Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  “LuAnne?” I said when she answered her phone. “I’ve been thinking about you and thought I might run up for a visit this morning if you’re not busy.”

  “Well, how nice, Julia, but I’m on my way out the door right now. I’ve got to get to the post office and the bank, then pick up at the dry cleaner’s. It’s one of those days, don’t you know. But I tell you what. Why don’t I drop by your house when I get through, maybe in a couple of hours?”

  “That’d be lovely,” I said, delighted that I wouldn’t have to make the drive up the mountain to her condo. “Why don’t you plan to have lunch with me? We’ll have something light and have time to catch up with each other.”

  So it was settled and I went into the kitchen to ask Lillian to plan for a luncheon guest. But with plenty of empty time before LuAnne appeared, I didn’t want to lose momentum. So I went back to the library and dialed Miss Mattie Freeman’s number, preparing myself to be frustrated. Miss Mattie was either hard of hearing or intentionally dense so she could get out of doing something she didn’t want to do.

  “Miss Mattie? It’s Julia. How are you?” I began when she answered. “No, Julia Murdoch. We talked yesterday at Sunday school, remember?”

  “Oh,” she said, “of course. Sorry, but I always think of you as Julia Springer. If you’re having a party, I’d love to come. When is it? I’ll get my calendar.”

  Miss Mattie lived for parties, and no one would dare have anything without inviting her. This time, though, she was going to be disappointed. I didn’t have time to plan a party . . . although, I mused while waiting for her to return to the phone, maybe I should have something for Sam. And if I did, I told myself, I’d be up front about its purpose. I’d never invite people to a social affair, then spring a political harangue on them as some people had been known to do.

  “No, Miss Mattie,” I said when she picked up the phone again. “I’m thinking of having a party, but I’m just in the planning stage. Right now, though, I’m contacting people I know we can count on to tell them that Sam is running for the North Carolina senate and, as much as I hate doing it, asking them for a donation to his campaign. Would you be interested in contributing to his senate race?”

  “Race? What are you talking about? Like a Walk for Hunger thing?”

  “No, no. It’s to support Sam so he can represent us and do some good for the people of the district. There’re an awful lot of people who need help and they’re not getting it. It’s up to us to see that they do.”

  “What? What? I’m already tithing, Julia, yet every time I turn around, the church is asking for more. I’m about tired of it.”

  “It’s not for the church, Miss Mattie. It’s for Sam.”

  “Sam? Why? Is he broke? I told him years ago to stay out of the stock market. But, Julia, you have a nerve asking for money for him. He’s your husband, not mine.”

  By the time I got off the phone with her, I still wasn’t sure that she’d fully understood. Nonetheless, she’d finally promised to send a small check to Sam’s campaign. It was, however, one of the most unsatisfactory calls I’d ever made, and I wondered if I was cut out for this kind of solicitation.

  Taking a determined breath, though, I dialed Mr. Pickens’s office number, expecting to get his answering service.

  I got him instead. “Pickens Investigations, Pickens speaking,” he said, sounding abrupt and professional.

  “Mr. Pickens, it’s Julia Murdoch. How are you?”

  “Ah, Miss Julia,” he said, and I could picture him leaning back in his creaky chair. “What can I do for you? You having trouble?”

  “Oh, no. No trouble, it’s just . . . well, maybe I am.” And I went on to explain that Sam was far behind Jimmy Ray in his race for the senate and that I was asking, though I hated to do it, for campaign contributions.

  “Why, sure,” Mr. Pickens said, lightening my heart, “we’ve already sent something in, but I think we can manage a little more. I tell you what’s a fact, Miss Julia, we need somebody down there who knows what he’s doing.”

  I heartily agreed and hung up, feeling reassured that I was on the right track.

  —

  When LuAnne arrived a little after eleven-thirty, she came in wiping her face with a Kleenex. “I’m about to melt,” she announced and, heaving a big sigh, sat down on the sofa. “It’s good to sit for a minute and catch my breath. I just hate these days when it’s one chore after another, don’t you? But I’m glad to get them done. How are you, Julia, I never see you anymore except at church when we don’t have time to talk. Have you heard about Thurlow?” She leaned forward and, without giving me time to respond, went right on. “I heard that he’s about to make a big contribution to the town—some kind of park or something, maybe for skateboarders or for bicycle or walking trails, I don’t know. Maybe he wants a place for Ronnie to run, something weird like that.”

  “Why, no,” I said, picturing Ronnie, Thurlow’s Great Dane, bounding around a racetrack. “I haven’t heard anything. But why in the world would he do something like that? I mean, he’s strange, but that’s a little much even for him. Especially as tight as he is with money.”

  “Well, don’t quote me, because I really don’t know. All I’ve heard is that he’s about to make a big contribution for the good of the town. And name it in honor of somebody—like a public servant or something—but nobody knows who.”

  That struck fear in my heart, because Sam had said that Thurlow was a Mooney supporter, and in the midst of a senate race, who else but Mooney would benefit from a big contribution for the good of the town? And if it was built in his honor, why, Sam might as well go back to fishing. I could just see the bronze plaque:

  THE JIMMY RAY MOONEY DOG-WALKING PARK

  IN HONOR OF HIS MANY YEARS OF SERVICE TO THE DISTRICT

  With great effort, I managed to keep my anxiety under control. It wouldn’t do to let LuAnne know how disturbing her news was—it’d be all over Abbotsville by nightfall that I was worried sick about Sam’s chances.

  As we sat at the table eating the chicken salad that Lillian had served, I kept wondering how to approach LuAnne about making a campaign contribution to someone who was a long and dear friend and who was also the husband of a long and dear friend. She would, I knew, not respond well to that kind of approach, and would immediately accuse me of imposing on our friendship.

  But finally I steeled myself to bringing up the subject, straight out asking for her support in the form of a sizable contribution.

  “Oh,” she said, putting down her fork, “well, Julia, I’ll have to think about it. And talk to Leonard, although he’s the least political of anyone I know. But you know Jimmy Ray’s doing a good job—at least he’s not being investigated. And I’ll tell you frankly that I’ve voted for him every time, so I’ll have to give this some thought.” She picked up her fork again and moved some salad greens around on her plate, not wanting to look at me. Then she laughed. “Oh, now I get it. Sam’s just doing it for the experience, isn’t he? I bet he’s going to write about it in his book. He doesn’t really want the job, does he?”

  I had to hold on to the sharp retort that almost got away from me. Instead, I responded as forcefully as I dared, saying, “Why else would he run, LuAnne? Of course he wants the job, and both of us expect our friends to support him, if not with a contribution, at least with their votes.”

  The visit went downhill after that although the subject changed several times. When she left, the atmosphere was a little huffy, but friendly enough. The only good thing, I told myself as she drove away, was that I had not actually lost Sam a vote, it had just never been there in the first place.

  I was about half discouraged by this time, but decided to make one more phone call, then call it quits for the day. And if that didn’t work out, I’d have to rethink my bundling efforts.

  I dialed Emma Sue Ledbetter’s number, hoping
to catch her at home. Our preacher’s wife was forever on the go doing one good deed after another, then worrying herself to death for not doing enough.

  “Emma Sue?” I asked when she answered, although I knew good and well who it was. Why do we do that? I wondered. “It’s Julia. How’re you feeling? We missed you at Sunday school.”

  “Oh, I’m much better, thanks for asking. I hated missing Sunday school, but when a migraine hits it’s just better to give in and let it run its course. Although of course I never like missing a church service. It’s the least we can do.”

  “I know, and you are the most faithful of us all.”

  “Well, I have to be, don’t I?” she said, sighing. “If the minister’s wife doesn’t go, how could we expect anybody else to? Be that as it may, though, how are you, Julia?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, but the reason I’m calling is to ask if you feel you could support Sam in his race for the state senate, and if so,” I said, hurrying on to get it all out at once, “would you care to make a contribution to his campaign. It’s tax deductible, I think.”

  “Oh,” Emma Sue said, pausing to ponder her response. “Is Sam running? I didn’t know that. Well, I tell you, Julia, I try not to mix politics with my faith. Render unto Caesar, you know.”

  Can you believe that? She was turning me down and doing it on the basis of her faith! And after all Sam and I had done for her and the pastor.

  It was all I could do to hold on to my temper, but I managed a cool head and a moderate response. “Yes, I understand, but that’s what I’m asking for—Caesar’s portion for Sam.”

  That didn’t go over too well and certainly didn’t change her mind. She put me off, saying she’d have to talk to Larry and pray about it, then she’d let me know. Which meant it’d probably be the last I heard about it from her.

  I put down the phone, completely disheartened, wondering if it had been my methodology that put people off or if the people I thought were our friends really weren’t. Whatever it was, I had not done well, either by the bundle or by one small bill after another.

  It was time to go see Mildred Allen.

  Chapter 27

  It was too late in the day to be visiting anybody, so I put off seeing Mildred until the morrow. Supper was a hurried affair that evening since Sam had a meeting to go to, and Lloyd seemed to have something on his mind, and Trixie was even more sullen than usual. Rodney must’ve been busy with an inconvenient funeral.

  When both Sam and Lillian left, I sat alone in the library trying to plan my approach to Mildred. If she turned me down, I didn’t know what I would do—decide that Sam and I didn’t have a friend in the world, I guessed. All I could think of was just wait until they want something from me.

  “Miss Julia?” Lloyd came into the library, walked over to my chair, and said, “I need some advice.”

  “Well,” I said with a smile, “you’ve come to the right place. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s like this,” he said, sitting on the ottoman next to my chair. He looked so serious that I regretted my first flippant response to him. “I don’t think I’m ever going to grow. I’m just always going to be smaller and shorter and skinnier than everybody else, and I don’t like it. It looks like I’m going to be like this for the rest of my life.”

  “Oh, I hardly think that. You just haven’t reached your growth yet. But don’t worry—you will. Boys seem to lag behind girls in that respect, but about the time you’re fifteen or sixteen, you’re going to have a growth spurt. I’ve seen it happen a million times.”

  “That’s a long time to wait while everybody else is growing. You know what the tennis coach told me? He said my form was good, but I don’t have enough power behind my strokes, and, Miss Julia, I hit that ball as hard as I can. And sometimes it just dinks across the net. It’s pretty discouraging.”

  “I expect it would be. But surely with all your practicing, you’ll get better and better.” I stopped, almost patting his shoulder until I realized that would be patronizing his feelings. I thought of reminding him that his father had been a small man who had made some unfortunate compensations which Lloyd should avoid, then realized that bringing up hereditary characteristics would offer no comfort. He knew that his mother was a tiny woman, which had probably already convinced him that he had no hope of increasing his stature or his strength. “But, Lloyd,” I went on, “the people who do the best in life are those with great moral character and excellent minds, and you have an abundance of both. You don’t need to take a backseat to any big, brawny specimens who tower over you.”

  “I don’t ’specially want to be big and brawny. I’d be happy with just half the muscles that Trixie has.”

  “I expect she’d trade with you. But, seriously, Lloyd, she’s in the fitness business, so she might be able to help you build up your muscles.”

  He ducked his head and grinned. “I don’t know about that. I’d be afraid she’d outdo me. But, Miss Julia, here’s what I was thinking. I’m thinking of asking Miss Lillian to get me some of those protein drinks. See, they’re supposed to build muscles, though I don’t guess they’ll add anything to my height. But do you think that’d be all right?”

  I thought about it. I thought about all those growth hormones they give chickens and cows and bicycle racers, and shivered at the thought of Lloyd being pumped full of who-knew-what just to make over his physique. “I don’t know, Lloyd. That could be dangerous to your health.”

  “No, ma’am, they’re not. They’re just protein with nothing else added. I wouldn’t drink any kind of drugs or anything.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what you should do. Talk to Mr. Pickens, I mean, your father.” I had to correct myself, for Mr. Pickens had adopted Lloyd, and it was to him that the child should look, without any reference to the scrawny excuse for a man who’d engendered him. “He’s a big man and he was an athlete of some kind when he was young. I expect he’ll know exactly what’s safe and healthy for you to do.”

  “You know,” Lloyd said, looking up almost in surprise that he’d overlooked the fact that he now had a father to whom he could turn, “I think I will. Thanks, Miss Julia, that’s what I’ll do. I’m going over there right now. He’s home, and all he’s doing is reading the paper.”

  And off he went, confident now that he had a source for masculine advice, and I, too, was confident of the same. If Mr. Pickens didn’t know about manly matters, I didn’t know who would.

  —

  After Lloyd left for his mother’s house, I glanced at my watch wondering how late Sam would be. The afternoon had lengthened into twilight, one of those long, soft summer evenings that made me think I should be outside walking and enjoying it. Instead, I sat in the library and gave some thought to adding a back porch to the house, a place to be outside without really being out. Maybe a patio even, where we could eat occasionally, something that would engage Sam in its planning and construction in case he lost the election.

  I shook myself for such negative thinking, but I knew I had to be realistic and be prepared for every contingency.

  “Hey.”

  The abrupt greeting startled me. I looked over my shoulder to see Trixie edging around the sofa as she slid into the room.

  “Why, Trixie,” I said, hiding my surprise. “Come join me. I was getting lonesome down here by myself.”

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s a lonely evening, isn’t it, with everybody gone. Sit down and let’s talk. Or would you rather watch television?”

  “It’s all reruns.” But she sat, surprising me again, for she had up to this point avoided my company whenever she could.

  Wracking my brain for a comfortable subject on which to converse, I made a stab at one that I knew she was interested in. “Tell me about Rodney. How did you two meet?”

  “We matched up.”

  “Matched up? How did that happen?”
<
br />   “Just . . . ,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t know, just matched. You know, our profiles. Rodney said that was because it was meant to be.”

  So, I thought, the match had been made in cyberspace just as Lloyd suspected.

  “Well, that sounds serious,” I said lightly, not wanting to put her off since she was so easily put. Yet at the same time, I felt she was heading for a great disppointment and wanted to prepare her for it.

  Trixie gave me a glowering look, and I feared she was about to walk out. Almost anything I said to her was taken in the wrong way—she kept me so on edge that I hardly wanted to open my mouth around her.

  But she lifted her shoulders and said, “We’re serious, all right.”

  “Well, Trixie, I don’t want to throw cold water, but it’s awfully fast to be that serious. I’m thinking of your grandmother now, and I know she’d remind you that you and Rodney barely know each other.”

  “I know all I need to know, and Meemaw would tell me the same thing. We’re going into business together just as soon as Rodney builds his funeral home. And he’s already found the land he wants, so it won’t be long now. And Rodney said he’d hire Meemaw to keep the casket room stocked and Pawpaw to look after the grounds, so we’d all be together.”

  I was struck dumb, almost. “Here? In Abbotsville?”

  She nodded as if having Elsie and Troy Bingham in the same town in which I lived was the most normal thing in the world. But not for me, it wasn’t.

  “Rodney said,” Trixie went on, quoting the oracle again, “that the land he wants is not on the market yet, but he knows how to make a deal. You just offer enough money and you can buy anything you want.

  “Anyway,” Trixie went on, as she sat slumped over, not looking at me even as she spoke, “none of it can come about ’til he gets that property. That’s all that’s holdin’ him up.”

  “I imagine so,” I said indifferently, because that wasn’t all that was holding him up—there was the matter of getting investors willing to risk their money. “People are generally leery about committing financially to an enterprise that’s only in the dreaming stage.”