by Ann B. Ross
“No, but we shouldn’t have any trouble finding him. He’ll be the only person sitting on one. But there’re a lot of signs on both sides of the boulevard, so you and Latisha watch for him. You, too, Lillian, because I have to watch the traffic, and there’s more of it than I like.”
We were heading east out of town toward what passed for a mall in Abbotsville on the Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, the four-lane highway that led to the interstate. There was a speed limit, but whatever it was was too fast for me if I had to drive and look for Coleman at the same time. As a result, there seemed to be an uncommonly long line of cars behind me, with any number of them blowing their horns and streaking past us.
Just as I saw an Abbot County Sheriff’s car parked on the paved shoulder just ahead of us, Latisha screamed, “There he is!”
“Where?” Lloyd yelled.
“Right there! See?” Latisha bounced up and down, pointing and yelling.
“I see him! Stop, Miss Julia, stop!”
“I can’t,” I said, as two more impatient drivers whizzed by.
A wash of fresh air and the blare of loud music swept through the car as Latisha’s window came down.
“Lord help us,” Lillian said, struggling to unbuckle herself to turn and see what Latisha was doing.
She was yelling at the top of her voice, “Hey, Coleman, hey! Look over here, Coleman! It’s us, it’s us!”
I risked a quick look back and saw Latisha hanging halfway out the window, waving both hands. “Grab her, Lloyd! Get her back in here.
“And close that window,” I said, speeding up to accommodate certain people who were too impatient to sightsee.
“Oh-h-h,” Latisha wailed. “We gone on by, an’ I can’t see him no more.”
“Couldn’t nobody see him,” Lillian said, “what with you ’bout to jump outta the window. Latisha, you got to put that seat belt back on and stay in your seat.”
“Well, that’s what my teacher always say, ’cept she don’t put a seat belt on me.”
“Listen now,” I said, “I’m going to pull off up here at the service station. Then we’ll turn around and go back past him.”
“Won’t do no good,” Latisha said. “We’ll be on the other side of the road.”
“I know, but I’ll turn around again, and we’ll come back on his side. And now that we know where he is, we’ll pull over and stop.”
“Well, now,” Latisha said, “that makes sense.” Lloyd started laughing, while Lillian tried not to.
So we did the sensible thing and finally got parked on the side of the boulevard, some yards from the occupied sign that advertised a rest home: LOVING CARE FOR YOUR LOVED ONES, complete with three meals a day and light housekeeping. Adorning the corners of the sign were pictures of smiling white-haired couples—some playing golf and others looking as if they’d found true love, though somewhat late in life.
And sitting in a webbed lawn chair on the wooden platform about twenty or so feet above the marsh, Coleman saw us. He leaned over and turned down the loud, driving music that was entertaining most, but not all, passersby. One man, leaning out a car window, yelled, “Play on, Willie Nelson, you sonofagun!” Coleman stood and waved at us and, I guess, at all the other waving hands from passing cars.
Lloyd had the back door open, and he and Latisha were scrambling out. “Hold on to her, Lloyd,” I called, “and stay by the guardrail.” Then at the blast of more horns from passing cars, I said, “Lillian, I’m afraid to open my door. Somebody’ll take it right off. I’m going to stay right here.”
“Yes’m, and now I see that railin’ and how far down the path is, I am, too. Lloyd, you an’ Latisha wanta take these brownies to Coleman?”
“Yeah, yeah!” Latisha said, hopping up and down. “We’ll take ’em, won’t we, Lloyd? Maybe Coleman let us climb up there with him. Come on, le’s go see.”
Lillian handed the brownies to Lloyd, then walked over to the guardrail to watch as the children climbed over and slid down the incline to the path below. She came and sat back down sideways in the open door as we watched them wend their way to Coleman’s sign.
He leaned over the side of the platform to talk to them, but with the cars passing and horns blowing, we couldn’t hear what he was saying. But we watched as he lowered a box with the pulley and as Lloyd placed the brownies in it. Up it went, eliciting a huge grin and a wave from Coleman when he saw what Lillian had sent.
Then Latisha turned and dashed back up the path. “Great-granny! Great-granny! I need some money. Quick, throw me some money! I got to help fill up Coleman’s money bucket!”
Lillian and I both started scrounging in our pocketbooks to make a donation for a good cause. “I should’ve thought this out a little better,” I said. “The wind will blow paper money away, and Latisha can’t catch a handful of change. She’ll be searching the swamp for hours.”
“Here,” Lillian said, pulling out a small pouch from her large tapestry handbag. “Le’s put our money in this, and Latisha can bring it back. I hope, ’cause that’s what I keep my hair pick in.”
While we waited for the children to dump money from pouch to bucket, then watched it go back up to Coleman, I took note of what I could see on the platform. Besides the lawn chair, I saw that he had a small tent—sort of a miniature Quonset hut—at one end, some kind of metal-looking canister that I hoped was a heat source, a stack of magazines that the wind was playing havoc with, and what looked like a boom box with speakers large enough to entertain the entire county. And he had three more days and three nights to go in such rugged circumstances.
After calling the children several times, Lillian finally got them up the path, over the rail, and back in the car. While I waited behind the wheel, I was appeased to realize that all the horn blowing had not been aimed at me but was to draw Coleman’s attention. Just as we drove off, two cars pulled onto the paved shoulder that we’d just vacated. A woman in a head scarf got out of one, carefully carrying a sack as she edged between the cars to the guardrail. More goodies for Coleman and maybe more donations, too. Monkey bars couldn’t be too far in the future.
“Great-granny,” Latisha said in a rush, “you know what that Coleman had on? A big ole sweater an’ shorts an’ flip-flops! If I put them kinda things on, you’d say, ‘Latisha, you not goin’ outta the house lookin’ like that.’”
Lillian agreed that she would say exactly that, and for a few minutes as we drove a couple of blocks before turning around for home, there was quiet in the car.
Then Latisha said, “I don’t guess he goin’ anywhere, so he can wear what he wants to. But what I want to know is where’s he goin’ to the bathroom.”
Lillian said, “That’s not something you need to worry about.”
I said, “I expect he’s thought up some arrangement, Latisha.”
I glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw Lloyd lean over and whisper in Latisha’s ear. She jerked back in disbelief and, staring wide-eyed at him, yelled, “Over the side?”
Still thinking about Coleman’s personal hygiene situation, Latisha was mostly quiet on the way home. She became more animated, though, when I suggested to Lloyd that he stay over to keep her and Lillian company while I went to the sewing group that evening.
Later, as Lillian was preparing supper, I heard Latisha whispering to him. Busy with the mail, I caught only the occasional “But how?” and “Why?” Finally, Lloyd had had enough, or maybe he had told all he was willing to tell, for I heard him say, “Latisha, you’ll have to figure that out yourself. I’ve got homework to do.”
Having had no experience in explaining certain anatomical differences, I was glad she hadn’t come to me.
Chapter 20
After the evening meal and taking a long, interesting call from Sam, I walked next door to Mildred’s. Staying as long as I could within the light from the streetlamp on the corner, I occ
asionally sidestepped into the street to keep my footing. The darkest place was at the line between our lots, filled as it was with boundary plantings of dogwoods, azaleas, forsythia, and laurels on both our sides. The area was glorious in the spring, but a little spooky in the early November night.
I made my way easily toward the flickering gaslit sconces flanking Mildred’s front door, although walking up her curved drive was somewhat hazardous. Several cars were already parked there, which meant that I was late. I didn’t mind, because talking with Sam and hearing his comments about a senile judge who’d just won reelection were worth being the last one to arrive.
Ida Lee welcomed me and led me into Mildred’s double living room, where Sue, Roberta, Callie, LuAnne, and, of course, Mildred were already delving into the sewing boxes. Leave it to Mildred, I thought, as I saw that she had rearranged her fine French furniture to form a circle in front of the fireplace, where a small fire fluttered around ceramic logs.
Well, of course I don’t mean that she had done the moving, but she’d directed it.
“It’s just chilly enough to warrant a fire,” she said as she patted the chair next to her. “Come on, Julia, you’re late and we need to get some work done.”
“Sorry,” I said, taking the chair. “We took the children out to see Coleman this afternoon, so supper was later than usual.” I laughed. “I think Latisha would’ve stayed if Lillian had let her.”
“Oh,” Roberta moaned, “aren’t you all worried sick about Coleman? When the temperature started going down as it got dark, all I could think of was how he must be suffering.”
“He’ll be all right,” Mildred said, unconcerned, as she snipped off a length of embroidery thread. “If he gets cold enough, he’ll come down.”
“I do hope so,” Roberta said as she clasped a felt Christmas tree to her bosom. “He’s such a giving person that he could do himself harm by living so much for others as he does.”
Hm-m, I thought as I glanced at Roberta in the throes of hero worship, I hadn’t noticed that. Not that Coleman wasn’t a kind, thoughtful person, of which I had long been aware, but I seriously doubted his desire for martyrdom.
“Okay, ladies,” Callie said, holding up her ornament, “I’ve finally finished this reindeer and it’s the last one I’m making. I’ve sewn his horns on three times, and they’re still crooked. I’m switching to something easier this time.”
Roberta bent over her ornament. “Antlers,” she said.
“Antlers, horns, who cares?” Callie said. “They both grow out of his head, and I’m through making either one.”
“Do a star,” LuAnne said. “They’re easy, and there’re several already cut out.”
“Hand ’em here, then. And the yarn box, too.”
The muted ring of a telephone somewhere in the depths of the house made us all look at Mildred, expecting her to answer it, as we would’ve done in our homes. She didn’t stir, just kept on sewing, then shrugged in response, and said, “Ida Lee will get it.”
I straightened to ease my back, then glanced around the circle. “Mildred, we’re going to have bits of thread and yarn all over this beautiful Aubusson. You should’ve put us at the kitchen table.”
“I don’t mind,” Mildred said, laughing, “and neither does Ida Lee. Besides, I just finished having the old elevator refurbished, so we’ll be doing a thorough housecleaning anyway.”
“Good gracious,” LuAnne said. “I didn’t know you had an elevator.”
“Oh, it’s back yonder,” Mildred said with a wave of her hand. “We haven’t used it in years. But I got tired of trudging up and down stairs all day long just because I thought I needed the exercise.”
Roberta, off in space somewhere, held up her Santa ornament to see how it looked. “Did you get any?”
“Roberta!” We all glared at her, because Mildred’s generous size was never referred to by any of us.
Roberta looked up, blinking. “What?”
Mildred, bless her heart, laughed. “Well, not enough, obviously. Anyway, it was getting too hard to get up the stairs, so I thought, why have an elevator and not use it? So we do.”
None of us had anything to say to that, so we stayed pretty much on target by working steadily on our ornaments. We finished several and started on others by the time Ida Lee served tea, finger sandwiches, and biscotti—more extras as only Mildred would do.
“Has anyone heard anything from Emma Sue?” LuAnne asked as she took two of the tiny sandwiches from Ida Lee’s tray. “Sue, do you know anything?” Sue Hargrove, the doctor’s wife, was our go-to person when any medical question came up.
“Not a word,” Sue said, shaking her head. “But they may not know anything yet. I’m sure they’ll do a battery of tests, so it could be several days before we hear.” She threaded an embroidery needle. “I just wonder who’ll be preaching Sunday. They left in such a hurry that the pastor might not’ve had time to get a substitute.”
Startled to think that the pastor could leave me hanging for several days, I said, “Surely he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Sue said. “If they admit her, he’ll probably stay for a while. I expect he’ll call one of the elders to take the service on Sunday.”
Mildred smiled and said, “Y’all can to come to the Episcopal church. We’ll be happy to have you.”
I may just do that, I thought, but got sidetracked before I could say anything.
“What’s wrong with her, anyway?” Callie asked. “I mean, why did she have to go to a specialist?”
“Migraines,” Sue answered in a tone that invited no further questions. Her husband had been treating Emma Sue, but now had apparently been judged insufficient.
“Well,” LuAnne said, “what’s happening in this town is enough to give anybody a migraine.”
“What?” Roberta asked, suddenly interested. “What’s going on besides Coleman’s sacrificial outing?”
“Roberta,” LuAnne said, “don’t you hear anything at that library? I’m talking about Connie Clayborn being killed in her own kitchen, and I think it’s strange that nobody is talking about it. I mean, how often is a prominent woman found dead in this town? And everybody just goes on about their business like it happens every week. But I’ll tell you, it’s been a real shock to my system. Although,” she said after a pause, “I am relieved I won’t have to enter that run next week.”
“Nobody’s talking about it,” Mildred said, coming to my rescue so that the conversation wouldn’t turn to my involvement, “because nobody knows anything. Obviously, it’s under investigation, so it doesn’t help for us to be speculating.”
“I wonder, though,” Roberta said, gazing off into the distance, “how they’ll manage without Coleman. You’d think the sheriff would want him on that assignment.”
Mildred’s eyes rolled just a little. “I expect the sheriff has it well in hand. But has anybody met Connie’s husband? He’s been strangely out of the picture, it seems to me.”
That could’ve been my cue to say that I had met him, but before I made up my mind to do so, Roberta went back to her favorite subject.
“Well,” she said, “I went out there today, you know, to drop a donation in his bucket and to take him some hot doughnuts. I know how he likes them, and I asked him . . .”
“Who?” Callie asked. “Connie’s husband?”
“No, Coleman. I asked Coleman if he knew who’d killed her.”
“What’d he say?” LuAnne asked eagerly.
“He said he didn’t know, because he’d been off duty. As, of course, I knew, him being where he is. But he was so sweet, thanking me over and over for the doughnuts. He loves doughnuts.”
Really rolling her eyes this time, Mildred said, “All cops do,” as if she knew the gastronomic preferences of every law enforcement unit in the country.
•
• •
As the ladies got into their cars and began to pull out of Mildred’s driveway, I lingered by the door for a few minutes. I was feeling I’d been somewhat dishonest by letting everyone assume that, like them, I had not met Connie’s husband. Of them all, Mildred was the only one I felt I could trust, so I was about to tell her about my visitor the evening before. Before I could bring it up, though, she took my breath away with something else entirely.
“I think Roberta has a crush on Coleman, don’t you?”
“What? Oh, surely not, she just gets these little enthusiasms now and then, and she, well, she’s Roberta. Don’t you remember how she ordered all six videos of Pride and Prejudice just so she could have Mr. Darcy on her shelf?”
“Well, that’s true,” Mildred conceded, laughing. “Bless her heart, we need to find her a husband.”
“Maybe so,” I said, laughing with her, “but, believe me, it won’t be Coleman. I shudder to think what Binkie would do if she thought somebody was after him. This town would never be the same.”
Still smiling at the thought, I thanked Mildred for her hospitality and started down the drive toward my house. Calling after me to scream if anybody got me, Mildred closed the door and left me to it.
Chapter 21
With the cars gone, the drive was wide and well lit by the light from Mildred’s sconces—easy walking. Through the branches of the now leafless trees, I could see my own porch light and the streetlamp beyond it.
It was a matter of only a minute or two to step up to my own door, where Lillian would be waiting for me.
As I reached the sidewalk at the foot of Mildred’s drive, I became aware of a soft but steady thumping sound. Looking around, I saw only the empty street—no cars, no walkers, not even a swirling leaf. Moving right along, I tried to place the source of the sound and vaguely thought that someone blocks away was running a generator. Then the sound conjured an image, and I knew what I was hearing—the measured thump of a runner’s feet pounding on pavement.