by Ann B. Ross
“Here, Miss Julia,” she said, plopping a baby in my arms. “Hold Lily Mae for me. I’ll be right back.” She dashed for the back hall, but she didn’t get very far. Mr. Pickens met her, and there was a warm and to those who were in the line of sight a somewhat embarrassing reunion. Hazel Marie smothered his face with kisses until she got to his mouth where he stopped her for a good long while.
Latisha, standing right next to them and watching intently, said, “My goodness, that look jus’ like teevee.”
Etta Mae laughed as she began to unwrap Baby Julie, shedding blanket, cap, and sweater, one after the other. “Looks like I’ll be heading back to the sunroom. Here, Miss Julia,” she said, exchanging babies with me, “let me swap with you and get that one unwrapped.”
“At least in the sunroom you’ll get a full night’s sleep for a change,” I said. “And we’ll see how Mr. Pickens likes changing and feeding every two hours or so.”
“It’ll be interesting, won’t it?” Etta Mae laughed, then expertly took both babies to their crib, sidling past their parents who were still making a spectacle of themselves.
After that, there was a constant coming and going with Lloyd going out to Mr. Pickens’s car to retrieve his hanging bag and Mr. Pickens folding up the cot that Etta Mae had been sleeping on and Hazel Marie putting away his clothes and Latisha following two steps behind Mr. Pickens everywhere he turned, and one baby after another announcing dinnertime.
I was finally able to catch Mr. Pickens alone in the back hall. “Mr. Pickens,” I whispered, “I would deeply appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask about Sam in front of the others. He’s working on his book and won’t be here for dinner, so if you wouldn’t mention it, I’d be grateful.”
Those black eyes bored into mine as he studied me, quickly recognizing a deeper concern in what I’d said. “Want to tell me a little more? Maybe I can help.”
“No, not at this time, I don’t think. I just don’t want to discuss it in front of the children, and Hazel Marie has enough on her mind without adding anything. But,” I went on, not wanting to close any door that might shed some light on my predicament, “maybe later we can talk.”
“Anytime,” he said, and put a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m always ready to listen.”
I nodded and moved away as Hazel Marie called to him. I was left thinking that I might indeed talk to him in his capacity as an investigator about a certain knothole in a toolshed, but as an adviser on marital problems? With his credentials, I hardly thought so.
Chapter 38
“Lillian,” I said as soon as we’d finished breakfast the next morning, “I want you and Latisha to take a break. You’ve been working night and day ever since those babies have been here.”
“No’m, Miss Etta Mae been the one gettin’ up at night. I been sleepin’ most of the time.”
“Still, you need some time off. Take the weekend off and rest up.”
“I guess I will, then, but who gonna do the cookin’ ’round here?”
“I expect we’ll manage all right.” Although, frankly, I wasn’t sure how well we would.
Lillian had been running by her house occasionally to check on water pipes and so forth, but it had been some time since she’d spent a night there. I thought she and Latisha both would be pleased to be going back, but Latisha pitched a fit.
“I thought we was livin’ here,” she wailed. “What Lloyd gonna do without me around? An’ them babies need me!”
It took awhile for Lillian to calm her and to assure her that she’d be back after school every weekday. “We got to see ’bout our house,” Lillian told her. “And think of all the play-pretties you got waitin’ for you.”
“Well, I don’t know, Great-Granny,” she said, wiping her eyes with the hem of her dress. “Look like every time that big ole black-eyed man come, we have to leave. An’ that’s just a pure-tee shame.”
My heart went out to her because she had truly latched on to Mr. Pickens, following him around throughout the house and gazing at him in awe. That’s what happens when a child grows up without a father—Lloyd was doing the same thing. Mr. Pickens had a huge gap to fill in the lives of those two fatherless children, and I had to admit, so far he was doing fairly well at it.
And why wasn’t Sam here helping him? I wasn’t the only one who needed him, and he should’ve thought of all he meant to these children before he took off and took up with Helen Stroud.
And just as I began to build up another head of steam over Sam’s lack of consideration, he called.
“Julia? ” he said, as the sound of his voice weakened my knees. “James said you came by yesterday. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Yes, yes, you can come home! The words flashed through my mind, but I bit them back.
“Well,” I said instead, “I did have a matter to discuss with you, but James said you were unavailable so I left.”
Sam laughed under his breath. “That James. He’s worse than a nursemaid. You should’ve come on in, Julia, I would’ve stopped whatever I was doing.”
Uh-huh, I thought, you would’ve gotten up from the table and left your guest stranded just to talk with me? Not likely. Then I realized that James hadn’t told Sam exactly when I’d come by. He didn’t know that I’d been there when he was fully engaged with somebody else.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said stiffly. “It really wasn’t all that important.”
“Well,” he said and let a few moments pass. “I’m always available to you, and you’re always welcome at my house.”
And so are you at mine, I thought, so why don’t you get yourself back here? Instead of saying it, though, I told him of Mr. Pickens’s return, then brought the unsatisfactory conversation to a close.
Then, before I could fall into the depths again, the phone rang under my hand. Hoping that Sam was as unhappy with the previous call as I had been, I snatched up the receiver only to hear an unexpected voice.
“Miss Julia? It’s Poppy Patterson. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Why, no, I was just, uh, standing here. How are you, Poppy? ”
“Actually, not so good. I’m still upset over what happened with Mr. Jones last Sunday. It’s keeping me awake at night, trying to think of what I can do to make it right. I’ll just be done in if he’s not in church tomorrow, knowing it’s my fault he’s not there.”
“Oh, Poppy, you shouldn’t feel that way. Thurlow Jones is one of those people you can never please. If it hadn’t been what you said last Sunday, it would be something else.”
“Yes, ma’am, maybe so, but it was something I said, and I was wondering if you’d go with me to call on him.”
“Well . . .”
“Please, Miss Julia. He won’t talk to me on the phone—he just hung up on me—so he’d probably close the door in my face if I go by myself. I thought, because you know him so well, that he’d at least let us in and I’d have a chance to explain.”
I was silent for a few minutes, thinking over the ramifications. How and from whom had she gotten the impression that I knew Thurlow so well? Nobody knew him, and that was a fact. He had such an erratic personality that no one could predict what he would do or say next.
Still, this would give me a perfect excuse to visit Thurlow and maybe get a reverse view of Miss Petty’s toolshed, and maybe that would reveal why Richard Stroud had been interested enough to spend a cold January night spying on Thurlow’s house.
“All right, Poppy,” I said, “I’ll go with you, but you have to understand that I make no promises. Thurlow’s just as likely to close the door in my face as he is to anybody. We may not get in at all, but I do commend you for wanting to try. When do you want to go?”
“This afternoon? I can pick you up about two. And thank you so much. If this doesn’t work, at least I’ll have tried everything I know to do.”
I was just as glad to be leaving when Pastor Poppy rang my doorbell at one-forty-five that afternoon, although I had a few qu
alms about doing so. Lillian and Latisha had left, and Etta Mae had taken the afternoon off to check on her single-wide and to get, I supposed, an uninterrupted nap. That left Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens alone to care for both babies, something they were going to have to get used to, although Hazel Marie looked a little wild-eyed at having to do it so soon.
Mr. Pickens was being his usual cocky self, saying, “Don’t worry, honey. What can be so hard? We’re bigger than they are.”
Etta Mae had just laughed and told Hazel Marie that she’d be back by suppertime. “I’ll bring us some barbecue from The Smokehouse in Delmont. Lillian’s not here, so that’ll make a good supper.”
Indeed it would, because not one of us was much of a cook. I slipped Etta Mae some money for the takeout, then met Pastor Poppy at the door for our joint church visitation. She was a fashion picture in a long, black double-breasted coat and black patent-leather boots with stilletto heels, making me feel quite dowdy beside her.
We left together in her vehicle, which was neither car nor truck. Or maybe it was both, but whatever it was, I almost needed a step stool to get up into it. As Poppy stepped on the gas, my head was jerked backward as the tires, gathering speed, chirped on the pavement.
“Sorry,” Poppy said, laughing. “This thing gets away from me every now and then.”
I gripped the armrest with one hand and my pocketbook with the other, thankful for the safety harness and praying for air bags. We flew down Polk Street, turned left onto Thurlow’s street, and pulled up in front of his house with the tires scraping the curb.
“Well,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding, “that was . . . exhilarating. Now, Poppy, let me warn you before we go in. Mr. Jones can be rude, crude, insensitive, insulting, and on occasion, indecent. You mustn’t take it personally, because that’s the way he is with everyone. I’ve certainly had my share of verbal abuse from him. So if you have a thin skin, I’d recommend we crank up and forget about seeing him.”
“No,” she said, taking her lip in her teeth and gazing out the window at Thurlow’s two-story brick, vaguely Georgian house, its high gabled roof overlooking the brick wall around the property. “No, I have to try to make amends. I can’t let something I said be the reason he rejects our church. And I do appreciate your coming with me, Miss Julia. Maybe,” she said with a charming smile, “if the Methodists can’t get him, the Presbyterians can.”
No, thank you, I thought, then felt a stab of guilt. If I could think of Thurlow as a little lost lamb, as Poppy apparently did, I might’ve felt differently. But to my mind and on the basis of past experience with him, he was more like a ravening wolf.
We got out of the car and walked through the gate in the brick wall onto the brick walkway that led to the front door. I stopped just past the gate and took it all in. The winter storms had left hardly a mark on the lawn—no litter, no debris from the bushes and trees that enclosed the spacious yard. Even with the patches of unmelted snow in the shaded areas, the landscape looked tended and pruned. Looking up at the house, I saw all the shutters in neat array, none hanging askew as they’d once done. And looking down at the walkway, I saw not one blade of grass or weed between the bricks, whereas the last time I’d walked it, the weeds had been up to my knees.
“My land,” I said in awe, “there have certainly been some changes here. You wouldn’t believe how he usually keeps it. Maybe Thurlow really has had a change of heart.” Then I told Poppy how Thurlow had always had the most disreputable property within the town limits, making himself an affront to all his neighbors. “Look,” I said, as we approached the front door, “even the brass is bright and shiny. Well, let’s see if his manners have been polished as well.”
I rang the doorbell as Poppy and I stood shivering in our coats. I rang it again and waited, but nobody came. Just as I started to turn away, Poppy reached around me for the brass lion’s head knocker and thunked it roundly several times.
“My word,” I said under my breath, then quickly drew back as the door was flung open.
My first thought on seeing Thurlow was that whoever had spruced up his house and yard had bypassed him. He stood there glowering at us, his hair in an absolute mess, his plaid shirt stained, and his loose trousers gathered by a belt with a flapping tongue. His eyes glittered behind smudged glasses and his unshaven face had a scowl on it that would have discouraged a less determined woman than Pastor Poppy Patterson. Me, for example.
“What the Sam Hill is goin’ on?” he demanded. “Can’t a man get any rest without a bevy of women banging on his door? And if you’re selling or begging, you can just take it on down the road. I ain’t in the market.”
He stepped back to close the door just as Poppy, with a bright smile on her face, stepped forward to enter. He could do nothing but move aside and I could do nothing but follow.
As she started unbuttoning her coat, Poppy looked around the entrance hall. “My, what a lovely home you have, Mr. Jones,” she said, favoring him with a guileless smile. “This paneling is beautiful, so rich and warm. It’s similar to what I’ve seen in the governor’s mansion in Raleigh. How old is your house?”
“Built in 1892,” Thurlow said, taken aback by her ease after his less-than-welcoming greeting. “One of the oldest in town. Still standing, that is.”
“I love old houses,” Poppy said. “I expect it’s been in your family for a long time. Would you mind showing us around? I’d love to see it.”
Thurlow immediately led her, as I tagged along, to the room on the left. He threw back the door to a small formal room I’d never seen before and began pointing out the old portraits on the wall.
I stayed in the background for fear of disrupting the rapport that Poppy had established with her interest in old things. Maybe he felt that included him as well. But whatever it was, Pastor Poppy had gained us admittance and, so far, Thurlow seemed thoroughly taken in by her admiration of his home.
Who would’ve thought that was all it would take?
Chapter 39
After showing us the dining room, Thurlow led us back to the big front room on the right of the hall. This was the room Lillian and I had once visited and the room that appeared to be the most used. All through the guided tour, I had been struck by the neatness and cleanliness of the floors and furniture—there’d been no dust or stacks of books and newspapers left where they’d fallen. This was all in stark contrast to what I’d seen in my previous visit.
The library, as he now called it, and where he offered us chairs, was equally clean, but bore evidence of Thurlow’s daily use. There was the same old recliner by the fireplace, the same pile of old papers beside it, and the same old Ronnie splayed out in front of the fireplace so that you could hardly pick your way past him.
I took a seat on the end of the sofa farthest from Ronnie, while Poppy sat in a chair next to Thurlow’s recliner. She shrugged out of her coat, then crossed her legs, leaving a black-stockinged gap between the hem of her skirt and the top of her boots.
“So,” Thurlow said, plopping himself down in the form-fitting recliner, “I’ve already told you I’m not buying anything or donating anything; let’s get that straight right now. So why am I being blessed or harassed with a visit from two such elegant ladies?”
I wanted to tell him that sarcasm was unbecoming, but he wouldn’t care. Poppy laughed her bubbly laugh, but I felt a shiver across my shoulders, fearing that Thurlow was just revving up for some of his usual hurtful bluster. I didn’t want Poppy to have her feelings hurt or be humiliated when he began to rant and rave.
“Oh,” she said in a merry fashion, “we don’t want a thing from you. I asked Miss Julia to come with me because you’re a hard man to catch, and I am fishing for men.”
“Ha!” Thurlow said and pulled the lever that reclined him a few degrees. Ronnie lifted his head, then plopped it down again. “I bet you think I don’t know the double meaning of that. Well, I do, and I didn’t have to go to a seminary to know it.”
“Then you know why I’m here,” Poppy said, a little teasing in her voice. “I am sorry if I offended you last Sunday—”
“If! If you offended me!” Thurlow shouted, and straight up came the recliner. “You offended every right-thinking man there. Listen to me, young lady, God is not a mother and I can prove it. Let me get my Bible.”
He sprang out of the chair, looked around the room, then sat back down. “Well, I can’t put my hands on it right now, but,” and he lifted a finger to her, “it says he, he, he all the way through. And it’s a crying shame that we have to put up with women up there trying to preach without them poking some heathen message down our throats. You’re a fine-lookin’ woman—you ought to be fishin’ for a husband. You ought to be married. You ought to be raisin’ children, not up there usurpin’ a man’s place.”
I stiffened as he built up a head of steam as fierce and as outrageous as I’d feared. Poor little Poppy, she’d be outtalked and outwitted, and most likely reduced to tears before he was done.
Instead, though, she leaned over and gave him a light tap on the arm with the back of her hand. With a delighted smile on her face, she said, “Why, you old misogynist!”
Up came the recliner again, almost catapulting Thurlow out of it. “Miss-what?”
“You heard me, and you don’t fool me. You’re trying to make me feel bad because I made you rethink some of your ingrained beliefs. I gave you something new to think about. Now you can reject the new . . .”
“I did! Or didn’t you see me walk out?”
“Or,” Poppy went on, her eyes twinkling as she challenged him, “you can broaden your understanding of God and deepen your faith.”
“I’m gonna prove you wrong!” And he was on his feet again. “Let me get my Bible. And by the way, I’ve never yet seen a preacher come visitin’ without his own Bible.”
“Well,” Poppy said, with another bubbly laugh, “you’ve just seen one. Besides, I’m pretty much up on Scripture and don’t need to point out chapter and verse every time I turn around.”