Buford pulled a hand full of forks from his apron pocket
and held them up to his wife.
“Skippy, I never can remember which fork goes where,” he said.
“Tell me again.”
“Place the forks on the left side of the plate –”
“Yeah, yeah. That much I remember. What I don’t know is which
one of these goes where.”
“Fish fork furthest left, then the meat and then the salad.”
Buford looked thoughtfully at the individual pieces of flatware. “So
is the salad fork the short one?”
“No. The fish fork.” Skippy’s voice trailed into the
kitchen. Buford was grateful that her charm school etiquette seemed to
overshadow the crude manners he usually brought to any social gathering.
“Tell you what,” Buford bargained. “I’ll pile
the forks right here and you straighten them out.”
For several minutes, each went about individual tasks without speaking,
Buford attempting to set the table and Skippy keeping a watchful eye from
the kitchen. She soon returned with a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
“I hope everyone likes tongue,” she fretted as she carried
the sliced meat on crackers out of Buford’s reach. She arched one
eyebrow and said, “Wait till everybody gets here.”
As he dropped napkins on the plates, Buford silently rehearsed the points
he wanted to make to Lela Schlopkohl. As you can see, Lela, I’ve
delivered everything I’ve promised the city. Revenue from new building,
more jobs, more visibility for Silverville, and important people in government
coming to support the project. Why we’re even attracting people
with money, like Chantale Getty-Schwartz.
Buford extended a be-napkined hand to the imaginary Lela as if to say,
“See, I’m delivering her money to you on a platter.”
He bowed deeply just as Skippy reentered the dining room.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He laughed slyly as he straightened up, saying, “Just practicing.
I want to make the right impression.”
“Well, if you want to make the right impression, remember to take
your apron off.”
Her voice was unusually light as she reprimanded him. Buford couldn’t
recall seeing her this upbeat since the last party they threw. Skippy
seemed always at her best at a formal gathering, and he watched as she
glided gracefully into the hallway, stopping before a mirror to attach
her earrings and check her hair. A mighty handsome woman, Skippy was.
The years had been kind to her, considering her rocky past, leaving her
face unlined and her auburn hair as dark and natural as the day they’d
met. Her trim figure complemented the simple black dress she wore, but
Skippy could make a pair of sweatpants look sexy. Buford admired her as
much as any of his possessions. Perhaps even loved her some. He could
always count on Skippy, from helping him choose the right suit to keeping
his home office organized. Which reminded him …
“Have you seen a passbook laying around?”
“Which one? Buford, you’ve got to learn to pick up your toys.
I can’t keep track of everything you lose.”
He scowled, feeling a twinge of alarm.
“It has a gray cover and if you see it, put it some place where
I can find it.”
“I don’t remember ever seeing a gray passbook.”
“Oh, it’s just something for work,” he lied.
The door bell rang, and Skippy turned to greet her first guests. At the
same time, Buford tossed the apron through the kitchen door and then dashed
across the dining room to unlock the liquor cabinet. From the foyer, he
heard her speak to the new arrivals. “Denton, Felicia, how nice
to see you both. This must be Mr. Jackson.”
“No, Earl Bob, please,” Buford heard his hired consultant
respond.
The voice from the hall struck him once again as very different from the
phone conversations of the past six months. Maybe Buford was just feeling
the pressure of the project bearing down upon him. He had been overly
critical the last week or so; he’d even caught himself snapping
at Skippy. And after all, the man had driven up in a car with UFO license
plates, and he had known where to meet him and Denton. He pushed the idea
from his head and waltzed into the dining room all smiles.
“Welcome. Welcome. Let me take your wraps and, Skippy, will you
honor our guests with drinks?”
Just out of ear shot of Denton and Felicia, Buford overheard Skippy whisper
to Earl Bob, “The price tag is still on the cuff of your blazer.”
She passed along the message deftly, hardly missing a beat. Buford detected
an expression of gratitude flicker across Earl Bob’s face as Skippy
radiantly turned to say to the others, “Who would like something
to drink?”
Seemed odd that Earl Bob would’ve bought a new jacket for this occasion.
He should’ve already had a closet full of them from his job in Washington.
Skippy motioned for everyone to follow her into the living room. Earl
Bob offered his arm to Felicia, and Denton shuffled along behind with
Buford. Listening briefly to Earl Bob’s polite questions about Felicia’s
involvement in the local theater, Buford entertained himself with his
usual gouges about Denton’s business.
“Did you plant your latest customer in the ground yet, Denton?”
Denton, not looking like he felt up to the regular banter, simply nodded
and called out to Skippy, “Make mine a double. The usual.”
“How about you, Earl Bob, what’s your poison?” asked
Skippy. She set out cocktail glasses for everyone except herself.
“He’ll have a Salty Dog, my love,” Buford offered. “That’s
what you told me on the phone that you drank, wasn’t it, Earl Bob?”
He watched his guest closely for any signs of surprise.
“That’ll be fine,” Earl Bob replied. Buford couldn’t
tell for sure, but he thought he detected a slight hesitation. But then
Earl Bob fixed his attention on Buford and gave him a thoroughly charming
smile. “And I’m sure whatever drink your wife makes for me
will be better than the tequila I had to put up with while chasing the
Chupacabras in Puerto Rico.”
Touché. Buford smiled to himself, wondering if he should ignore
his gut feeling. If this wasn’t really Earl Bob, the guy played
a damn good stand-in.
His mind groped for another trap to set. Buford blurted out, “By
the way, Earl Bob, while you’re in Silverville, it would look good
for you to open up a checking account. Give us a chance to get back some
of that high-dollar salary we’re paying you.” He moved over
to his wife and slid an arm around her waist. “This is the little
lady you’ll need to talk to about that.”
“That’s a good idea. Guess I’ll get to that sometime
this week,” Earl Bob replied with a thoughtful nod.
“In fact,” Buford continued, “why don't you just leave
your driver’s license with her tonight, and by the time you stop
at the bank tomorrow, she’ll already have it set up for you.”
Patting his back pocket with obvious dismay, Earl Bob frowned and said,
“You know, I didn’t think to bring it since Denton was driving
tonight. You’re the designated driver, aren’t you, Denton?”
Denton raised his glass to toast him, but before he could speak, Skippy
answered first. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,
Earl Bob. This is a small town with a small-town bank. We all know who
you are now. We only do that for people we’re suspicious of.”
His arm around her waist tensed as Buford added, “You’re always
so helpful, dear.”
The second chime of the evening announced the arrival of Mayor Schlopkohl.
Apparently only Buford heard the ring over the chatter of voices and the
baroque chords of one of Mozart’s Brandenburg concertos, something
Skippy had chosen for the evening.
“Hello! Is anyone home?” a familiar woman’s voice called
through the front door.
Buford was already sprinting across the room to greet Lela. Immediately,
he made an artificial fuss in the hallway about her gracing his home with
her presence.
“Cut the crap, Buford,” Lela retorted under her breath. She
may have been short and squat, but she seemed to tower over Buford with
her attitude. “I know you don’t like me any better than I
like you. If it weren’t for your lovely wife, I wouldn’t even
consider coming here for a minute.”
Buford wondered if she used the same blunt approach with her grandkids.
“Okay,” Lela continued. “Let’s meet this Washington
hot shot.”
Without further direction, Lela pushed past Buford and marched toward
the sound of the voices. When he caught up with her, Skippy was already
introducing the mayor to their “distinguished UFO specialist.”
Clasping her extended hand in both of his, Earl Bob spoke with what sounded
like obvious admiration, holding her attention with his mesmerizing green
eyes. “This is such a pleasure. I’ve been waiting to meet
you.”
Buford stared with disbelief – the old girl was actually blushing!
For once, Lela seemed speechless as she listened to Earl Bob. “I
applaud you for having the courage to support such a bold project to bring
prosperity to your town. You are truly a progressive woman.”
A broad grin flooded her face as she stammered, “Why, thank you,
Earl Bob, that’s quite a compliment coming from someone like yourself.
Buford told me you would be an asset to this project, and maybe for once
he was right.”
Earl Bob took her by the arm and guided her over to the couch. The leathery
old snake was his total captive.
Denton sidled up to Buford and whispered, “Gee, he’s good
at this.”
“Yeah, almost too good.” For a moment, Buford heated up over
Lela’s quick surrender to Earl Bob’s charm. For years, he
had struggled to maintain even a speaking relationship with the old fish
bait, she offering him nothing but caustic remarks each time he had tried
to woo her. He recalled the day she had left him cooling his heels in
her outer office for four hours. Another time, she had embarrassed him
at a public meeting, telling him to “shut up and sit down”
before a whole roomful of people.
“Buford, would you help me in the kitchen?” Skippy asked him
as she passed by with the emptied hors d’oeuvres plate. He followed
her to the kitchen, his head riveted to the cozy couple on the couch.
“Buford, where ever did you find this man?” Skippy remarked
as she refilled the tray. “He is absolutely the most charming man
I have ever met. Everybody in this town is going to fall in love with
him.”
Buford thought back to the halting conversations he’d had with Earl
Bob on the phone. At the time, the man seemed like a near social misfit.
He could recall having to pull answers to even simple questions from Earl
Bob’s reluctant lips. What really dumbfounded him was the instant
rapport that Earl Bob had established with Lela. When he left them on
the couch, she was talking about the expected revenues from the theme
park like she had supported the project from the very start. Earl Bob
had her eating out of the palm of his hand.
Buford was still puzzling over the evening’s turn of events when
he heard the door bell ring once again. “That should be the last
of our guests,” he told Skippy and walked to the hallway.
He wasn’t quite prepared for the sight waiting for him at the front
door. Chantale Getty-Schwartz stood before him in all her decadent splendor,
her teased maroon hair falling over a white fur coat, hardly obscuring
Buford’s view of a neckline that plummeted to her belt. She was
decked out in extravagant diamond jewelry, skin-tight designer jeans,
and ostrich cowboy boots. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Beside her stood a pale man. Four-inch fringe dangled from his buckskin
jacket; silver conchos descended in a “Y” at the shoulder
yokes, leading Buford’s eyes to the five-pound turquoise belt buckle
that clung to his black leather breeches. A string of raven feathers hung
from the side of a red headband, the rest of his white hair gathered severely
to the back of his head. He, too, wore ostrich cowboy boots. Despite the
spectacle, what Buford noticed most were the bandages that covered the
eyes of Chantale’s escort. The man had tried to hide them with dark
glasses, but the bandages overlapped the top of his shades, only half
sticking to pink and blue flesh that swelled like a party balloon. Grady
must’ve got him good.
“You must be Chantale,” Buford said, staring at her breasts.
It was a wonder they didn’t fall right out of that skimpy little
blouse. He had a feeling the stories he had heard about her might do her
justice. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“And you must be Buford Prize,” she responded, every line
in her face accentuated by caked make-up.
“Price,” he corrected. “Yes. Well, let’s not just
stand here in the door way. Come on in. It’s always a pleasure to
welcome another supporter to our project.”
Chantale guided her blinded companion as she shimmied into the hallway,
stopping to appraise the Price home. “What a cute little house you
have here. I bet it was one of those squatter cabins from a long time
ago. Was it difficult to remodel?”
“Why, no,” Buford answered, somewhat taken back by the comment.
“Skippy and I had it built ten years ago.” It was a two-story
Cape Cod that he and Skippy had been immensely proud of, and it was a
fluke that they even had it at all. Back before Buford had jumped into
the ski resort venture, his land wheeling and dealing had taken yet another
turn for the worse. He and Skippy had purchased a good-sized chunk of
property for future development, but before anyone had the chance to build
on it, word got out that the ground was slowly moving.
“This land is unstable,” an engineer had announced. “It’s
sitting on slumping ground, and only damn idiots would buy it or build
on it.” Unless they didn’t mind their houses moving half an
inch downhill each year.
By the time the whole escapade was over, Buford and Skippy were on the
verge of bankruptcy – and right on the eve of building their new
house. Thankfully, Skippy’s maiden aunt had had the decency to die
at about the same time, leaving the Prices with enough ready cash to recover
from the land fiasco and still make the down payment on the house. Skippy
had been ecstatic. Buford, relieved. They both considered it their “dream
house.”
Buford waved a careless hand in the air and lied, “Actually, I wanted
to build something a little more elaborate, but Skippy just wouldn’t
hear of it. She insisted that we live like other folks do in this town.”
“How sweet,” Chantale drawled. “Oh, this is my protégé,
Hans High Horse. We had a little mishap two days ago, and he’s temporarily
handicapped, aren’t you, Hans?”
“The Great Spirit gives us other ways to see than just eyes,”
Hans offered as his sightless head searched the room. He then strode forward
and crashed into Skippy’s antique China hutch, sending several saucers
careening to the floor.
“You two come on in where the others are,” Buford said, stepping
over the broken porcelain. He escorted them to the living room. “Let
me introduce you to everybody.”
“Look everybody. Look who’s here,” Buford announced.
“This is Chantale Getty-Schwartz and her progeny, Hans High Horse.”
Skippy, always the gracious hostess, immediately stepped forward, making
introductions for them all. After Denton’s greeting, Buford noticed
his old friend shooting him a questioning look. Denton then made his way
over to the host’s position on the other side of the room.
“Aren’t these the people who attacked Grady?” Denton
asked in a lowered voice.
“Yep, they are.” Buford waited for the next question.
“Why are they here?”
“Fifty-thousand dollars is why. That’s how much I got in the
mail today from her for the project. Would you have left her off the guest
list?”
“No. Guess not.”
Buford surveyed his guests with satisfaction. Except for the out-of-town
investors, many of the key players to the project were standing in his
living room. He watched as Earl Bob worked first Lela and then, increasingly,
Chantale, separating them from the herd with the same finesse as a fine
cutting horse. Each woman responded even better than Buford could have
hoped. Throughout the happy hour, he saw Earl Bob’s gaze fall thoughtfully
in the direction where he and Denton were standing. Occasionally, Earl
Bob would venture a few steps toward them, but before he could make it
over to their side of the room, one of the women would always corral him
and bring him back to the herd.
“Did you know Earl Bob was such a ladies’ man?” Denton
asked Buford with amusement.
“No, I did not. It’s not the sort of thing that would’ve
come up in our conversations.”
“Frosting on the cake, isn’t it?”
“It appears so,” Buford replied, mulling it over in his head.
As he finished speaking he overheard Skippy’s conversation with
Chantale and Hans High Horse.
“But why a pyramid?” Skippy asked her gaudy guest.
“Why, a pyramid draws all the positive energy from the universe
and focuses the beams down on whoever is inside,” Chantale explained.
Skippy politely nodded as though she understood, but Buford knew she didn’t
have a clue about the garbage Chantale was feeding her.
Chantale continued, “There’s some other good stuff about pyramids,
but I always forget what they are. You tell her, Hans.”
Chantale clutched her companion at the shoulders and turned him toward
Skippy, saying, “Hans, why are we building a pyramid house?”
“It is destined,” he replied. “After all, only old souls
can live comfortably in a pyramid and draw the warmth of the cosmos to
them. Chantale and I are among the ancient ones.”
Even after this declaration, Skippy still looked as though she understood
this great white bullshitter. Buford continued to listen, amused.
“Yes,” Hans went on. “Chantale was once a great queen
of the Nile.”
“I was Nefritis,” Chantale interrupted. “I didn’t
even know that until Hans told me!”
“Nefertiti,” Hans gently chided her. “I, of course,
was her devoted high priest. And it was meant to be that we should be
rejoined in a dwelling befitting our former status.”
Fifteen minutes followed of Hans relating his former and present lives,
including a rather vague description of the obscure tribe of Mexican albino
Indians he hailed from. Naturally, he was the last of his kind and was
the sole bearer of the legacy of his people, the Juanabees.
For once, Skippy seemed at a loss for words. Buford knew she was groping
for the appropriate response.
“The two of you sound so . . . so spiritual,” Skippy stammered.
“Certainly, you belong together.”
And in a padded cell, Buford thought.
When the hors d’oeuvres were gone and the guests warm with cocktails,
Skippy announced that it was time for dinner. She ushered everyone into
the dining room and placed them as formal etiquette dictated: Earl Bob
to her right at one end of the table, and Lela to Buford’s right
at the other end. The others she alternated male-female on the table sides.
After everyone was arranged, Buford poured the wine and Skippy brought
out the salads.
“Buford, would you say grace?” Skippy suggested to Buford’s
surprise, since an invocation was not normally in their routine, even
for dinner parties. Really putting on the dog, aren’t we, Skippy?
Well, it’s your show.
As Buford searched for appropriate words, Chantale, to his relief, raised
a waving hand. “I know. I know. Why not have Hans say the blessing?
After all, he is a holy man.”
All eyes turned to Hans. He stood, trailing his waist-long ponytail through
the butter dish, took a deep breath, outstretched his arms, and began.
“Oh Wapa Wapa, oh Great One, look down upon these who hunger not
only for sustenance, but also for your guidance. Grant that we below always
walk on clear trails, feel the wind at our backs, change the things we
can, accept the things we cannot, find the wisdom to know the difference,
and . . . ,” he paused to take another deep breath.
“Oh that was so wonderful! Hans has such original thoughts!”
Chantale clasped her hands together with unabashed admiration. Hans, his
face betraying as much confusion at the interruption as his bandages would
allow, simply sat back down.
Buford took the opportunity to jump up from his chair, raised his wine
glass, and blurted out, “Let’s make a toast. To Lela for her
undying support, to Chantale for her generous contribution, to Skippy
for this fine meal, and to Earl Bob, for the many talents he brings to
the project. May our endeavor bring pride to our community and money to
our pockets.”
Everyone chimed in with a multiple “Here, here!”
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