by Ann B. Ross
“I know why you not sleepin’ so good,” she said, cocking an eye at me. “You got yo’ mind whirlin’ ’round Mr. Sam an’ what you can do to get him to come on back home. An’ I hate to hear what you got cooked up. I know you got something goin’ on, ’cause I see it in yo’ eyes.”
I heard little feet stomping around upstairs and knew that Latisha would be down soon. I had to talk and talk fast before the kitchen was full and the time for talk was past.
“I certainly do have something cooked up,” I said, my face tightening as I leaned toward her. “You didn’t think I’d take this lying down, did you? Just let my husband walk out without raising a hand to stop him? No, ma’am, he’s got it all wrong, and I’m going to find out what’s been going on and prove to him that I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Then he can beg for my forgiveness, instead of my begging for his.”
“Oh, Law,” Lillian said, raring back. “Now you on a rampage, and nothin’ good gonna come of it.” Then she hunched forward and looked me right in the eye. “You better think twicet ’fore you go messin’ with Mr. Sam, gettin’ him all riled up an’ even madder than he already is. If he even mad at all. Sound to me like he got hurt feelin’s more than anything else.”
“Well,” I said in my defense, “he hurt mine first—not believing me and walking off the way he did. Look, Lillian, the only thing I know to do is show him that I was not mixed up with Richard Stroud or Thurlow Jones, and the only way to do that is to find out what they were mixed up in. That makes sense, doesn’t it? ”
“Maybe to you it do, but maybe not to Mr. Sam. Maybe he want a helpmeet that stay home an’ keep outta trouble.”
“Then he married the wrong woman, and I don’t believe that for a minute.” I reached over and put my hand on her arm. “I need help, Lillian, somebody to go with me and be a witness. Will you do it?”
She jerked back in her chair. “How I’m gonna do that? Miss Hazel Marie need me, an’ I got dinner to cook an’ lunch to get ready jus’ as soon as I get breakfast on the table. An’ they’s clothes to wash an’ beds to change an’ I don’t know what all.” Then she squinched up her eyes at me. “What you gonna do, anyway?”
“Just make a few visits, that’s all. Maybe take a casserole or two with us. Or a cake, whatever’s easiest, because I know you have lots to do. But I’ll help you—I promise I will. I’ll put the clothes in the washer and whatever else you need done.”
“Who you gonna visit?”
“Miss Petty, for one, but we’ll have to wait till this afternoon when school’s out. But we can see Thurlow this morning . . .”
At her gasp, I hurried on. “It’s important, Lillian, because LuAnne told me that Miss Petty stayed the whole night with him when we lost power. I haven’t said anything about that because I didn’t want to gossip, but we need to know what’s going on with those two. Then the last, and maybe most important visit, will have to be to that toolshed.”
“No, ma’am, no, ma’am,” Lillian said, rising from her chair. “Neither you nor me is gonna go snoopin’ where some ghost be hoverin’ ’round.”
“We have to, Lillian. We have to see if Mr. Stroud was in there because of Miss Petty or because of Thurlow, or just in there because he had no other place to go. And there won’t be any ghosts. In fact, you won’t even have to go inside. You can stand outside and be the lookout. Your eyesight’s good at night, isn’t it?”
“At night! ” Lillian screeched so loud and jumped back so quick that I thought she’d bring everybody running to see what was wrong. “No, ma’am,” she said firmly, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “No, ma’am, no, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll do it by myself. Tonight, after everybody’s asleep, especially the babies. I’d like to have some company, but . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “If that’s the way it is, so be it. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring my precious husband home where he belongs.”
“What you think you gonna see in the dark anyway?” Lillian asked, giving me a hard look. “Why don’t you go in the daytime like normal people?”
“That’s just it, Lillian,” I said excitedly because she was finally understanding what I was up against. “Richard wasn’t acting like a normal person, and of course Thurlow never does. That’s why we need to go at night so we can see what Richard saw. That’s the whole point of it. And I promise, you won’t have to put a foot inside. Just stand beside the door and let me know if anybody’s coming.”
“Well,” Lillian said, somewhat grudgingly, “lemme think about it.”
“Oh good! I’ll wake you around two if, that is, the babies stay on schedule. If they don’t, well, we’ll have to see, but I’m going to do it, come what may.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lillian said, as she put the skillet of bacon over a flame. “Whatever that ‘come what may’ might be, an’ when it start comin’ down on us.”
Chapter 26
Later in the morning, after the children were off to school and Etta Mae and Hazel Marie were washing babies, I sidled up to Lillian in the dining room. She was vigorously polishing the table with lemon oil and the scent nearly brought me to my knees because it reminded me so much of Sam. His aftershave had a much lighter aroma, of course, but still, everywhere I turned I was reminded of his absence.
Taking myself in hand, I whispered, “I’ve changed my mind about visiting anybody today. We need to see that toolshed first—tonight—then we’ll know how to lead the conversation.”
“I’m not leadin’ nothin’,” she said, rubbing the table harder than it needed. “I might go with you an’ I might not, but everything else is your little red wagon.”
“Oh, I know, I don’t expect anything more. But to put off the visitations until tomorrow gives you time to fix something for us to take. Nothing fancy, Lillian, just something to get a foot in the door.”
She grunted, mumbled something that sounded like, “My foot,” and kept polishing what was already the shiniest table in town. I left her to it and went upstairs.
There I went through the closet and laid out the warmest clothes I could find to get me through a late-night reconnaissance: a woolen dress, two sweaters, heavy cotton stockings that Hazel Marie called tights, a pair of cashmere socks, fur-lined gloves, galoshes to keep my feet dry, and a heavy coat. The weather had turned almost balmy for January in the last few days, but the temperature would be at its lowest in the dead of night.
Taking no chances on freezing, I slipped into Lloyd’s room and snatched up two toboggan caps to keep our heads warm. Back in the pink bedroom, I laid everything out in a chair so they’d be ready to go when I was.
As I studied the layout, desolation swept over me again, and I had an urge to run to Sam and beg his forgiveness. Or call him, just to hear his voice. He might be just sitting at his desk waiting for me to make the first move. When the telephone rang at that moment, my heart lifted. I ran to the bedside table to answer it, then the little pride I had left made me hesitate as Lillian picked up downstairs.
She called me in a loud whisper from the foot of the stairs. “It’s yo’ pastor,” she said when I leaned over the bannister. “An’ we need to fix up something where I don’t have to yell an’ wake up them babies every time the phone ring.”
The bottom dropped out when I heard that it wasn’t Sam calling, and I sighed at the thought of what the pastor would want from me. If he’d somehow learned of the rift in our household, I hoped to goodness he didn’t intend to suggest a counseling session. I knew too much about the state of the pastor’s marriage to think he had anything to offer us.
When I answered the phone, Pastor Ledbetter said, “Miss Julia? I’m calling around to see if we’ll have a good turnout today. Will you be there?”
“Be where, Pastor?” I didn’t recall any meeting or service planned for the day and was momentarily disconcerted that something had slipped my mind. Surely he hadn’t gotten together a group counseling session. That would be the last straw.
&
nbsp; “The funeral. Or rather, the graveside service. I thought you would’ve received an invitation.”
“An invitation to a funeral?” I was more than momentarily disconcerted at the idea of invitations being extended for a committal.
“Well, I don’t mean an official invitation, exactly, although some people do it that way. I assumed that Helen would want you and a few others to be there.”
“Helen? Oh, you mean Richard’s funeral.” Funny, I hadn’t thought of the fact that Richard would need a burial, but of course he would. “I must say, Pastor, that I’m a little taken aback that Helen is arranging this. I thought they were divorced.”
“Now, Miss Julia, you know I don’t believe in divorce. I had a few counseling sessions with Helen and encouraged her not to go through with it. Once married, always married, I always say, and besides, there may have been some financial considerations for keeping the marriage intact, Social Security and so on—I’m not really sure. But there are all kinds of benefits, spiritual and otherwise, when you decide against seeking a divorce. So because Richard had no other family, she’s assuming the responsibility. And under the circumstances, I commend her for selecting a graveside service and not a funeral in the sanctuary. Even so, I’m afraid that few people will be there, given his recent troubles, so I thought I’d call around with a reminder. Helen will certainly need the comfort of her friends during this trying time.”
After getting the time, two o’clock, and the place, Good Shepherd Cemetery, of the service, I promised to do my best to be there. Hanging up the phone, I considered what I’d heard. So Helen had not followed through with the divorce—that was a surprise. But it was his words, “once married, always married,” that rang in my head. I was well aware of the pastor’s antipathy toward divorce, but hearing it again made me wonder if it would do any good for Sam to hear it, making me slightly more amenable to being counseled. But then I had to wonder if the pastor’s belief in “once married, always married” meant that I was still married to Wesley Lloyd Springer, and if so, how things would work out in heaven if I had two husbands to contend with. And think of all the widows and widowers who’d also remarried. Why, when you consider all those once-and-future husbands and wives milling around, either trying to get back together or trying to avoid each other, heaven would be a place of complete turmoil.
Well, of course there’d be no marrying or giving in marriage in heaven, so I thought maybe when we all got there, the Lord would issue a Great and General Divorce Decree, in spite of the pastor’s disbelief, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Hearing the commotion start up again downstairs, I went down to offer my help. Etta Mae was preparing bottles while the din got louder in the bedroom.
“Can I help?” I asked, but hesitantly because I’d pretty much stayed out of the way ever since the babies had taken up residence.
“You sure can,” Etta Mae said. “You can feed one of them while I do the other one. Hazel Marie just washed her hair and she’s dripping all over the place. We thought they’d sleep a little longer, but no such luck.”
I followed her into the bedroom where she indicated the upholstered rocking chair. “Sit there, Miss Julia, and I’ll give you one. Hazel Marie, go ahead and dry your hair, we’ll take care of them.” And before I knew it, I was given a very unhappy little girl.
“Here’s the bottle,” Etta Mae said. “Just put the nipple next to her mouth and she’ll take it.”
And did she ever! “This child acts like she’s starved,” I said, wondering at the intensity and strength of a pair of little working jaws.
Hazel Marie sat on the side of the bed, toweling her hair, and watched us. “I think the hair dryer woke them up, but they’ll have to get used to that—I use it so much.” She laughed, but I noticed that she kept her eye on me. And rightly so because I was feeding an infant for the first time in my life.
Hazel Marie let the towel drop as a dreamy expression crossed her face. “I can hardly wait for them to get a little older. I’m going to have so much fun fixing their hair and dressing them. I wish I knew how to smock, I’d make them little matching dresses and embroider some teddy bears or something across the smocking.”
“You’re already fixing their hair,” Etta Mae said, holding up two tiny pink ribbons. “Miss Julia, you should’ve seen these bows in their hair. We’ll put them back in, but they slide right back out when the babies start wiggling around.”
After a while, I became accustomed to holding and feeding the baby and was able to relax and let the child eat without staring at her. Etta Mae sat across from me with the other baby, who took to the bottle with loud gulps, working away at it as if it were the last meal on earth.
“Pastor Ledbetter called a little while ago,” I said, venturing a conversation while having the responsibility of such an important task as feeding a baby. “He’s having services for Richard Stroud this afternoon, and he’s afraid Helen will feel forsaken if no one comes. So he asked me to be there. And I’m just not sure I’m up to it.”
“Why would she feel forsaken?” Hazel Marie asked, stopping to look out at me through strands of drying hair. “I thought she divorced him.”
“I thought she had too,” I said, moving my baby-holding arm the least little bit to avoid a cramp. “But apparently he, I mean the pastor, not Richard, talked her out of it at the last minute.”
Etta Mae chimed in. “Preachers are always trying to talk somebody into or out of something.”
“Well, it’d be the nice thing to do, I guess,” Hazel Marie said. “To go, I mean, for Helen’s sake. But I can’t imagine the church will fill up, not for an ex-convict, anyway.”
“I think they know that, because it’s a graveside service,” I said.
“Oh my goodness,” Etta Mae said. “I bet that means they’re burying just his cremains.”
“Cremains?” Hazel Marie asked. “What’s that?”
“His ashes,” Etta Mae told her. “What’s left after being cremated.”
“Yuck, as Lloyd says,” Hazel Marie said. “I wouldn’t want to be cremated, would you?”
“I doubt you’d know it at the time,” I said.
“Well, but still,” Hazel Marie responded, scrunching up her shoulders, “the thought of it makes me shiver. I’m going to write that down somewhere: don’t cremate me. And, Miss Julia, don’t let J.D. do that to me. I want to rise up on the last day all put together, not scattered to the four winds.”
“I expect,” I said, somewhat dryly, “that the Lord is able to manage whatever is called for. But I admit I feel pretty much the same way. I’d prefer a burial rather than a cremation, and come to think of it, I’d better write that down too in case Sam has other ideas.” If he was even around at the time, I thought but didn’t say. A shiver ran across my own shoulders.
“Well,” Etta Mae pronounced, “I know a lot of people who’ve had their loved ones cremated, then gotten them back again.”
“How in the world?” Hazel Marie asked as she started combing through her still-damp hair.
“Well, see,” Etta Mae said, “there’s this company that’ll take the loved one’s cremains and make a diamond out of it and put it in a ring or a pendant or whatever you want. So you can have your loved one always with you.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” I said, as Hazel Marie’s mouth gaped open. “Etta Mae, is this baby all right? Her face is so red and she’s sweating all through her hair.”
Etta Mae laughed. “She’s fine. They get hot and sweaty when they’re nursing. Takes a lot of energy, I guess. But I’m telling the truth. About this company, I mean. It’s called something like Forever Together Gems. They take the ashes, which are mostly carbon, just like diamonds, and put them under a lot of pressure and out pops a diamond. The only thing I can’t figure out is how they can make the different colors. Or maybe,” she said, musingly, “the colors depend on what kind of ashes they are. I mean, maybe men have a different color than women do, or children a
re different from adults. I don’t know. I do know, though, that you can get blue, red, yellow, and colorless diamonds, so maybe they just add dye.”
“Etta Mae,” Hazel Marie said, “you’re making that up.”
“No, I’m not. I had a patient one time—Mr. Buck Hanson—and he had two diamond rings made from his first and second wives. Wore one on each hand. His first wife was the red diamond and his second was the yellow, but I never did ask him how he’d gotten those colors—whether that’s just the way they turned out or whether he’d had a choice. If he did, maybe he picked them because of their temperaments. His third wife wasn’t too happy about them because she said his two ring fingers were all taken up and she didn’t want to be a pinkie ring.”
“You are making that up!” Hazel Marie said, and I was inclined to agree with her, although it was awfully entertaining in spite of the subject matter.
Etta Mae giggled. “I’m not, I promise you. And as it turned out, Mr. Hanson died before his third wife did. I ran into her on the street one day and she was wearing what looked like a big sparkly diamond on a chain, you know, like a pendant? And I’ll just bet you that was Mr. Hanson himself, hanging around her neck.”
“Well,” Hazel Marie said, looking off in the distance as she cogitated about it, “I guess I wouldn’t mind being cremated if J.D. wanted to make a diamond out of me. But if he does, he better wear me and not leave me in a jewelry box somewhere.”
“Oh for goodness sakes, you two,” I said, “let’s get off this morbid subject. Etta Mae, I think this child’s had enough.” The baby was slack in my arms, sound asleep, the nipple loosened from that strong vacuum as milk drooled from her mouth.
Etta Mae showed me how to hold the baby on my shoulder and pat her back, which I did until air bubbles erupted with a loud clap and spit-up flowed down my back. Eau de baby, Etta Mae called it.
Chapter 27