The Merry Wives of Maggody Page 2

  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 tonight.” 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. “Omi-god,” 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. It wasn’t like there was just one Imperial Crown made forty-odd years ago, and surely a goodly number of them were black.

  Nearly ten minutes passed before she made it into the kitchen, splashed water on her face, and went out to the bar. Estelle stared at her. “You’re pale as a baby’s bottom,” she said. “Did you see a mouse?”

  “More like a rat,” Ruby Bee said as she poured herself a shot of bourbon from the bottle she kept stashed in a cabinet below the cash register.

  Tommy Ridner guffawed as his opponent’s ball splashed into the creek that ran along the edge of the Farberville Country Club’s seventeenth fairway. “You lose this one, you’re down a hundred bucks. What say we double up so you have a slim chance to get your money back?”

  “Screw you.” The man teed up again and sent a second ball into the creek. “I give up. Cash or check?”

  “Hey, no hard feelings,” Tommy said grandly. “I know you’re good for it—you always are. Let’s go back to the clubhouse and have a couple of drinks. You seen Dennis Gilbert around today? I want to ask him about some idiot tournament over in Maggody.”

  “There’s a golf course there?”

  “So they claim.” Tommy stuck his driver in his bag on the back of the cart, then took the driver’s seat and grimaced. One of these days he was going to need a bigger cart if his gut continued to grow. Golf was the only sport that did not discriminate against red-faced, sweaty, overweight white guys who smoked cigars and kept flasks in their back pockets. Tommy was in his early forties, with the same blond crewcut and freckles he’d had in college, but his knees creaked when he stood up. He saw a chiropractor twice a week. Pain pills comprised one of his basic food groups. His internist had given up lecturing him about a myriad of health risks, as had his ex-wife, who’d dumped him for a banker with capped teet
h and a cloned mansion in a gated community.

  “How was Cabo San Lucas?” the loser asked.

  “Those corporate boys know how to travel.” Tommy veered around a sprinkler head. The club rules forbade driving carts off the paved paths, but it was a helluva lot more fun to careen up the fairways. “Private jet, fantastic house on the beach, servants, and a bartender named Paco who mixed a mean margarita. We played three of the championship courses, but I had to bow out after we went deep-sea fishing. I got into a tussle with a two-hundred-pound sailfish and threw out my back. Luckily, Paco knew somebody who knew somebody who worked in a farmacia. I ended up with enough Dilaudid to put half the world out of its misery.” He pulled out a plastic pill case and tapped several tablets into his palm. “Want one?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick with martinis.”

  Tommy downed the tablets as they drove to the clubhouse. He stowed his cleated shoes in his locker and went to the bar. As he’d hoped, Dennis was sitting at one of the round tables. Regrettably, his wife, Amanda, was seated next to him, filing her talons. She wasn’t unattractive, but her incessant bitching and expression of total boredom did much to cancel the appeal of her abundant auburn hair and shapely figure. Dennis, in contrast, had the bland good looks of an anchorman for the local TV station, which he was. Brown hair, brown eyes, perfect teeth, and apparently without any opinions whatsoever. Amanda, better known in the locker room as D’Amanda, had enough for both of them, and was apt to spout off after a few drinks.

  “How’s it going?” Tommy said as he joined them. He leered at Amanda, but she ignored him.

  She was, as far as Dennis knew, the only woman at the country club who was unimpressed by Tommy’s sloppy charm. The only woman since high school, even. Dennis had always been a gentleman, but he’d been trampled by the women chasing after his best friend, who wore baggy clothes and usually reeked of alcohol. By the time Dennis had ventured to first base with a girl, Tommy had already scored a home run. The hottest girl in college had declined Dennis’s invitation to a coffeehouse and squealed when Tommy invited her to a keg party. If Dennis made a birdie, Tommy made an eagle. But now Dennis had Amanda, the love of his life. He smiled when she turned away from Tommy.

  Tommy gave up on her. “Hey, Dennis, what have you heard about this golf tournament in Maggody?”

  “I was informed that it’s a benefit for golf widows.”

  “Golf widows? You gotta be kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not. I assumed it was total nonsense until the station received a second press release. It seems that the little town of Maggody has lured in a PGA player. Name’s Bonaparte Buchanon. I’d never heard of him, but I checked the list and he’s down near the bottom.”

  “I’m a golf widow,” Amanda said, “and grateful for it. I don’t know what I’d do if you hung around the house all weekend.” She went across the barroom to sit with some of her women friends.

  “I’ve heard of him,” Tommy admitted. “He makes the cut every now and then, but he’s a real ass-kicker if he wins any money. Buys everybody endless rounds of drinks, makes all manner of crude remarks about the winners, and tries to pinch the butts of all the women under seventy, whether or not their husbands are standing there. He’s banned from half the courses in the country.”

  “Sounds like he should be.” Dennis gestured to the waitress. “What’s more interesting is the hole-in-one prize.”

  “A three-legged mule? A portable outhouse? Dinner for two at the local greasy spoon?”

  “A Ranger Z21, twenty-one feet, all the gadgetry.” Dennis ordered a gin and tonic, then glanced at him. “Want a drink?”

  Tommy whistled. “You’re fuckin’ making that up. How does that crappy little podunk come up with a prize like that? Yeah, maybe clubs like Southern Hills or Diamante can afford to give away new cars or vacation packages, but not . . .” He looked up at the waitress, who was thinking about her unpaid utility bills. “Gimme a Johnnie Walker on the rocks, sweetie. Make it a double and I’ll take you on a boat ride.”

  “Sure, Mr. Ridner,” she said with a warm smile. After several drinks, he was known to be a big tipper. Mr. Gilbert and his wife were lucky if they got served.

  “Of course, you have to make a hole-in-one,” Dennis pointed out.

  “You think the course is seventy-five hundred yards like Augusta? I can probably chip in from the tee. I’ve won the club championship seven out of the last ten years, for gawd’s sake, and the state tournament three times. I can handle what’s likely to be a miniature golf course.”

  “I’m sure you can handle it, buddy.” But not Amanda, Dennis thought smugly as he went over to Amanda’s table and helped her scoot back her chair. She was untouchable. Nobody paid any attention to their bickering as they left.

  Tommy realized he’d been stiffed for the bill.

  Kale Wasson was lying on his bed, swaddled in bliss from the pot he’d smoked. The speakers positioned around his room blared raucous music. Sunlight danced across his face. All the scene needed was a naked girl nestled against him, her hands gently arousing him as her tongue slipped into his ear. Rachel, the blonde in his chem lab, with her pouty lips and beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Or a brunette like Maria Teresa, who swaggered into homeroom every day and had once smiled at him in the hall. Maybe both of them, kneeling on either side of him, their breasts brushing against him. Kale’s face flushed as he imagined their animal growls, their hot breath—

  “Are you sick, honey?” his mother said as she opened his door. “You’ve been here all afternoon. What’s that smell?”

  “Incense. I’m meditating.”

  Kathleen sighed. “Wouldn’t you be better off practicing your chip shots in the backyard? The tournament is in less than two weeks, and you need to focus on it.”

  “Why? It’s not rated. What’s the prize? A twenty-dollar gift card for Wal-Mart? I’ve got better things to do than waste my weekend at some two-bit tournament with a bunch of pathetic losers who’ve never broken par.”

  She came into the room, opened a window, and began to pick up his dirty clothes. “Not all pathetic losers. They’ve snagged a PGA player and a couple of people you know. Would you please turn down that awful music? I don’t know how you can stand it in here.” She gave him a moment to comply, then did it herself. “Besides, you need the practice for the PGA Junior Tournament. If you want to get a golf scholarship for college, you’re going to have to get your name mentioned in the media.”

  “What PGA player?”

  “I don’t remember the name. I do know that Tommy Ridner and Natalie Hotz are on the list, along with some golfers from Little Rock, Dallas, and Memphis. The prize for a hole-in-one is an expensive fishing boat. If you win it, we can sell it and get enough for you to go to more tournaments. As it is, I can barely pay the rent.”

  “You want me to blow my amateur status?”

  Kathleen Wasson carried the bundle of clothes to the doorway. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It’s not too late to play a few holes at the public course. You wouldn’t want to lose to Natalie, would you?”

  Kyle did want to lose to Natalie. He wanted to lose his virginity to her in the moonlight, on a soft blanket, with birds singing from the treetops. He rolled over and recast his fantasy.

  Natalie was losing to Janna Coulter, who was thudding around the apartment in a worn gray sweatsuit. She reminded Natalie of a rogue elephant in search of a village to devastate. “I don’t want to go running today, okay? I must have run like fifty miles this week. I want to go out to the pool, drink a soda, and read a magazine that’s about clothes, not about friggin’ golf.”

  “Stop sniveling,” Janna said. “We’ve been over this so many times that I’m about to throw up. Right now you have the potential to burst into the LPGA after a win at the U.S. Women’s Amateur. That means endorsements, which translate to millions of dollars. You’re young, beautiful, and one of the best female golfers in the state. The media will fawn all ove
r you, as long as you maintain your reputation as an innocent young lady. Those college kids by the pool have cell phones with cameras. One photo of you swilling beer and your reputation will sink to the deep end of the pool and get stuck in the drain.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child. I am so sick of being ordered around by a middle-aged ex-army sergeant with the body of a bag of turnips! You may be twenty-five years older than me, but you’re not my mother.”

  Janna’s grin was malicious. “Why don’t you give her a call? I’m sure she’d let you move back into that squalid tract house with your snotty-nosed brothers and sisters. If you’re lucky, you can join your old high school friends yanking intestines out of chickens at the poultry plant. Get yourself knocked up, marry the illiterate jerk, and raise snotty-nosed brats of your own. Go out to dinner once a week at a chain cafeteria.”

  “Maybe I will,” Natalie said, but her voice was unsteady and she was unable to hold Janna’s stare. The bitch was right, she reminded herself. Four years earlier Janna had spotted her at a public golf course, realized her potential, and assured her that wealth and glory were awaiting her—if she agreed to allow Janna to manage her career. Natalie hadn’t suspected that Janna intended to manage her life as well, from vitamins at six in the morning until mandatory bedtime at ten o’clock.