Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  “Oo-o-o,” Latisha said. “You ’bout said a bad word.”

  “But not quite,” Etta Mae told her with a grin. Then she stood up and started filling her pockets and the waistband of her jeans with strings of firecrackers. She looked like a commando preparing for a raid.

  Squatting down again, she said, “Miss Julia, here’s the plan. We’ll sneak up as close as we can, then I’ll light a string of firecrackers and throw ’em at his feet. Not too close, but pretty close. And I’ll keep peppering him with as many strings as I can light and throw. If that scares him off, then we’re done. But you take charge of the rocket, and as soon as we get there, stick it in the ground and aim it in his direction, but above his head. I’ll get the Bic to you while the firecrackers are going off. You know where the fuse is? Right here, see? Just stick it in the ground, light the fuse, and step back. Way back, okay?”

  “What about me?” Latisha asked. “What do I get to shoot?”

  Etta Mae and I looked at each other. I was already dreading the fit that Lillian would have when she learned that Latisha had been carrying around a sack of explosives, so there was no way I was going to allow her to light even the tiniest of firecrackers.

  Before I could say anything, though, Etta Mae came up with the perfect response. “We need a forward observer, Latisha, and that’s your job. When I throw a string of firecrackers, I want you to watch where it lands, and while I’m lighting the next string, you tell me where to throw it. You know—a little to the right or not so close or whatever. Can you do that?”

  Latisha, a solemn look on her face, nodded her acceptance of the duty.

  “Let’s go then,” Etta Mae said. “Oh, wait. Everybody stay real quiet. No yelling or anything. We don’t want him to hear our voices. If he figures out we’re women—well, two and a half women—he might come after us. We want him to think it’s a bunch of crazy men with guns. Okay?”

  That sounded sensible to me. I nodded and watched as she struck off through the brush, Latisha right behind her, then me, clutching the paper-covered rocket, following the two of them.

  We crept closer, giving the treacherous blackberry patch a wide berth. As we neared the small clearing where Rodney was laboring in the mud to cover the evidence of his stake-removal operation, Etta Mae slung out her arm for us to stop. Latisha and I immediately crouched down behind a tree. Etta Mae motioned to us to stay there. We did, but I strained to see where she was going. Her dark form crept to another tree a little way from us and nearer to the clearing.

  Peeking around our tree, I could make out Rodney working away, using a shovel to smooth the dirt he’d removed, then, panting heavily, walking back and forth to bring brush and pine needles to cover his spadework.

  Etta Mae whispered something to us.

  “What?” I whispered back.

  Latisha said, “She say are we ready.”

  “Sh-h-h,” I cautioned, and looked to see if Rodney had heard her. Then, anxious to do my duty, I leaned around the tree and stuck the rocket’s wooden spike into the dirt, making sure that it was firmly anchored and that the business end was aimed straight at Rodney’s head—I mean, straight over his head.

  A light flared on our left, and Latisha and I both gasped. As Etta Mae lit the fuse, we heard a fizzing sound, then saw her dark form step out and make an overhanded throw, sparks flying. Rodney, alarmed by the light and the noise, jerked upright just as the bundle sailed through the air behind him and landed a few feet away. When it hit the ground, the string of firecrackers went crazy, popping and sparking and jumping all over the place, sounding for all the world like gunshots on a television show.

  Rodney dropped like a rock, yelling, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, there’s a person out here!”

  Etta Mae lobbed another string of firecrackers which landed a few feet to the right of the first one. It, too, went into a frenzied dance of popping and sparking, while Rodney screamed, covered his head with his arms, and rolled away. He yelped as he went over the side of the ditch, and Etta Mae threw another fired-up string into the ditch.

  Rodney scrambled out the other side of the ditch, yelling and clawing his way up, finally gaining his feet and taking off at full speed down Springer Road, yelling, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” as he went.

  Etta Mae scooted over to us. “Here’s the Bic. Light it up, Miss Julia.”

  “Yeah,” Latisha said. “We don’t wanta waste it.”

  I stood and watched Rodney run down the road. He’d passed his car, depending on his feet to get him out of the line of fire. Just then, we heard rumbling thuds off in the distance. Thunder? No, the fireworks show was starting in Abbotsville. Rodney didn’t notice. He was running flat out down the middle of the road, yelling, “Stop, stop! Don’t shoot!”

  By this time, Etta Mae had broken cover and was crouching on the edge of the ditch watching him. I leaned over, adjusted the aim of the rocket to send it down Springer Road, and flicked my Bic. The fuse lit right away and began sizzling, sending out sparks like it was on a launching pad. I jumped back, dragging Latisha with me.

  I held tightly to her hand, as we watched and waited. Set for a low trajectory, the rocket was aimed, fired up, and ready to go. It just sat there, sputtering.

  “Oh, no, Latisha,” I said, fearing the paper covering had gotten wet as we’d walked through the brush. “It’s a dud.”

  A loud pop made me jump and I grabbed on to Latisha.

  With a sudden whoosh, the rocket came alive. We had liftoff! With its tail on fire, the rocket zipped up, up, and away, whizzing through the air with an ominous whistling noise.

  “That ain’t no dud!” Latisha cried.

  We ran out to the edge of the ditch, joining Etta Mae to watch in awe as that smart rocket followed Springer Road like a programmed missile. With a loud whump, it burst overhead and blossomed into a shower of red and blue sparks, lighting up half the railroad’s land and Rodney, too. He leapt straight up, legs still pumping, as Etta Mae lit another string of firecrackers. With a mighty effort, she threw it as far as she could to speed him on his way.

  Yelling. “Don’t shoot me!” Rodney didn’t break stride, just suddenly made an airborne left and veered off the road at speed. He sailed across the ditch on the other side and disappeared into the dark.

  “He gone,” Latisha said.

  Etta Mae and I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Leaning over to get my breath, I wished I’d gone to the bathroom when Latisha had.

  “We did it, Etta Mae,” I said. “We ran him off!”

  “We sure did,” she said, still laughing. “Oh, man, that was something!” Then she straightened up and reminded us that we weren’t through. “Listen, he’ll come back when he realizes he wasn’t being shot at. To get his car, for one thing. And maybe to move that other stake, for another. Let’s take these shovels and things with us and get out of here.”

  “Good idea,” I said, as she leaned over to pick up a pickax. I grabbed a shovel, then looked around for more tools. “The hammer. He used a hammer, so it’s got to be here somewhere.”

  Etta Mae said, “He probably left it where he used it. Hold on to this pickax, Latisha, while I look for it.” She walked off along the edge of the ditch, searching for the new location of the old stake.

  After several minutes during which I thought Rodney might have put the hammer in his car, Etta Mae called out, “Found it,” and slogged back through the weeds to us. “Let’s go.”

  Latisha struggled to lift the pickax, then said, “I can’t tote this thing through no woods.”

  “No, it’s too heavy for you,” Etta Mae said. “Here, let’s swap and you take the hammer. Miss Julia, you all right with the shovel?”

  Well, no, I wasn’t. Not because it was heavy, but because it was awkward. “Carrying these things will slow us down, Etta Mae,” I said. “And we need to get you home and Latisha and me
back to Abbotsville before Rodney sneaks back up here and finds out who we are.”

  “Just leave ’em?” she asked. “I don’t think you want to do that, Miss Julia.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I do.” Then I whirled that shovel around and let it fly right into the middle of the huge blackberry patch full of briars and thorns and, hopefully, snakes.

  “Hah!” Etta Mae said, and she chunked the pickax into the briars too. “Let’s see you throw that hammer, Latisha.”

  And she did. We heard the clunk when it landed on the other tools. “That’ll fix him,” she said. “He won’t be movin’ no stakes now.”

  Even though we’d effectively put a kink in Rodney’s plans, we knew we weren’t out of the woods yet and a sense of urgency gripped us. Taking Latisha’s hand, I hastened back the way we’d come with Etta Mae highstepping it behind us.

  We hurried through and around laurel bushes, pushing aside small pine seedlings and avoiding thickets. I kept looking back, fearing to see or hear Rodney hot on our trail.

  We stopped once to catch our breath, but none of us wanted to linger.

  “What if Rodney goes to get more tools, Etta Mae?” I said, wondering if we’d done enough to deter him on his determined path. “Walmart stays open all night, so he can buy whatever he needs and get back here with plenty of time to move that other stake.”

  The clouds overhead briefly parted, and the moon gave enough light for me to see Etta Mae grin. “I don’t believe he’ll make it to Walmart tonight,” she said. “Not with that flat tire, he won’t.”

  Chapter 48

  On our way home, Latisha fell asleep in the backseat, lying slumped over her seat belt. I had a hard time getting her in the house when I pulled into the driveway. Although it wasn’t as late as I’d thought—only a little past ten-thirty—I knew Sam would be worried. He would’ve looked for us at the park and, not finding us, he probably called home. Being otherwise occupied, I, of course, would not have been where he could reach me. I had a lot of explaining to do.

  Surprisingly, though, Sam’s car wasn’t home, so I figured he and the volunteers, perhaps along with the Pickenses, were having a late supper somewhere in town. Maybe he wasn’t worried.

  “Come on, honey,” I said, unbuckling Latisha and helping her out of the car. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  We stumbled together into the kitchen and, after switching on the lights, I stepped out of my muddy garden boots and began removing her rain gear.

  “Well,” I said, picking some leaves from her hair, “we missed the fireworks at the park, didn’t we? We’ll make up for it next year.”

  “I don’t need to make up for it,” she said, her voice regaining its usual volume. “We had us a fireworks show better’n anybody else’s, an’ the only thing wrong with it was I didn’t get to light none of them firecrackers.”

  —

  After getting her cleaned up and into a cotton nightgown that Lillian kept for those occasions when they stayed the night, I tucked her in bed. She’d been half asleep on her feet, so she quickly curled up and settled in.

  Looking down at that sweet child, I shivered at the thought of what could’ve happened if we hadn’t discovered that loaded sack she’d carried around and put its contents out of commission. I didn’t feel much better at the thought of what Lillian would do when she learned of Latisha’s portable arsenal.

  The sale of fireworks was illegal in North Carolina, and I knew Latisha had not been to any state where they were legal. And I also knew that Lillian would not have let her buy any, if she had. But somebody had, and that somebody had supplied them to Latisha.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, smoothed back her hair, and said, “Honey, where did you get all those fireworks?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she murmured, “I buy ’em.”

  “You bought them? Where did you get the money?”

  “Didn’t need no money.” She flipped over on her other side. “Mr. Nub jus’ wanted two a Great-Granny’s pound cakes.”

  They Lord, I thought, patted her shoulder, and took myself downstairs. So Nub Walker had been her supplier. I should’ve guessed—he walked around with lit sparklers on every holiday, including Halloween. He would have to be spoken to, but not by me. In fact, the sheriff should consider taking him into protective custody to keep him intact, once Lillian found out what he’d done. Poor Nub, he was sweet and trusting and as good a soul as you’d ever want to meet, but he wasn’t all there. Well, frankly, he was mentally retarded, and I know that’s become insensitive to say, but how else do you describe a forty-year-old man who’d spent five years in first grade and hadn’t learned to read to this day?

  When Lillian learned that he’d sold fireworks to an eight-year-old child—regardless of the compliment to her pound cakes—she would skin him alive. Even the Witness Protection Program might not keep him safe.

  —

  Tired and worn out, but too full of the evening’s events to sleep, I prepared for bed, but went downstairs to wait for Sam. He came in a little while later, equally tired and full of his day’s happenings. We sat together on the sofa in the library where I could hold his hand and worry about the fatigue on his face.

  “What a day, Julia,” he said, but not tiredly. He said it as if he were ready to do it all over again the next day. “I’ve never seen such enthusiasm. Big crowds everywhere, and they clapped and cheered and waved Murdoch banners. I rode in a couple of parades and went to three barbecues and two picnics. Then Jimmy Ray and I were introduced out at the park.” He laughed. “They put us between a bluegrass band and the fireworks show—didn’t get to say anything but ‘I hope you’ll vote for me,’ or some such, but lots of people were there, in spite of the drizzle.” He stopped and looked at me. “The city outdid itself with the fireworks. Did you get a good parking place?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I began, then went on to tell him that Latisha and I had missed the great fireworks display, but that we’d put on one of our own. I thought his eyebrows were going to disappear into his hair as I told him of Rodney’s brazen attempt to enlarge my property and of our successful counterattack.

  “Latisha saved the day, Sam,” I concluded. “But Lillian is going to thrash Nub Walker to within an inch of his life for selling her a sack of fireworks and a Bic lighter, as well. I think you should talk to the sheriff about him. No telling how many other children he’s sold to.”

  “I will. But, Julia, what in the world possessed you to go out there by yourself? I know, I know,” Sam said, holding up his hand to stop my protest. “You had Etta Mae and Latisha with you, but I wouldn’t call either of them much help if you’d had trouble.”

  “Oh, Sam, you wouldn’t believe the help they were! I couldn’t have asked for better. Why, if it hadn’t been for Latisha’s sack and Etta Mae’s throwing arm, all we could’ve done was watch while Rodney stole a tenth of an acre. And, speaking of that,” I went on, hoping to distract him, “why did he think moving a couple of stakes would do him any good? He knows I wouldn’t sell if there were fifty acres out there. And how would he explain the difference between the old plat and what the surveyors would’ve found?”

  “He wouldn’t have to explain it,” Sam said. “He’d probably have acted as surprised as anyone at the discrepancy. Although most likely the newer survey would stand unless the railroad questioned it. But from what you say, he’d better have a good explanation in the morning. When his surveyors get there, they’ll have questions about that stake being so far out of line. Plus,” he went on, trying not to smile, “somebody’s going to have to explain the evidence of it having been moved. He didn’t finish covering his tracks, did he?”

  “No, but he’ll have the rest of the night to finish it. Except, somehow I don’t think he will. His tools are out of reach, for one thing—but ready to hand if we need his fingerprints. And Etta Mae arranged for a flat tire, and, Sam, I di
dn’t have anything to do with that. Didn’t even know about it till it was done.”

  “Okay, but would you mind if I went out there in the morning? I’d like to meet Rodney and his surveyors.”

  “Oh, Sam, would you? I’d be so relieved to have you lay down the law to them all. I’m so tired of Rodney and his mortuary plans, and tired of Thurlow hovering in the background with threats of bribes and political influence and eminent domain for the public good. I’d like to wash my hands of it all, pay my property taxes as I’ve always done, and assure Etta Mae that her home is safe from gravediggers.”

  Sam laughed, took my hand, and said, “Are you engaging me as your attorney of record?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling, “and for anything else you might have in mind.”

  —

  Thunder and the sharp flashes of lightning woke me sometime in the night. Scrooching up close to Sam’s back, I listened to the pounding of heavy rain and wondered what Rodney was doing. If he’d regained enough courage to try to finish what he’d started, he’d be out there in it, slipping and sliding in the mud and soaked to the skin. Surely, though, he had enough sense not to attempt to move another stake in bad weather. Holding an iron stake in the midst of a thunderstorm would make him a lightning rod the likes of which would put our little fireworks show to shame. Lightning Rod-ney, I thought, then turned over and went back to sleep.

  Chapter 49

  Sam was up and gone before daylight. Whispering that he wanted to be out on Springer Road before Rodney and the surveyors got there, he said he’d get a bagel on his way and for me to stay in bed.

  Gratefully, I did, thinking that if having a gallbladder operation would give me as much energy as Sam seemed to have, I ought to schedule mine fairly soon.

  —