The Last Annual Slugfest Read Online Free PDF Page A

short black hair hung in unruly curls, and her nose and cheeks were as soft and wide as Edwina’s were sharp. Only in shortness did she resemble her aunt. She ran the Women’s Space, a bookstore and general gathering place for women, straight and gay. It was no secret that lesbian rights was not one of Edwina’s causes. As the creator of the town museum (a room connected to the tobacco store), Edwina was nothing if not traditional. The last I had heard, she and Leila weren’t even speaking. “I thought she’d be here all day,” Leila said. “Bert was afraid she’d commandeer one of his bunks at night.”
    “It’s almost nine o’clock,” I said. “She should have been here an hour ago. You don’t think something’s happened to her, do you?”
    “Like she had a few too many to fortify her for her meal here?” Leila suggested.
    All three of us stood silent, putting off the inevitable question. Finally, it was Chris who said, “Maybe someone ought to call her house and check.”
    There was another silence. Leila, the obvious candidate, was waiting for one of us to offer. Chris shifted his weight.
    In the main room I could hear Bert Lucci beckoning judges to the platform. The shuffle of feet suggested a concerted effort by the audience to get one last drink before sitting down.
    Bert Lucci stuck his head into the kitchen. “Almost ready?”
    “Are you going to start without Edwina?” I asked.
    “No. She’s in her place. Looks a little green, but that’s not unusual for a judge, or for Edwina at any time.”
    As one, Chris and Leila sighed.
    I hurried out, and after a quick survey of the audience to spot Edwina’s curly-haired visitor—he wasn’t here—plopped down in the one remaining seat in the first row, right in front of Edwina. Bert Lucci had been right about her looking green. Unlike the Edwina of this afternoon, who could barely stand still long enough to give orders, now she slumped in her chair, noticing neither the audience nor the procession of platters from the kitchen. Maybe Leila had been right about her aperitifs. In the sticky heat of the crowded room, a number of drinkers were beginning to look sleepy.
    The other judges seated themselves. Bert Lucci stood behind them demanding the audience’s attention.
    “Why doesn’t he use the podium?” I asked Leila, who had come in and squatted beside me.
    “Edwina told him to stay off. For herself only.”
    “How come?”
    “Who knows with Edwina? Bert said he wasn’t about to ask.”
    “… Bobbs of our own Henderson PG and E office,” Bert announced. Mr. Bobbs looked every bit as green as Edwina. He tried to force a smile. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile, and this evening he didn’t break that record. The crowd applauded first his introduction, and, more heartily, his vain attempt to look cheerful.
    Curry Cunningham was next. At his name, he stood and bowed, holding his stomach. It was clearly a crowd pleaser.
    Angelina Rudd did smile. “If my fish can eat worms, I can eat slugs … I hope.” She was greeted by laughter. It seemed to surprise and please her. She hardly looked like the same moody woman who had snapped at Curry Cunningham.
    The fourth judge was Father Calloway, the white-haired priest from St. Agnes’s. His was the parish of the fishing families. Many of his flock were in the audience, and they applauded him with enthusiasm. Father Calloway shook his head. “I’ve taken vows of chastity and obedience, not tastelessness. I don’t know why I’m here.”
    “Reward in heaven,” someone called from the back.
    “And, taking the last seat, the traditional Slugfest host’s seat,” Bert Lucci said from behind Edwina Henderson, “is the lady who brought this auspicious affair to Henderson. And after the judging, if she can still speak, she tells me she’ll have an announcement of importance to make.”
    I poked Leila. “Aha!”
    The crowd applauded, but Edwina barely looked up.
    I hadn’t paid