Miss Julia Takes the Wheel

by Ann B. Ross

  Too late to mind now, I thought, but assured her that Lloyd and I could use the extra time to increase his driving proficiency and bolster his confidence.

  As the double doors of The Safe Harbor slid closed behind Mildred, Lloyd slid behind the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Anywhere’s fine with me. Why don’t we go on toward that little gas station? I might like something to drink this time, then, depending on the time, we might drive a little farther on. I’m trying to remember where Staton Mill Road comes out—we may end up on Brevard Road.”

  “Actually,” Lloyd said, “it may even be the old Brevard Road. I tried to find it on a county map, but there’re a lot of little roads that wiggle around and merge into others. Most of ’em don’t seem to go anywhere.”

  He turned west at the end of the drive, and we began to retrace our route to Jimmy’s Gas & Groceries. A mile or so along, I glanced to the left as we passed the entrance to the dirt lane with the leaning mailbox, wondering again what business that one or the other of the Crawfords could’ve had there. But it was none of mine, so I made no mention of it.

  Although I was slightly put out with Mildred for springing the inconvenience of a longer wait time on us, I couldn’t help but think that I should seize the moment. This, I thought, is the time to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Lloyd.

  Chapter 42

  *

  “Let’s fill up,” I said, as Jimmy’s gas pumps came into view. “You know how to do it?”

  “Yes’m,” Lloyd said, veering toward the little station. “J.D. showed me how a long time ago. I always do the pumping when he’s along. Rain, sleet, or snow, I’m the pump man.” Lloyd grinned. “J.D. says women and children stay in the car, but men get out in the weather. He says I’m right in the middle—I can be a kid and stay in, or I can be a man.”

  “Well, I declare,” I said, because I could think of nothing else to say. I had never thought J. D. Pickens a model of child-raising expertise, but considering a few things like tire-changing and gas-pumping lessons, I might have to think again.

  As he pulled the Bonneville to a stop beside the two pumps, I rummaged in my pocketbook for a credit card and a few dollars.

  “Get us something to drink,” I said, “or whatever you want. I’d like a Coke. It’s getting awfully muggy, and I’m about to perish of thirst. I declare, you never know what a March day will bring in the way of weather. Just look at those storm clouds over the mountain.”

  Lloyd lowered the windows, then left the car, which immediately began to heat up. I found last Sunday’s church bulletin in my pocketbook and began fanning my face with it. It is a fact that springtime in the mountains will freeze you to death one day and burn you up the next—unless, as appeared to be happening lately, it floods you out of house and home with rainstorms.

  “Here you go,” Lloyd said, coming back to my window. “They only had Pepsi.”

  “My word, Lloyd,” I said, as he handed me a cold bottle. “I can’t drink a quart of Pepsi.”

  “Liters are all they have,” he said with a grin. “We call ’em bellywashers. I brought you a straw—that’ll help.”

  Well, it was refreshing and I sipped away while Lloyd, licking an orange popsicle as he watched the gallons go in, filled the gas tank.

  When we were back on the road, still heading west, he asked, “How’s the time? How much further should we go before turning back?”

  “About five or ten more minutes, then we’ll look for a place to turn around. Are you all right driving? Not getting tired, are you?”

  “No’m, I could drive all day. I just don’t want Miss Mildred to have to wait for us.”

  “That’s thoughtful, Lloyd, because she never expects to be inconvenienced.” Smiling to lessen the bite of my words, I said, “Mildred is accustomed to people dancing to her tune, which you might’ve noticed when she mentions Mr. Allen.” I stopped, thought for a minute, then went on. “You’re at just the age to begin noticing how different some marriages can be—the relationships of the couples, I mean. The Allens, for instance, have a unique relationship.”

  “I figured,” Lloyd said with a smile. “I mean, they’re not like Mama and J.D.”

  “No, Mildred rules the roost in that marriage. It does seem to work for them, though I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else. But now’s the time when you should be looking around and noticing what makes a good marriage. That way, you’ll know the kind of marriage you want. Then eventually, you’ll find a nice young woman who wants the same kind.” I let that sink in for a minute. “Of course, you have a lot of time before getting to that point.”

  “Yes’m, I already know there’re some kinds of marriages I don’t want. But what I don’t understand is how or why they keep on going.”

  “Well, they don’t, always. Lots of divorces these days—not like it used to be when people stayed together, no matter what.” I sat up straight and pointed to a clearing on the side of the road ahead. “Let’s turn around up there.”

  Lloyd looked both ways, flipped on the blinker, and eased off the road onto the clearing. From the remnants of a fruit stand at the back, it must have been the site of a roadside commercial enterprise at some point.

  When we were back on the highway, heading the way we’d come, Lloyd shifted in his seat and said, “Uh, Miss Julia? Would . . . I mean, why would somebody stay married if they liked somebody else? I mean, well, if you happened to know they liked somebody else.”

  “Lots of reasons, honey. Some people, unfortunately, just get carried away and want the thrill of something new, with no intention of ending the old. Mostly, though, an unhappy marriage is behind it. And some people stay in an unhappy marriage because of children or a lack of money or for social reasons. It’s a sad life, though, which is why you should never marry until you’re absolutely sure you’ve picked the right one.”

  He didn’t respond, so I reflected on the explanation I’d given him, pleased that I might’ve helped him understand some of the dangers of a rash marriage. But as the silence lengthened, it suddenly occurred to me that he had something specific in mind. He wasn’t interested in generalities, he was concerned about a particular marriage. My heart contracted at the thought—which marriage was he thinking of? My own with Wesley Lloyd Springer, his father with a different woman? Oh, Lord, I didn’t want to talk about that.

  Or, heaven help me, was it some problem between his mother and J. D. Pickens, that skirt-chasing ladies’ man whom I’d always only half trusted? Oh, please, Lord, don’t let it be that.

  Mentally writhing with distress, wanting both to change the subject and to answer his concerns, I searched for something to say. Still searching, I noted the familiar dirt lane we were passing and the approaching curve.

  “Lloyd,” I said, increasingly uncomfortable with the silence, “if you know . . .” Then as we passed the mailbox and entered the curve, I shrieked. “Stop! Stop!”

  He slammed on the brakes, the heavy car rocking on its chassis. “Good grief!” he cried, as something—several somethings—white and feathery banged against the windshield, flapping and squawking, then flew or fell off onto the hood and the road.

  Crates—shattered and otherwise—were strewn across the highway, and a huge, once-tottering chicken truck lay broken on its side, blocking both lanes of the highway. A swarm of escaped chickens flew, ran, staggered, flapped, and cackled as they turned the road, the ditch, and the adjoining field into a giant poultry yard. One lone highway patrolman, his arms spread wide, was trying vainly to shoo them together. His patrol car was parked in the middle of the road beyond the truck, doors open and lights flashing. We could see someone in the passenger seat, likely the truck driver, and hear in the distance the sound of sirens approaching.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Lloyd said, putting the car in park and reaching for the door handle. “We’d better help.”

&nb
sp; “No, wait,” I said, looking behind us. “Turn on your lights—everything, blinker and all. We don’t want somebody barreling around the curve and hitting us.”

  He did, then opened his door to get out. The patrolman ran toward us, holding up his hand. “Stay in the car,” he yelled, “and get off the road. Help’s on the way.”

  “Well,” Lloyd said with some chagrin as he obeyed, “I guess we wouldn’t know what to do with ’em, if we caught any, anyway.”

  With a jittery laugh, I agreed, then said, “There’s not much of a shoulder, but pull on over. I’m still afraid somebody’ll plow into us from behind.”

  After a little to-ing and fro-ing, Lloyd managed to get the big car partially onto the shoulder of the road. Then we watched as a fire truck, an EMT truck, and a fire marshal’s car came screeching to a stop on the highway beyond the stricken chicken truck. Doors opened and people spilled out.

  “Plenty of help now,” Lloyd said, “but looks like we’ll be here awhile. They’ll have to get that truck upright before they can move it—need a wrecker with a winch, I guess.”

  “Oh, my,” I said, “we have to let Mildred know. Can you call her? Or rather, call The Safe Harbor? She’s like me. She never carries a phone.”

  Lloyd, his eyes wide, stared at me. “You don’t have your phone?”

  “No, don’t you?”

  “Mine’s in my backpack on the kitchen table. I never go anywhere without it, and now I have.” He mopped his face with his hand. “Oh, me!”

  “Well, let’s think a minute,” I said. “For all we know, it could be an hour or more before they get that truck out of the way. So far, though, there’s nobody behind us. We could turn around and go back to Jimmy’s and use his phone. Or,” I went on, realizing that I had been writhing uncomfortably for more than one reason, “we’re not far from that dirt road where you saw one of the Crawfords. There’s a mailbox there, so there could be a house with a phone.” And, I thought but didn’t say, a bathroom.

  Chapter 43

  *

  One of the uniformed officers on the scene passed us at a trot, heading for the top of the curve to stop traffic. At least I could stop worrying about being rear-ended, so I took the opportunity to direct Lloyd in making a three-point turn. It ended up being closer to a five-pointer, but he soon had us headed back the way we’d come. Beyond the overturned truck, traffic had already begun to pile up in the opposite lane, so we’d gotten out just in time.

  After a half mile or so, Lloyd slowed as we neared the lane. “You sure you want to turn in here? We could be at Jimmy’s in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Ten or fifteen minutes was an eternity with almost a liter of Pepsi inside, so I said, “Let’s try it. Surely somebody lives a little way in, or, who knows, the lane could twist around and come out behind The Safe Harbor.” I held myself as still as I could, my hand clasping the armrest with a grip of steel in the hope that the action would carry over to other body parts. “Lloyd,” I said through tight lips as the car bounced from the paved road onto the dirt lane, “I hate to be . . . well, graphic, but I have to find a ladies’ room.”

  His head jerked toward me, then quickly back. “Out here?”

  “Well,” I said, wiping my face with my hand, “any port in a storm, you know. Surely there’s a house in here somewhere with both a ladies’ room and a telephone. Actually,” I went on, trying to take my mind off the most pressing problem, “I’d thought this was more or less a driveway, but it looks fairly well used and kept up. There may even be several houses along the way.”

  There weren’t, or none that we saw, anyway. There were a few clearings—if you didn’t count tall weeds and the occasional scraggly bush among the scrub pines—that may at one time have led to residences. One, though, about a quarter of a mile in, showed signs of recent use by flattened weeds, and I wondered if we were on a lovers’ lane of sorts.

  We finally found a tin-roofed house that sat alone and forlorn where the lane ended in a circle of packed dirt. No larger than a cabin, the unpainted house had an abandoned feel about it—no cars or children’s toys in the yard, no chairs on the sagging porch, and no panes in two of the windows. A still heat, broken by the occasional rumble of thunder, seemed to bear down on the place, as a sense of loneliness emanated from the surrounding trees. But no matter, I had to get out.

  “We called it wrong, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said. “Nobody lives around here.”

  Opening the car door, I said, “Then I’m going around back—maybe there’s a shed I can use.”

  “No,” he said, “just go to the back, but don’t go inside anything. Could be snakes.”

  That almost cured my problem, right there. But I got out, carrying my pocketbook for the wad of Kleenex in it, and hurried around the side of the house until I was well out of sight of the car. And, there, beside the few cement blocks that led to a back porch, I released the floodgates.

  Feeling like a new woman, I hurried back to the car—only to find it empty.

  “Lloyd?” I called, looking around and feeling the emptiness of the place. Clouds heavy with rain were boiling up over the treetops and a few sprinkles began to spatter on the car.

  “Over here,” he said from the front porch as he closed the door of the house. Then he hurried down the steps to the car and slid behind the wheel. “Let’s go.”

  “Gladly.” I, too, slid in on my side, closed the door, and fastened my seat belt. “You went inside? It wasn’t locked?”

  “No, it wasn’t locked.” He turned on the ignition, turned the car around, then drove onto the lane a little faster than the careful pace in which he’d driven to the house. “We’ll go to Jimmy’s. Miss Mildred knows we’re late by now, and I expect she knows why. Everybody at The Safe Harbor will know what’s happened.”

  “Was there a bathroom?”

  “What?” Lloyd asked. “I mean, ma’am?”

  “That house,” I said. “When you went inside, what did it look like? Did it have a bathroom?”

  “Oh. Well, it looked empty, which is why I went in. But it had some dirty cots and pallets on the floor, so somebody’s been bunking there. And it had a bathroom, but you wouldn’t want to use it.”

  “Okay, good. I’d hate to think I’d gone public with something that I hadn’t needed to.” I laughed and, after a second, he did, too.

  By the time we got back to the main road, traffic had backed up far enough to block our way. There was no room for even a generous driver to let us in, so Lloyd put the car in park and left it running for the air-conditioning and the windshield wiper. Rain was pelting down by then.

  “We’re really stuck now,” Lloyd said.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, so we might as well settle in. I hope you don’t have a lot of homework.”

  “No’m, not too much.” He twiddled his fingers on the steering wheel and looked away. “Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “I was supposed to go by the Rosewood house today and check on the cabinets. They got delivered this morning—at least, I hope they did.” With a glance at me, he went on. “I was kinda thinking that we might swing by there after we take Miss Mildred home. Before you go home, I mean.”

  “Sure, we can do that, but it’ll be late with all this going on.” I waved my hand at the line of cars blocking us in. “Wouldn’t you rather wait till after school tomorrow when you’ll have more time?”

  “No’m, I’d rather get it done when . . .” He stopped and bit his lip.

  “When what?”

  “When you can go,” he said in a rush. “I mean, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen what we’ve done, and I thought maybe you’d like to. Besides,” he said after a pause, “J.D. wanted me to check the cabinets today—in case, you know, any of ’em got damaged. He’s going to call tonight.”

  “Why, Lloyd, you didn’t have to drive Mildred today—I coul
d’ve done that. You could’ve spent the afternoon doing what your father wanted you to do.”

  “Yes’m,” he said, looking down at his hands, “I know. I just didn’t want to.”

  “Oh, really now,” I said, perturbed at his admission. “I can’t imagine that having a chance to drive a few miles is that important to you.”

  “No’m,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not that. It’s, well, I don’t much like going over there by myself.”

  That didn’t make sense. He’d had no qualms about going into a spooky, old house that very afternoon and wandering around in it long enough to see a filthy bathroom. Why in the world would he be reluctant to go into a house with neighbors all around? And only recently reluctant, at that, for he’d been working at the Rosewood house for several weeks by now.

  “Hey,” he said, “look, they’re moving.”

  And sure enough, the line of cars that was blocking us had slowly begun to move forward. Lloyd shifted from Park to Drive and inched forward, hoping that someone would let us in.

  “No cars coming from the other way,” I said, unable to refrain from stating the obvious. “They probably have only one lane open, so just ease on in as soon as somebody waves to you.”

  And soon a kindhearted soul did wave to us, and Lloyd joined the line of cars inching forward on the wet highway. As we approached the toppled chicken truck, we saw that it had been towed to one side so that traffic could resume, although resume on only one lane. A number of people were trudging around the open field, gathering up sodden chickens and putting them in a closed truck. I wondered how many had escaped into freedom through the woods, possibly to end up as somebody’s unexpected supper.

  “Here,” Lloyd said, reaching over and dropping something in my lap. “You better take this. I’m not sure what to do with it.” He steered the car back into the correct lane after passing the chicken truck and headed for The Safe Harbor at a normal rate of speed.