by Ann B. Ross
And that’s what we did, but first we had to struggle through a weed-filled ditch to get to a suitable tree, then do it again on the other side of the entrance.
By the time we were back in the car, I was hot, sweaty, and complaining. “I don’t know if it’s the county or the state that’s supposed to mow the roadsides, but whoever it is, they’re not doing the job.” Pushing back my hair, I said, “My goodness, it’s warm today.”
Turning to the right on Springer Road, I handed the plat to Etta Mae. “We have to find the corner stake, Etta Mae. See if you can figure out how far we have to go before I slow down to look for it.”
She studied the plat for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a pretty far ways. Maybe we ought to put a couple here and there between the corners.”
She was right, so I stopped on the roadside twice, while we scrambled into and out of ditches—once sinking into a damp spot—and pushed aside weeds and laurel bushes to reach the trees, where we nailed up two more NO TRESPASSING signs and a POSTED sign.
On the road again, and thankful that we were on a county road with little traffic, I drove slowly, glancing now and then to the right to find a corner stake. “Etta Mae, how in the world are we going to find those stakes?”
“I was wondering that myself.” She was looking to the right, too. “They usually just stick up a few inches out of the ground, and they could be covered with leaves and vines and I don’t know what-all. We may have to get out and beat the bushes to find them.”
“My goodness,” I said, leaning down to look out her window. “There’s nothing but trees and clumps of laurel and rhododendron. And vines and briars, and no telling what else. This might not’ve been such a good idea—there’s no way we’re going to find little tiny stakes in all that. And on all four corners, too.”
“Not from the car, we’re not,” Etta Mae said glumly. “I guess we’ll have to beat the bushes after all.”
“Well,” I said, letting the car coast along the road, “I should’ve listened to Lillian and hired—”
“Oh! Oh!” Etta Mae suddenly cried, bouncing up and down on the seat. “I know, I know!”
“What? Know what?” I came to a stop right in the middle of the road.
“Metal detectors! That’s what those men had. I knew I’d seen those long-handled thingys before. I’ll bet you anything they’ve already found the stakes, and all we have to do is look for whatever they tagged them with. And it’ll be something that can be seen, ’cause they’ll want to be able to find ’em again.
“And look!” she cried, pointing. “See that? Right there across the ditch at the top of the bank. See that little orange tie, or whatever it is?”
I looked, and sure enough, there was something bright orange and low to the ground, easy to see among all the green leaves, branches, and weeds—some of which had been trampled down around it. “It could be a sock or something thrown from a car.”
Etta Mae laughed, her good mood restored. “That’s a plastic tag tied to a stake. Miss Julia, we’ve just found the first corner. And,” she went on brightly, “it just may be that the other three corners will be just as easy to find.”
“You mean,” I said, brightening a little myself, “Rodney’s done all the work, and all we have to do is look for something orange?” I braked and pulled to the side of the road. “I’ll remember to thank him when I tell him to stay away.”
The ditch was deeper here than at the entrance, and the climb up the other side steeper. I had to use hands and knees to get up it. As I scrambled to the top, a hemlock branch knocked my hat off, sending it to the bottom of the ditch. I just left it, while Etta Mae, even carrying the hammer and two signs, clambered up with little effort. “Why don’t you wait in the car?” she said, noticing my heavy breathing.
“No, I’m all right,” I said, pulling a briar tendril off my skirt tail. “Let’s get this done.”
As she finished hammering a sign onto a tree, I looked through the trees along where I assumed the property line would run to the west. “While we’re up here, why don’t we go a little farther in and put up another sign? It’s clear enough here for two to be seen from the road. See that huge oak? Let’s put one on it.”
We started for the tree, but it wasn’t long before the underbrush got thicker, and I stopped for a quick survey. “Hold on, Etta Mae, we better go around this laurel thicket.”
I attempted to detour, but kept being pulled by briars reaching out and snagging my dress, my stockings, my arms, and my legs. Trying to push on by through thick weeds, I began to think that the bush was alive and determined to ensnare me.
“Wait, Miss Julia!” Etta Mae said, backing out. “Don’t go any farther. Come on back outta there.”
I started backing out, but more briar tentacles tugged at me and scraped along my skin. I thought of Brer Rabbit—he’d been happy in a briar patch, but I was fairly close to panicking.
Etta Mae gingerly pulled briar limbs off my dress, then took my arm as I carefully backtracked. Scraped and bleeding a little, I finally got free, but she kept urging me to hurry.
After manuevering down and across the steep-sided ditch, grabbing my hat as I went, and climbing into the car, I looked over the damage. “My stockings are ruined. Look at that, Etta Mae, they’re in shreds. And look at this! There’s a rip in my dress.” I flung the hat in the backseat and began to mop the sweat from my hairline.
“Well,” Etta Mae said drily, “you didn’t exactly dress for a hike in the woods.”
“True,” I acknowledged with a shrug. “But I wanted another sign on that big tree—Rodney couldn’t fail to see that. I should’ve pushed on through and gotten it up. I mean, how much more damage could it have done?” I smoothed back the damp hair from my forehead, then used a dab of saliva on a Kleenex to clean a bloody scrape on my arm.
“A lot more,” Etta Mae said. “That was a blackberry patch, which I didn’t realize till we were in it. And where there’s blackberries, you can pretty much count on snakes, too.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering if any of the scratches on my legs could be fang marks. I shivered, cranked the car, and headed south to the turnoff to Longview Road, which would take us up the other side of the property. It was a fairly long way to the turnoff, maybe half a mile or so, and I wondered who owned the thickly wooded area that bordered my property. Rodney might even now be negotiating to buy enough to fill out what was lacking in mine.
Or, I suddenly thought, negotiating for an acre or two on the north side—he could make up his thirty acres from either direction. There was a small farm on the north side, mostly pasture land with a few cows sleeping in the shade of clumps of trees. A thickly wooded area separated the pasture from the trailer park, in which I assumed we’d find the boundary line. If the kudzu-covered barbed-wire fence that enclosed the cows was any indication, the farm extended on the north to the back of a line of stores that faced the Delmont highway. And from the looks of the place, the farmer would probably jump at the chance to sell off any or all of it. Something else to worry about, except, as I kept telling myself, I wasn’t going to sell, so why worry about any of it. It would be so much easier, though, if Rodney would just turn his sights elsewhere.
Easing the car along the road, I kept slowing to search for a streak of orange plastic on the sidelines. “My goodness, Etta Mae,” I said, as the car went over a couple of bumps in the road, “I didn’t know there was a railroad out here.”
“Been here forever,” she said, “but I don’t guess a train’s run this way for years—not since I’ve been around, anyway.”
“Well,” I said, straining to see out her window, “looks like it runs through that tract next to mine. No wonder nobody’s done anything there. Who’d want the possibility of a train running through the front yard?”
Finally, we found the orange-tagged stakes at the other three corners, although we had to get
out of the car a couple of times to search through the tall weeds. In fact, though, after climbing a steep bank at two corners, we found that the weeds and bushes had been trampled down by those who had come before us, so we were able to quickly nail up our signs and move on. I had a number of signs left over, so, unwilling to venture again into the wilderness, I asked Etta Mae to put them up all around the mobile homes when she had time.
When we got back to her trailer, she urged me to come in and let her put something on my scrapes and scratches. They were stinging by this time, and I was tempted. But it was nearing four o’clock, when I was to meet Sam, so I thanked her profusely for her help, assured her that I’d tend to my wounds when I got home, and anxiously headed toward Abbotsville.
Chapter 33
But wouldn’t you know it? The Highway Patrol had chosen just that time to conduct a driver’s license check, so there I sat only two miles from Abbotsville with the car idling in line as time ticked on. My plan had been to hurry home, quickly shower, change clothes, do something with my leaf-filled hair, and get to campaign headquarters to meet Sam. Yet there I was, inching slowly forward as one car after another was checked, and each time I moved my foot from accelerator to brake and back again, I felt another run slide down my leg. With all the snags in my stockings, they’d be in shreds by the time I got anywhere.
On top of that, I suddenly realized that the skirt tail of my dress, along with my stockings, was covered with beggar lice. It would take hours, which I didn’t have, to pick each one off. Maybe, I thought, they’d blend in with the floral design of my dress.
Tapping my fingers against the wheel, I fretted over the delay. Sam would worry or, worse, be disappointed, if I didn’t show up, and as usual, I didn’t have a cell phone with me. I declare, I couldn’t get used to taking the thing with me every time I left the house, but this was one time I sorely regretted it.
When my turn came for a huge trooper to lean down to my window, I held up my license. He glanced at it, frowned when he took a look at me, then nodded, wished me a good day, and turned to the next car in line. I had to restrain myself from speeding away.
By the time I got to Main Street, I’d given up hope of making it in time. Four o’clock on the dot. I could either disappoint Sam and go on home, or I could give him and those with him the shock of their lives by going to preview his television ad just as I was.
I went straight to campaign headquarters. Deciding as I parked that I would not confirm the state I was in by consulting a mirror, I went inside. Campaign central, as they called it, was located in an empty store, rented for the duration, and consisted of one large room filled with desks with telephones on them and a large table covered with Murdoch posters, yard signs, and pamphlets. In the back were a couple of smaller rooms, one of which was being entered by several people.
Speaking quickly to a suddenly wide-eyed woman manning the front desk, I hurried back to the room, relieved to find as I entered that it was dark—well, somewhat dim. Sam stood at the front of two short rows of folding chairs, while Millard Wilkes, his campaign manager, checked a large television set. Six or so volunteers had taken chairs, waiting to see and critique the ad.
I slipped into a chair in the back corner, gave a wave to Sam, who smiled back, and hoped no one would notice how unkempt I was. Millard fiddled with the television set, finally inserting a disk or a cassette or whatever it was into the slot, and we all sat back to await the showing.
“We only have the one,” Millard said. “Two others are in the works, but we wanted your opinion on this one before proceeding. Let us know what you think.”
The screen lit up and there was Sam’s image standing before a large wall map with our district oulined in black. He began to speak—the same words I’d heard a hundred times or more from other candidates—but with an ease and a directness that were his alone. At the end of the thirty-second ad, he smiled, not at the camera, but seemingly at each viewer. Sitting there in the dark, I glowed with pride, or maybe sunburn. I could’ve fallen in love again if I hadn’t already been in as far as I could go.
When the ad ended, everybody clapped and began to express their approval. Just as the lights came on, I stood up, hoping to ease out before anybody could get a good look at my disheveled state. I slipped out into the hall, ready to make tracks, but Sam was right behind me.
“Julia, what in the world happened to you?”
“Don’t ask,” I said, patting his arm as if nothing was amiss. “I’m on my way home to repair the damage.”
That didn’t allay his concern, which was all over his face. “Did you have an accident? Are you hurt? Honey, what happened?”
The volunteers began to edge out around us, eager to get back to the telephones, but not before they gave me a good going-over with their eyes.
“I’m all right, Sam,” I assured him. “There wasn’t an accident. I just took a stroll in the woods with Etta Mae, and, well, it was a little more strenuous than I’d imagined.” I brushed a trickle of sweat from the side of my face. “Really, I’m all right. And, Sam, the ad was perfect.” Trying to change the subject so I could get out of there. “You did such a good job, and the map showing our district was an inspired touch. I’m so glad you didn’t stand in front of an American flag—not that I’m not proud of it, but it’s so overused by candidates. I mean, voters generally know what country they’re in, but they don’t always know which district.”
I was at the door by that time, still talking fast to ease Sam’s concern. It didn’t seem to be working.
“Thanks,” Sam said, holding on to my arm even as I, wanting to make a hasty retreat, opened the door. “I appreciate that, but, Julia, what were you doing in the woods?”
I released his hand from my arm and said, “Keeping Rodney out of them.” I slipped through the door, giving him a carefree smile on my way. “Hurry on home. I’ll tell you all about it.”
—
Restored to some semblance of my usual appearance by suppertime, I told Sam of our trek through the woods off Springer Road. With both Trixie and Lloyd eating at Hazel Marie’s, we had a quiet meal, then retired to the new library. I’d hoped by that time to have put his concerns to rest, but in spite of my attempts to focus our discussion on his spectacular venture into television advertising, Sam kept returning to my risky afternoon of putting up NO TRESPASSING signs.
“Whatever possessed you, Julia,” he asked, “to take that on yourself?”
“I didn’t. Etta Mae was with me.”
“But that’s a huge parcel of land to be walking around.”
“Oh, we drove it, mostly. Sam, I had to get those signs up. Rodney was out there this morning with metal detectors. He undoubtedly knows about that plus or minus mark, and he was making sure of the exact acreage. Something had to be done.”
“But, honey,” Sam said, “you’ve said you aren’t selling it, so what did it matter?”
“I don’t know, Sam,” I said, leaning my head on the back of the chair. “I’ve been asking myself that all day—especially since I’m eaten up with redbugs.” I reached down and scratched my ankle. “Anyway, I just don’t want that property to come between Trixie and Rodney, because it will when I refuse to sell it—as I most certainly will continue to do. I know, I know,” I went on as he started to speak, “he’s told her they should see other people, which is as good as dropping her, but she’s still holding out hope. She thinks if his mortuary dream works out, he’ll need her and want her back. I don’t want to be the one who’s blamed when he doesn’t get the property and she doesn’t get him.”
Sam smiled. “You have a soft spot for her, don’t you?”
“Oh, Sam, I just feel sorry for her. I can’t help but think that Rodney has known all along who the owner is, and he picked Trixie out of the other Internet applicants because of it. She’s been beaten down for so long that I don’t want to add to it. How much better i
t would be if Rodney got over his untenable attachment to that land on his own, and it’s my intent that he, himself, decides that it won’t do for his purposes. Oh, and by the way,” I said, looking up expectantly, “I use that word specifically, because I looked it up. Do you know what untenable means?”
A dictionary was rarely far from Sam’s side, so he smiled. “Legally speaking—not defendable?”
“Well, yes, but it also means, and I’m quoting, ‘not suitable for occupation.’ It’s a perfect fit for this situation, and the sooner Rodney figures that out, the better.”
Sam laughed, then, at the slam of the back door and the hurried squeak of tennis shoes on the floor, we both sat up straight and looked around.
“Mr. Sam!” Lloyd yelled. “Mr. Sam! Where are you?”
Sam stood and started for the hall door. “In here, Lloyd. What’s the matter?”
Lloyd skidded into the room, grabbed the door to stop himself, then leaned over panting. “I rode all over town . . . as far as I could . . . ever since supper . . . on my bike. And, and . . .”
I was up by this time, hurrying to him. “Slow down, honey, and catch your breath. Is anything wrong at home? Your mother all right? The babies?”
He shook his head, tried to speak, then took a deep breath. “They’re okay, but, Mr. Sam, they’re all gone. Every last one of ’em!”
Chapter 34
“What!” My heart almost stopped. “Everybody?”
“Wait, now,” Sam said, putting his hand on my arm as he tried to make sense of what we’d heard. “Who’s gone?”
“Not who, but what!” Lloyd cried, flinging out his arms. “Your campaign posters! There’s not a one anywhere! See, I rode my bike home from the tennis courts, and I noticed there weren’t any along Park Road—and I know we put some there—and I thought, well, maybe the rain or something got them. But I got to thinking about it, so after supper, I went riding around again, and all your posters on this side of Main Street are gone. And, for all I know, in the whole county, too! And, Mr. Sam, it was like whoever did it knew exactly where they were. It was like somebody came along and, and just stole every last one of ’em!”