Miss Julia Takes the Wheel

by Ann B. Ross

  “Don’t forget the other difference,” I said. “Now you’re getting paid.”

  “That is true,” she agreed, looking somewhat smug at the thought. “And getting that check every other Friday is a great morale booster. But how are you, Julia? Anything going on with you?”

  “No, not really. I’ve been driving Mildred to see Horace every day—or at least riding with her while Lloyd drives. We’ll be going again this afternoon so Mildred can meet with the cardiologist. She thought Horace would be coming home, but there seems to be a problem and they’re keeping him another week.”

  “You’re awfully good to take her every day—that would get old in a hurry for me.” LuAnne chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, then went on. “Mildred has a good helpless act, but when you get down to it, she’s more than capable.”

  “Oh, I know, but I think she needs the company—the companionship or something. Horace’s heart attack has really shaken her, although she seems to be dealing with it fairly well. Except it comes out in some strange ways.”

  “Like how?”

  “Oh, like worrying over what kind of car he should be driving, when right now he can’t drive any kind. I think that sort of thing keeps her mind off the possibility of something worse.”

  “Well,” LuAnne said, “if the worst happens, she can be assured that the Good Shepherd Funeral Home will treat him with the utmost respect—as we do all our clients.”

  “Somehow, LuAnne,” I said, somewhat drily, “I don’t think that would be very comforting.”

  “Well, you never know, and I’m just saying. But, listen, I heard that the house Dr. Crawford is remodeling will be listed for sale in the next week or so. Have you seen it? What does it look like? Because, see, I might be interested, and I’m thinking that if I get in soon enough I might get a better deal. You know, for a quick sale.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, LuAnne. It’s my understanding that he intends to rent it. That’s what I’ve heard—that he buys rental property in every town he practices in and gets long-term renters in before he leaves. That’s his investment strategy, rather than the stock market.” Laying my knife and fork crosswise on my plate to indicate I had finished, I said, “Where did you hear it would be for sale anyway?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems to be common knowledge.”

  “Well, I’d be surprised if it was true. And no, I’ve not seen inside it. All I know is that Nate Wheeler is doing the work, and he’s good. But, LuAnne, can you really . . . I mean, are you really thinking of buying a house? That house in particular, which is surrounded by houses in poor repair?”

  “But that’s the beauty of it, Julia,” LuAnne said, leaning forward. “See, you and J. D. Pickens are redoing the house next door, which means that others will soon do the same. If I could buy now, I’d be in on the ground floor, because gradually all those houses will increase in value.” She sat back with an air of triumph as if she were the only one to have seen the possibilities. “So what about your house?” she asked. “Are you going to sell it or rent it?”

  “Well, first of all, it isn’t mine. It belongs to Pickens and Son. I have nothing to do with it, but as far as I know they intend to put it on the market.”

  “Hm-m,” LuAnne said, a faraway look on her face. “I might drop by and look at both of them. Just in case, you know. Although I’ve always heard that it’s not good to do business with friends—if something doesn’t work out, you’re left with hard feelings.”

  Uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going, I changed direction. “Speaking of friends, have you heard from Helen Stroud lately?”

  “I talked with her last week, and, Julia, that woman is spending money like crazy—Thurlow’s money, I mean. Because now that he’s supposed to be up and walking on crutches every day, she’s redoing the library downstairs so his bedroom can be down there. Which also means redoing the bathroom next to it with a huge walk-in shower. And apparently they’re fighting like cats and dogs because Thurlow wants that gigantic dog of his back in the house, and you know how Helen feels about that.”

  “Oh, my,” I said, feeling my spirits drop because that gigantic dog—Ronnie, by name—was well and truly ensconced with the Pickens family. They would hate having to give him back to his true owner, and Ronnie, I felt, would hate leaving his place of honor as the active protector of children to return to a lazy life at the feet of his master.

  “Anyway,” LuAnne went on, “Helen seems to be ruling the roost over there. I just hope she doesn’t spend him into the poor house, because if she does, she’ll want her condo back, and where would that leave me? That’s why I’m thinking I’d be better off owning something, rather than being at the whim of somebody else.”

  “Well,” I conceded, “that’s true, but don’t overlook the fact that when you own something you’re responsible for taxes, for insurance, and for fixing anything that doesn’t work. As a renter, you can just call the owner if something needs repairing.”

  “I know that, Julia,” she said with a hint of snippiness. “You forget that I paid all the bills when I was with Leonard, so I know what I’m doing. So don’t tell me that you think I need an intervention to teach me how to handle money.”

  “Not at all!” I said, aghast at the thought and, before I could help myself, going on the offense. “And don’t bring up that subject to me ever again. I still get cold chills when I think of how we hurt Helen, interfering in her business as we did. And if you want to get personal, how a few busybodies did the same to me.”

  “You’re right,” LuAnne quickly said. “You’re absolutely right. Let’s forget all that, and talk about something else. You want dessert? I’m having the cheesecake.”

  “Fine,” I said, nodding, “I will, too.”

  And over two slices of cheesecake, we got over a disagreeable hump and were soon chatting away about other less touchy subjects.

  “So,” LuAnne said, “how’s Lloyd liking his car? I saw him driving it with his mother the other day on my way home from work. Hazel Marie waved at me, but he had his eyes on the road.”

  I laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. He’s being very careful these days. And I think he’s liking it fine, although he would’ve much preferred a sportier-looking car.”

  “Who wouldn’t? That thing is a monster. I don’t know how he manages it.”

  “Well, don’t tell him that. His father picked it out for all the right reasons—number one being Lloyd’s safety. And when you’re riding in it, you feel as safe as if you were in a tank. And it’s very comfortable—even Mildred likes riding in it.”

  “Mildred? You mean she’s ridden in it?”

  “I certainly do. Lloyd drives her to see Horace most every day. Of course, I go along, too. He still has to have a licensed driver with him, and . . . ,” I said, laughing, “even though Mildred qualifies legally, she doesn’t with me. Have you ever ridden with her?”

  “Good grief, yes, and, believe me, it wasn’t an easy ride. She looks everywhere but at the road, talking constantly. She’s as bad as Miss Mattie Freeman ever was. You remember her, don’t you?”

  “I sure do, and I’d drive way out of my way just to avoid being on the same street with her.”

  “Well,” LuAnne said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “speaking of that, Lauren Crawford almost caused a wreck the other day.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “She ran a stop sign—just went straight through it without slowing down or looking either way. If I hadn’t slammed on my brakes, I would’ve hit that new Lexus broadside. Scared me to death, let me tell you. But she just went right on like she had the right of way. I don’t think she even saw me.”

  “Oh, I hate to hear that. I’m afraid that she has some heavy problem, something bad going on in her life. I mean, after what you told me about her coming to the funeral home—”

 
“Don’t say that. I didn’t tell you anything. I just said I saw her. I can’t tell you anything else, I could lose my job.”

  “No, no, that’s what I meant. I have no idea why she was there, but let’s face it, nobody goes to a funeral home for entertainment—”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Well,” I said, “I mean I’m concerned about her, and hearing that she’s driving carelessly worries me even more. Next time, let’s ask her to have lunch with us.”

  “Sure, we can do that. Just don’t ask me why she was at the funeral home. . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean,” LuAnne said, putting her napkin on the table and gathering her purse, “people are all the time coming in to preplan their funerals, and they don’t want everybody and his brother knowing their business.”

  At that, LuAnne gasped and turned an ashen face toward me. We stared at each other—she with a stricken look, and I with a horrified one.

  Snatching up the check and turning to leave, she said, “I’ll get this, but, Julia, you didn’t hear a word. Understand? You didn’t hear a word I said.”

  Partially recovering, I nodded. “Thanks for lunch, LuAnne. I’ll leave the tip. And thanks for bearing with me—I think I need to have my hearing checked. I hear only half of what anybody says these days.”

  Chapter 41

  *

  Oh, my word! My word! By the time I’d walked to the car, I was shaking all over. I fastened the seat belt, then leaned my head on the steering wheel while a deep anxiety over Lauren’s apparently precarious mental state brought me to tears. And thinking of those poor, motherless children, which I immediately did, I began to bawl in earnest.

  Snatching up a Kleenex, I mopped my eyes and blew my nose. Then, straightening up, I told myself that going to pieces was no way to deal with anything. But deal with it, I would, one way or the other.

  In fact, I’d already started by trying to ease LuAnne’s horror at revealing Lauren’s business at the funeral home by pretending partial deafness. But of course I had heard, and all I could think of was that Lauren was a woman on the edge of a cliff.

  Driving very carefully toward home, I began putting things together. Here was a young woman with no fixed address, required to pick up and move every few months, dealing with small children and a busy husband, burdened with a load of sadness that could’ve been congenital for all I knew, having no support from friends or relatives, making no effort to tend to herself, and now in the process of planning a funeral.

  Her own funeral? That was the question, and the answer seemed as clear as a bell. Should I call a suicide hot line? Did Abbotsville even have one? I didn’t know, but I did know to whom I’d turn—someone who’d know what to do.

  “Sam!” I called as soon as I walked through the kitchen door. Turning to Lillian at the sink, I asked, “Where is Sam? Is he home?”

  “Right in yonder, payin’ bills,” Lillian said, gesturing toward the library. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Lillian, but I need help.” I dropped my pocketbook on the counter as I passed and kept on going. “I mean, I need help for somebody else from somebody, anybody. I’ll tell you later.”

  Rushing into the library, I hurried up to the desk, my hands still shaking and my breath coming in gasps. “Sam,” I said, reaching for him, “sorry to interrupt, but I am worried sick. Tell me what to do, because somebody needs to do something before something terrible happens.”

  “Slow down, honey,” Sam said, pushing aside the checkbook and beginning to rise. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s not me, Sam, it’s Lauren Crawford. I am so concerned about her.” I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned against him, grateful again for the comfort of his strength and great good sense. If anybody knew what to do in a crisis, it was Sam Murdoch.

  “Well, come on and sit down,” he said, leading me to the sofa. “Now tell me why you’re so upset about Lauren.”

  So I did. I told him—or rather, I reminded him since I’d already told him—of her visit to the Good Shepherd Funeral Home and of the possible sighting of her on a country road. And then I told him of her rejection of every invitation from Hazel Marie, of her near collision after running a stop sign, and then put it all together with his own recognition of her intense sadness.

  “And to top it off,” I concluded, “LuAnne let slip today that Lauren was at the funeral home to plan or preplan—whatever the difference is—her own funeral. Sam, we have to do something. I don’t know what, but we can’t just sit idly by with these clear signs of imminent disaster everywhere we look.”

  Sam was silent for several minutes, cogitating as he tapped his fingers against his mouth. “Well, honey, this puts us between a rock and a hard place. My first impulse is to talk with her husband, but he has to be aware of her state of mind. I mean, he is a physician, and he could take offense at what could be seen as meddling. Unfortunately,” Sam said, leaning over to rest his forearms on his knees, “the one I’d really like to talk to is not around.”

  “Who?”

  “Bob Hargrove.”

  “Of course! He would be the perfect one. Call him, Sam. Just call and lay it all out for him. I’m sure Libbie in his office will know how to reach him.”

  “No,” Sam said, shaking his head, “I can’t do that.” As soon as he said it I, too, knew it was a bad idea. What could Dr. Hargrove do when he was half the world away? Yes, he knew Lauren, or at least he’d met her, but as good a physician as he was, he couldn’t diagnose and treat an emotional crisis on a long-distance line.

  “Telling him would do nothing,” Sam went on, “but disrupt his time off, which he badly needs. It would be just like him to pack up and come home. He may even be hoping for an excuse to get back to work, and,” Sam said with a smile, “Sue would never speak to me again.”

  “You’re right, though. He would be perfect if he was here. But he’s not, so what else can we do?”

  “Try to get close to her for one thing. Go to see her, invite her out, call her, let her know you care. Just keep her busy, I guess, so she doesn’t have a lot of time alone with whatever problem she has.”

  “But Hazel Marie has tried that, and Lauren always has an excuse to turn her down. I don’t know why her husband hasn’t done something. He’s so attuned to the feelings of others, you’d think he’d see the state she’s in.”

  “Well,” Sam said, “there’s not much we can do since we’re not close enough to ask her or him directly. Just be available in case she gives you or Hazel Marie or anybody an opening. Then you can urge her to get professional help. Which is what she needs.”

  “That’s true.” Then with a glance at my watch, I jumped up. “Oh, my goodness, I’ve got to go. Lloyd will be sitting there, running his car out of gas waiting for me, and Mildred will think we’ve forgotten her. But, thanks, Sam, for listening. And if you can think of anything else . . . well, I’ll be thinking of ways to get close to Lauren.”

  With that, I retraced my steps through the kitchen—grabbing my purse and speaking to Lillian on my way—and flew out the back door, afraid I’d made Mildred late for her appointment with Horace’s cardiologist.

  I hadn’t, but it was a close call. By the time I’d driven to the Pickens house, gotten in the Bonneville, which, if the weather had been freezing, would’ve been all warmed up, Lloyd was wondering if I’d forgotten. Mildred was openly anxious about being late when we picked her up, so I apologized profusely.

  “It was my fault,” I said. “I let the time get away from me. But we’re all right, so, Lloyd, you don’t need to hurry. Driving the speed limit will get us there on the dot.”

  This was said because Mildred was already urging Lloyd to step on the gas. But there’d be no heavy foot on the pedal while I was in the front seat.

  Lloyd drove his usual sed
ate speed, managing the curves with admirable ease. Mildred and I chatted—she from the backseat and I, keeping my eyes on the road, stiff and upright from the front. But my mind was roiling with concern for the Crawford family—those poor little children, that hardworking husband whose heart went out to suffering humanity both near and far, and especially that beautiful young woman who was at the end of her rope.

  Well, a rope wasn’t the most salubrious item to dwell on, so I made an effort to concentrate on Mildred’s concern about the state of Horace’s heart.

  “I know you’re disappointed that Horace won’t be coming home today,” I said to her. “I thought he’d been improving.”

  “He has been,” she said, “but apparently not enough. The heart attack left a small amount of damage, but I don’t know what that means. They have him up and walking around, doing exercises and so forth, all of which is more than he normally does. So I don’t know if that means his heart is improving or if it means he’s better off now that it’s damaged.”

  “Hm-m,” I said, “that’s a good question.”

  “Well, here’s another one,” Mildred went on, “does a heart attack affect the memory? Because, I’ll tell you, Horace hardly knows one day from the next. He keeps asking why he’s in that place and not home in his own bed. I finally got tired of telling him he’d had a heart attack and just told him I’d decided it was for his own good.”

  “And that satisfied him?”

  “It sure did, because I’ve always been the one to decide what was good for him and what wasn’t. It made him feel right at home.”

  Lloyd slowed the car and flipped on the turn signal. “Here we are,” he said, turning onto the drive up to The Safe Harbor.

  Stopping in front of the entrance, Lloyd put the car in Park, then got out to open the back door for Mildred. Halfway through her exit, she turned back to me.

  “Julia, I’ll be a little longer than usual today—the cardiologist wants to go over everything with me, and the physical therapist wants to show me Horace’s exercise routines so we can continue them at home. I hope you don’t mind, but I expect it’ll take an hour or so.”