick the dew off a bull’s balls for a Ranger Z21.”

Jeremiah McIlhaney refilled his glass from the pitcher. “With an Evinrude E-TEC, a hydro jack plate—”

“Trolling motor with lift assist,” cut in Larry Joe Lambertino, getting misty as he pictured himself out in the middle of Greezy Lake, a beer in one hand and a rod in the other. Joyce would be at home with the kids, getting ready to fry up the fish and a batch of hush puppies. Larry Joe loved Joyce’s hush puppies.

“It’s a fuckin’ shame that some outsider’s gonna walk away with it,” Jim Bob said. “If any of us was to win it, we could all own shares and take turns using it.”

“The problem being,” said Roy Stiver, proprietor of Stiver’s Antiques: New and Used, “is that none of us can play golf. How are we supposed to win this helluva fine boat?”

Big Dick MacNamara poked him. “Didn’t you used to play golf down in Florida?”

“I couldn’t play worth a damn, even after a couple of lessons, so I sold my clubs and took up duplicate bridge. The ladies fought over the privilege of playing with me, since I was the only fellow in the club without a catheter bag. I had more homemade pies and cakes than I could eat in a lifetime, and dinner invitations every night. Sometimes, breakfast was included.” He leaned back and grinned. “Beat the hell out of trying to whack a golf ball on a hot afternoon.”

They stared morosely at the empty pitcher.

From behind the bar, Ruby Bee tried not to laugh at their hangdog faces. “Look at those ol’ boys feeling sorry for themselves on account of that expensive boat. It’s a darn shame the tournament’s not about shooting a mess of squirrels.”

“As if you care,” Estelle Oppers said as she plucked a pretzel out of the basket. She glanced at her reflection in the fly-specked mirror and absently patted her towering beehive of red hair adorned with spit curls and plastic cherry blossoms. It wouldn’t do for the owner of Estelle’s Hair Fantasies to be spotted with anything short of a perfectly styled hairdo, as well as thick mascara, orange eye shadow, and an undeniably bold slash of crimson lipstick. “You heard anything new from Arly?”

“Not in the last five minutes since you asked. I’m hoping she’ll show up for supper to night.” Ruby Bee went into the kitchen and blotted her eyes on the hem of her apron. She couldn’t for the life of her guess what Arly was likely to do, what with her lying low like a groundhog in a cabbage patch. after a stern lecture to herself, she checked on the brisket simmering in the oven, stirred the pot of ham and beans, and went back out the back door. The sign for the Flamingo Motel out behind the bar looked worse for the wear. Another neon letter had flickered out, and now it merely advertised the existence of a vcay. It sounded like an ointment for psoriasis.

Beyond the gravel parking lot, where many a surly sumbitch had found himself sprawled on his rear end after mouthing off inside, the stoplight seemed stuck on green. The tourists had no reason to stop or even slow down as they headed toward the artificial paradise of Branson, home to has-been celebrities and theme park employees with bright, unfocused eyes. Raz rattled by in his muddy pickup, his pedigreed sow Marjorie riding in the passenger’s side. Ruddy Cranshaw’s Nash Rambler was trailed by puffs of black smoke. Mrs. Jim Bob drove by in her pink Cadillac, her expression merciless. Ruby Bee wondered if she was hunting Jim Bob, who had a reputation for dalliances at the Pot O’ Gold trailer park.

She was about to go inside when a long, sleek black car adorned with blinding chrome rolled by with the majesty of an ocean liner.

The windows were tinted, hiding the occupants from view. “Omigod,” she whispered. Her knees threatened to buckle. She leaned against the concrete block exterior of the bar and willed herself not to crumple into the weeds. Maybe it was just a trick her mind was playing, she told herself. Or more likely, a similar make and model.