The Widows of Eden by George Shaffner

this by Loretta?”
    â€œUh huh. She couldn’t see any harm in it either.”
    â€œNo harm? You’re asking my fiancé to change a deal. That’s not dipping your tippy-toes into the shallow end of the pool; it’s leaping headfirst into the deep end. In my opinion, we’ll be better off if we step aside and let Mr. Moore do his work.”
    Hail Mary shook her head. “That’s so, so easy for you to say. You win either way, but hundreds of others could lose everything they own. Did you check your e-mail this morning?”
    â€œOf course, and I was as sorry as anybody to see the Kneppers go. Barb was a fine person and a heck of a needlepointer, one of the best I’ve ever seen …”
    â€œWho’s next, Wilma? How many more will disappear in the dead of night before we get rain? Vernon is our last hope. You have to talk to Clem. He’ll listen to you.”
    â€œShouldn’t you bring this before the board first?”
    â€œI could but the clock is ticking, and it’s not like I’m asking for thirteen hundred dollars — for umbrellas, in a drought.”
    I shouldn’t be giving away a secret like this, but you can always tell when a country girl is out of arguments. It’s when she says, “It’s not like I’m asking for the moon,” or the rhetorical equivalent. It was time for me to decide. “Okay. I’ll run it by him, but only if he’s up to it. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait another day.”
    â€œThank you, Wilma. The women of Hayes County owe you a great debt.”
    â€œAnd may God bless us all,” I added. “If we’re getting in bed with my fiancé, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
    Mary gave me the most peculiar look you ever saw, which is when I caught the irony of my own words. What’s a girl to do? I shrugged and walked her to the front door, where we both stopped dead in our tracks. Sitting in my parking lot next to her dust-encrusted black Buick was a vehicle the size of a boxcar. Upon closer inspection, it looked more like an extralarge, ocean-blue bus, except it was missing a bunch of windows. On the side, under an eye-high layer of dust, you could make out a large mural of silver bottle-nosed dolphins jumping and spinning in a teal and turquoise sea.
    â€œWhat the f —— ?” Modesty forbids me from spelling out Mary’s remark.
    â€œMy Lord! Is that Mr. Moore’s conception of an RV?” I said to myself.
    â€œAn RV?”
    â€œHe said his widow friends were arriving in big RVs. Good heavens!”
    We stood there like two schoolgirls who had been paralyzed by alien gamma rays, but somebody in the bus or RV or whatever must have noticed. A neckless, potato-shaped man with shoulder-length hair and sunglasses stepped out and ambled across the lot. In my mind, I had expected a rickety old chauffeur with a black suit and teeny, billed cap, but Mr. Potato was wearing blue jeans, a white tee shirt, a black leather vest, and a red bandana. His forearms were the size of a woman’s thighs and covered with black and blue tattoos.
    He removed the bandana when he got to the doorway. “My name is Raymond,” he said. “I’m s’posed to greet the lady of the house for my boss, the Widow Marion Meanwell. Would one of you be Ms. Wilma Porter?”
    With a tinge of anxiety, I said, “I would, and this is Mary Wade, the county attorney .” I admit it; I emphasized the “county attorney” part for my own safety. “Mr. Moore told us you were coming. Welcome to the Come Again. Would you care for a drink?”
    â€œThank you, but I’m not allowed. Maybe you’d like to meet Ms. Meanwell on board the coach. Most folks wanna see inside.”
    Hail Mary, who was late for a meeting, replied instantly, “We’d love to.”
    â€œFollow me, ladies.”
    When we got to the bus, Raymond retrieved a little