The Ladies Farm (9 page)

“Oh, I’m fine out there,” Della said. “Out there’s a great place.”

Tony nodded again. “Be hard without Pauline.”

“Yeah.” She still thought he was a handsome man, but she wondered if his face would be so creased and his suit jacket so tight if they’d stayed together. She liked to think not. “How’s the copy shop business?”

“Oh, great,” he replied without enthusiasm. “Opened a second one in Weatherford, and one up in Denton. They’ve all got computers-by-the-hour in them.”

“Sounds lucrative.” Della couldn’t figure out what Barbara was beaming about, unless it was just joy over the presence of an actual man. There were so few in any of their lives, it was always an excitement.

Tony had remarried after their divorce, a woman with three kids who left him after a year for a car salesman in New Mexico. Della thought the whole thing was just forgotten; she never thought it had
much to do with her, but she supposed there was something about the wife, Suzanne, that made up for something she herself had lacked. Suzanne hadn’t been especially thin or beautiful, but maybe she was easier to get along with. That wouldn’t have been hard, after Jamie died.

“Barbara?” Tony asked. “How’s Dickie?” Maybe Della imagined the catch in his voice.

“Doing great!” Barbara said.

“Still in Dallas?”

Della shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the sun through her long sleeves.

“He may be moving to Houston,” Barbara said. “He’s got an offer from a big surgeon there, to work with him.”

“Glad he’s doing well. Richard’d be proud.”

Barbara dimpled and launched into a description of Dickie’s accomplishments. Della knew why Tony put his arm around her then, and she was glad for it, to have this support while they listened to Barbara extol the son who had been Jamie’s friend. Dickie was a great kid, Della reminded herself as she always did, but it was never comfort enough against the cruelty that Dickie had grown up and Jamie was dead.

Thankfully, the rest of the gang showed up, and while Tony shook hands with Dave and Kat filled Della in on when Hugh Jr. and Melissa were coming, they somehow all loaded up into the car.

Della found herself waving to Tony from the back window. Nice guy in a bad suit, she thought.

Silver Quest
was due at the printer’s, and Della had barely started writing it. The ads, laid out by a part-timer who came in after school, were mostly in place, and the lead article, a state-by-state roundup of legislative activity, would not be tough. It was her column—the piece
she usually wrote about women traveling alone; or how to dress to meet your daughter-in-law-to-be; or discussing safe sex, vaginal dryness, and impotence with a potential partner—that was causing problems. All she wanted to write about was Pauline.

“Well, write about her,” Kat advised. “Our readers know who she is. Was.”

“I can’t,” Della said.

“Can’t?”

“Nothing’s working.” Della felt stupid.

“Nothing’s working? You have writer’s block over a newsletter?”

“Oh, of course not. The newsletter’s not writing anyway, it’s just reporting.” Della paused. “I just can’t get anything out.”

“Well, write something,” Kat repeated, turning back to the ledger she had opened on Pauline’s desk. It was a shock every time Della walked in and saw Kat rummaging through Pauline’s things.

“She was in love with her own handwriting,” Kat murmured now, more in wonder than criticism. “That’s why she wouldn’t use the computer. Look at this!”

Della peered over Kat’s shoulder, looking at the entries covering the page.
Tortillas, carton, $11.95. Bed sheets, white, $124.50. 100% rag writing paper, $23.95
. Her capital letters twice the size of the lower case, her descenders flowing down in gentle slants to the next line. And the ink like rows of flowers, first peacock blue, then green, then lilac.

“It’s a work of art,” Della said.

Kat sighed. “Yeah.”

Della knew Kat was worried about getting all the financials into the computer in time for Hugh Jr. and Melissa, but Della knew she’d do it. Pauline’s desk was in order, and so were her ledgers. If Kat wanted, Della thought, she could even hire someone to key in the data. But it was an act of faith with Kat. She had to key it in herself, the way she had every month that Pauline had lived and handed over those artful ledgers.

“I’ll write it if you want,” Barbara said.

“Jesus!” Kat jerked back. “I forgot you were here.”

Barbara sat on—actually overflowed—the steno chair in front of the computer. With her back to the screen and one leg tucked up under her, she resembled a cherubic schoolgirl in her mother’s earrings.

“They’re already written,” Della snapped. She hadn’t noticed Barbara at all. “They need to be keyed in.”

“I meant your article. About Pauline.”

“Oh, Barbara,” Della said. “That’s so sweet of you.”

“I can write,” Barbara said. “And I want something to do.”

“Maybe you could key the ledgers for Kat.” Della hated amateurs who thought they could write. Even newsletters. Every day brought manuscripts from hopefuls who had seen
Silver Quest
and just knew she would publish inspirational poetry, or spiritual testimony, or short stories, once she read theirs.

“I’m keying these myself,” Kat said, rising from Pauline’s chair with the ledger clutched to her breast. “Why don’t you let her try,” she challenged Della. “You just said you’re stuck.”

“Try,” Della said. She wheeled around and started back for her own office, then changed her mind and headed for the back door. “I’ll be on the river,” she said.

The Nolan didn’t offer solace. Della paddled around a little, but it was hot and she’d forgotten both hat and sunblock and spent most of her time envisioning brown tumors blossoming over her nose and cheekbones. What’d you expect, she grumbled to herself as she dragged the canoe back up onto the lawn. She shoved her toes back into her shoes and stomped over to a lawn chair beneath the live oak.

Flops, who’d spent most of Della’s boating time patrolling the shore, followed her over and sat next to the chair. Della rested a hand on the back of her neck. “You holding up okay?” she asked, scratching as the dog pushed up against the pressure of her fingers.

“Hmmmm?”

Let her write the thing, Della told herself. If she actually does, you’ll be done with it. And if not, it will at least give you a starting point. It’s a few hundred words. You can crank it out in no time once you get moving.

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The kitchen door opened and closed behind her, but she didn’t move.

“You taking a siesta?” Rita asked.

Della heard ice clinking in a glass, but she didn’t hear even a rustle from the ground as Rita moved over the grass. “You taking a vacation?” Della mumbled.

“Somewhat. Mrs. Pumphries rescheduled. I think Mrs. Myerhoff got her to change her day so they could come together.”

“Your customers scared of people dying?”

“Either that or fat women who get hysterical over people dying.”

“Well, that was probably pretty scary,” Della conceded.

She listened to Rita nuzzling the black dog, pictured Rita’s slick black cap of hair against the dog’s neglected coat.

“You need a good comb-out,” Rita was telling the animal in the tones she’d use to console a child. “You need a wash and a style.” Then her voice grew serious. “You all are going to buy out those kids, aren’t you?”

“I guess.” Della roused herself, opened her eyes enough to squint toward the river. “If they’ll sell. If Barbara doesn’t outbid us.”

“She wouldn’t do that, would she?” Rita had settled onto the grass.

“You’re going to get eaten by ants,” Della warned. “Who knows what she’ll do?”

“You think the kids know about Barbara owning half?”

“Hugh Junior mentioned it when Kat talked to him. Evidently, Pauline was so upset, she called him about it.” Della closed her eyes again.

“Did he sound surprised?”

“Kat talked to him, I didn’t. And it doesn’t matter how he sounded. What matters is whether he’d sell to us before he sells to Barbara. And,” she anticipated Rita’s next question, “I have no idea whether he’ll do that or not. Or if she’d even offer.”

“Why’s she here anyway?” Rita asked. “You really think she’s just so impressed with the way we live she can’t imagine living anywhere else?”

Della weighed the possibilities and imagined herself confiding in a breezy, chatty way that the three women Barbara might most want to kill were living here. The potential efficiencies were astronomical. Instead, she shrugged. “Who knows?”

Rita shifted gears. “Do you need any money?”

Della stared at Rita. “Are you offering to lend it?”

“Well, I’ve got some saved up!” Rita declared. “I’m not totally irresponsible.”

Della stared, shook her head, then settled back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m thinking, if this works the way we plan, the kids’ll take back a mortgage and let us pay them out.”

“And if Barbara sells out?”

“Maybe the same. Who knows?” Della concentrated on sounding noncommittal. “Have you thought about buying in?”

“It’s a little soon,” Rita said.

“It’s a little soon for all of us.”

“I just meant, you know, you and Kat have known each other all along, and you all were the ones who developed the thing. I just do hair.”

“Well, think about it,” Della advised. “Kat and I have, and if you’re interested, this would be your chance. Especially if Barbara sells.”

Della looked down to watch Rita and Flops getting comfortable together, Rita leaning against one leg of the chair, Flops lying down with her head on Rita’s thigh.

“You’re both going to get bit,” Della said again.

“You think Barbara’ll sell?” Rita ignored the perils of ant attacks. “Or that Kat’ll drive her out?”

“Kat’s dug in. If the kids agree, and Kat and I buy Pauline’s share, I’m betting Barbara doesn’t last a month.” Della considered. Unless, she continued silently, she wants to finish off Kat and me. “Without Pauline here, why would she want to stay? She’s not close to any of us.”

“I didn’t get the feeling she was that close to Pauline,” Rita observed.

Della concentrated on keeping her eyes closed and her mouth shut. But she did wish someone would explain why Barbara would want to move in with the widow of the man with whom she once had sex. Even once, long ago. After all, Della thought, I wouldn’t move in with Barbara.

Della sighed, which Rita must have heard as a response, because she continued her inventory. “And Kat doesn’t take to her at all. Barbara is a good cook, though.”

Della didn’t want to discuss Barbara’s cooking, or her unrelenting cheerfulness about helping make up the rooms and running the laundry. “But she’s not much good at CPR,” Della countered.

“I kind of doubt anyone could have saved Pauline,” Rita said. “You heard the doctor: It was a massive heart attack.”

“Yeah.” Della kept her eyes closed.

“So when are those kids coming … Melissa and Hugh Junior?”

“Friday. I thought you talked with them at the cemetery.”

“Friday? No, Kat talked to them.”

Della looked down at Rita’s head. “So where were you when I had to wrestle Barbara over to the car?”

Rita tilted her head back to look up at Della. “I guess we were just in the crowd somewhere.” She grinned. “Out of earshot, thank the Lord.”

Della considered sharing Barbara’s confession, but dismissed the chance. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear her moaning,” Della muttered.

“Her what?”

“Moaning. Moaning. You know:
Oh, Pauline. I killed Pauline.
” Della regarded Rita more carefully. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear her, everybody there heard her. Where were you?”

Rita looked a little sheepish, and turned her attention to Flops. “Did you hear her, Flops?” she asked the dog, scratching her head. “Huh? Did you hear big, bad Barbara?”

Give it up, Della told herself. “We’ve got to stop talking about her,” Della said, more to herself than to Rita. “She could be right behind us.”

“Well, I didn’t say anything bad, you and Kat are the ones complaining. Actually, I like her.”

“You won’t when you know her better. She’s just one of those stupid, hysterical women who can’t think of anyone except themselves. She couldn’t even grieve for Pauline without making it about herself.”

“Well,” said Rita, “we all express grief in our own way.” The grin on her face said it all.

“You were screwing, weren’t you? At the cemetery?” Della couldn’t believe she was asking, let alone that Rita was nodding that sheepish nod like a kid confessing to a particularly bad fart. “During the burial?”

“I guess,” said Rita. “We weren’t really watching what was going on there.”

“On someone’s grave?” Della couldn’t prevent her rising intonation.

“Of course not! How tacky!”

Della couldn’t believe the indignation, but Rita rushed right into the justifying details.

“I just felt faint, and you saw how flat and plain that cemetery was, no benches or anything, and there were no chairs left. So Dave walked me over to the maintenance shed. And we went around back where it was shady. And I was leaning up against that shed, but Dave thought I should sit. So he takes off his coat—that’s his only suit,
mind you—and puts it on the ground for me. So I sat down, and he sat down next to me and held me and, next thing I know, we’re just going at it.”