by Ann B. Ross
Trying to keep my spirits up, I kept reminding myself that the big earth- and house-moving machines Clarence Gibbs was bringing in hadn’t been fired up yet. Something might still be done to save those houses. My spirits didn’t stay up long, though, for surely Sam would’ve called or come by to reassure Lillian if he’d thought of some last-minute legal tactic.
After checking the doors and turning off the gas logs and the lights, I trudged up the stairs to bed, trying to put aside my concern for Sam and focus on the problem I could do something about. One thing I knew for certain: the whole town needed to turn its hand to helping those needy people.
The churches, I thought, as I readied myself for bed. There were dozens of churches in the county, and more forming every day, it seemed like. Church members in Abbot County were a testy lot, quick to take offense and not at all averse to forming a new congregation at the drop of a hat. It didn’t take much to set them off, either. A few would get mad at a preacher and try to run him off. If he wouldn’t budge, then out they’d go to a new meeting place. Others would be led out by a preacher so exercised by the waywardness of a convention, an assembly or a committee that he’d hear the voice of the Lord calling him to raise money for another church building, free of liberal influences. Many of them declared that they were returning to the ways of the apostles, without ever considering the fact that the apostles never put one brick on top of another, much less installed stained glass windows or hooked on lapel microphones.
Perhaps the Reverend Abernathy would be willing to approach the churches. Maybe it could be arranged for him to fill a few pulpits in town on certain Sundays and present our case. A special offering could be taken up, although I knew that special offerings rarely brought in more than a dollar a family.
I fell asleep on that discouraging thought, just exhausted by the emotional distress I’d thought would keep me awake all night. But I awoke the next morning with an idea of how to get the town involved in a fund for Willow Lane. It was a grand idea, but it would take a lot of work, which I was most willing to do.
But first, it needed to be decided just what that fund would be funding. Maybe it should be called a rebuilding fund; if those houses were so run-down that the town council had to condemn them, then we could just build new ones or remodel the old ones to bring them up to code. But I certainly didn’t intend to raise money to do anything on property belonging to Clarence Gibbs because everything would still belong to him, without a cent of his own being put into it.
The bottom line was that we needed to buy that property, then decide what to do about the houses. We needed to make an offer to purchase, and make it attractive enough to tempt the present owner.
I was brought up short, though, thinking of Clarence Gibbs’s plan to commercialize the area. A plant to bottle water, no matter how special it was supposed to be, just seemed ridiculous to me.
I studied the problem as I tiptoed past the room where Lillian still slept. And no telling how long she’d be down, considering what Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens had stirred together for her. By the time she’d finished one glass, Mr. Pickens had been right there with another, urging her to drink up, saying it was good for what ailed her. I’d wanted to caution him, but figured he knew how much of a dose she needed better than I did.
I started the coffee and kept on thinking about Clarence Gibbs. Lillian had said that he’d been tramping around, measuring and surveying the lay of the land. He could’ve been testing the volume and taste of that spring, or study ing building sites. For all I knew, he could’ve been showing the property to a prospective buyer, the thought of which brought me up short again. If that was the case, I needed to get to him before he listed it with a realtor.
Lord, if Clarence Gibbs would entertain the notion of selling, maybe I could give him a down payment that would hold it until the town came through with enough to buy it.
I was more than willing to do that, but it just didn’t seem to me that I ought to be the only one to help. Besides, I already had all the rental property I could handle and, believe me, it was a constant worry. If it wasn’t one thing it was another, what with a roof leaking, walls needing paint, or a dead tree about to fall.
As soon as the coffee stopped perking, I poured a cup and turned around to see Little Lloyd coming through the door, still in his pajamas. As usual, his hair was standing on end, and he looked as if he needed coffee as badly as I did.
“Good morning,” I said, although I don’t much like cheeriness early in the day. I poured a cup for him and took it to the table, where I sat across from him.
He managed a small smile, which I took as a return greeting, and we sat in silence while trying to get fully awake.
“Little Lloyd,” I said, setting my cup in the saucer, “I guess we have to face the painful truth this morning and go help Lillian clear out her house. I just hate the thought of it.”
“I do, too,” he said. “I dreamed about empty houses all night long. I even got up one time and came downstairs to be sure we still lived here.”
“Well, my goodness,” I said, struck again at how sensitive the child was. Of course, he’d been moved from pillar to post enough times to make him feel a little unsettled. “I didn’t hear you at all.”
“I tiptoed so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.” He turned his cup in the saucer, then went on. “What’re we going to do to help Miss Lillian and all those people?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. And the first thing I’m going to do is call Clarence Gibbs and see if he’ll sell that property. If he will, then we need to think about how to raise the money to buy it.” I thought about that for a minute, then said, “Of course, we’d then have to worry about how to fix the houses on it. But one worry at a time is enough.”
“Maybe we could put some trailers on it,” Little Lloyd said. Then, seeing my frown, he came up with another idea. “I know what we can do! Why don’t we see if President Jimmy Carter and his carpenters would come build the houses? I think he likes to help people who need a place to live.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, surprised that I hadn’t thought of it myself. “And we’ll certainly pursue it. Well, on second thought, I think the people they build those houses for have to help with the building. From what I saw at the meeting last night, most of them wouldn’t be able to hit a nail with a sledgehammer. But it’s still a good thought, Little Lloyd. Maybe,” I went on, musing over possibilities, “maybe there’re individuals or groups in town who’d sponsor a tenant and help get a particular house built.
“Thurlow Jones, for instance!” I said with sudden inspiration. “Lord knows he’s got the money, and this is just the sort of thing that might interest him. Although, with him, you never know.”
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Little Lloyd said, “but he’s kinda strange, isn’t he?”
“Well, he has his quirks, that’s for sure. Still, he’s worth approaching for a sizeable donation to our efforts. Although I’d hate to be the one to do the approaching.”
“I bet you could talk him into it, if anybody could,” he said, and I smiled because I thought I could, too. Then he propped his chin on his hand and went on. “Miss Julia? Do you think that spring they were talking about really can renew a man’s strength?”
“Lord, Little Lloyd,” I said, my mind going ninety miles an hour, trying to think how to answer him. I started to tell him to ask his mother about things like that, but that would’ve just piqued his interest even more. I just had to give him a straight answer and hope he’d let it drop. “Don’t pay any attention to old wives’ tales like that, or old men’s tales, either.”
“Well, I was just wondering if it would make your muscles bigger.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” I said, hoping he didn’t have the specific muscles that those old men were referring to in mind. There are some things I just couldn’t discuss, regardless of the company. “Listen, people’re always looking for a quick fix and, believe me, they’re not
going to find it in water bubbling up from a cow pasture.”
He grinned and said, “I sure wouldn’t want to drink it.” Then he got up from the table and put his cup and saucer in the sink. “I think I need some cereal. You want some, too?”
“No, thank you, but I’ll fix us some toast. I declare,” I said as I rose from the table, “we’re going to need all the nourishment we can get to face this day. The biggest problem, Little Lloyd, is going to be getting the whole town behind any kind of plans we come up with. Abbotsville is not noted for the kind of local charity we’re thinking about. Everybody gives to the United Fund and figures they’ve done their civic duty.”
Little Lloyd put down the cereal box and looked me straight in the eye. “Will it be because all those people on Willow Lane are black?”
“Oh, Lord, child,” I said, just stunned at his prescience. “I hope not, but if it is, then all the more reason for us to show them that charity begins at home, regardless of who happens to live in that home.”
I got the butter dish and a jar of grape jelly from the refrigerator, still thinking of the ugly problem that Little Lloyd had brought to the fore.
“You know,” I said, turning from the open refrigerator door, “I really don’t think that who those people are will affect the town’s generosity. No, I think it’s more likely that some will resent being asked for contributions of any kind, for any reason. There’re some people who believe what they call hand-outs are inherently wrong and encourage divorce, delinquency and a general deterioration of the American way of life. Until, that is, they need some help themselves. Then they’re quick to hold their own hands out.”
I pushed the refrigerator door closed with my hip, almost dropping the butter dish in the process. “That attitude, Little Lloyd,” I went on, “is what we have to overcome.”
“Well, my word, Miss Julia. How’re we going to do that?”
“It’s what I’ve been studying on all night,” I told him. “And I have at least one idea, which I’ll tell you about when your mother comes down. I want to see what she thinks about it.”
Chapter 10
Hazel Marie came into the kitchen dressed for the day in a dark green pantsuit with a matching sweater. Her blonde hair was pulled back and up, making her look trim and fashionable—a far cry from the way she’d looked before I’d taken a hand in her shopping habits. The 18-karat gold earrings and necklace didn’t hurt her overall appearance, either, but none of it looked suitable for a moving day.
“Morning,” she said, patting Little Lloyd’s head as she passed him on her way to the coffee pot. “Lillian told me last night when J. D. and I took her upstairs that she’d been in such a turmoil that she’d packed up all of her clothes, and Coleman already loaded them in a truck he rented. So I’m going shopping for her this morning, but I’ll need to make a list of the basics. Will you help me, Miss Julia, so I won’t forget anything?”
“Of course, I will. But you mean she doesn’t know where her clothes are?”
“Coleman must’ve taken them out along with the other boxes,” Hazel Marie said as she reached for a cup and saucer. “And she doesn’t want to ask him to unload everything to find the right box.”
“Well, I wouldn’t get too much if I were you, since we’ll have to guess at sizes. Unless you think we should wake her up and ask her what she wears.”
“I don’t think so.” Hazel Marie put a slice of bread in the toaster and waited for it to pop up. “I looked in on her before I came downstairs and she’s sleeping like a baby.”
“All right, then,” I said. “If you’ll take Little Lloyd to school on your way, I’ll stay here until she gets up. Then I’ll take her to Willow Lane and be sure those men get everything.”
Little Lloyd looked up from his cereal. “I’d sure like to go and see Miss Lillian’s house before it’s gone.”
“To tell the truth,” I said, “I’m not looking forward to going at all. But I know Lillian needs to be there. I don’t expect it’ll be the last time we’ll go, Little Lloyd, so you’ll get your chance later today.
“Now, Hazel Marie,” I went on, “I came up with an idea last night about how we can start organizing a community effort to raise money. What do you think of having a home and garden tour?”
“You mean of this house?”
“Well, of course this house would be included. But I mean having several of the nicer homes in town open to the public. For a fee, of course. People just love to see how other people live, what they have in their homes, how they’re decorated and so on. What do you think?”
Hazel Marie brought her toast and coffee to the table and sat down. Then she drummed her fingers on the table and looked thoughtful. “You know, I’ve always wanted to see inside the Whitaker house. If we could get that on the tour, everybody would buy tickets.” She picked up the toast and bit into it. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. What other houses could we get?”
“We’ll need to think about that. I know a lot of people who’d love to be included, but whose houses are just not up to par.”
“Oh!” Hazel Marie said, apparently having a sudden inspiration. “Let’s see if we can get that real modern house with all the windows, up on the side of the mountain. Did you ever find out who’s building it?”
“Some retired football player, I heard,” I said. “No telling how it’s decorated, since it’s so stark on the outside. It doesn’t appeal to me at all.”
“Well, me either,” Hazel Marie said. “But if a celebrity has moved to town, we ought to try to get his house on the tour. Everybody’ll want to see inside, even if it’s awful.” She chewed a bite of toast, swallowed, and grinned. “Especially if it’s awful. And the publicity will be wonderful. Just think, we can say something like ‘Visit the home of the Home Run King.’ Everybody’ll buy tickets.”
“Ma-ma,” Little Lloyd groaned, shaking his head. “You don’t have home runs in football.”
“Well, you know what I mean.” Hazel Marie was not in the least abashed. She turned to me and said, “What do you think about trying to get that house? It is the most unusual house in town, and I think it would be a great drawing card.”
“I expect you’re right,” I said. “More’s the pity. I wonder about their yard, though. The last time I had my hair done, I heard that they’re bringing in huge boulders for their landscape, which doesn’t strike me as any kind of design at all.”
“You’re going to have gardens, too?” Little Lloyd asked. “Lots of leaves falling this time of year, and not much blooming. At least, not in our yard.”
The child continued to amaze me with the things he came up with. “You’re absolutely right,” I told him. “And the weather might not be conducive to wandering around outside, either. But we need something else to make the tour really attractive.”
“I know!” Hazel Marie said, splashing coffee as she set the cup down. “It’s not that long until Christmas. Why don’t we see if the garden club would decorate the homes for the holidays?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! By the time we get this organized, it’ll probably be November, and that’s perfect timing. And I know the garden club would love to do it. We’ll get the newspaper to print pictures of the winning arrangements and decorations. Most of the club’s members already know how to plan this kind of thing. You know, they used to have their shows in various homes back when I was a member. I need to call Helen Stroud. I think she’s still their president.”
“I didn’t know you were in the garden club, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd said. “You don’t do much gardening.”
“Why, I certainly do. Don’t you see me out in the yard every time Raymond comes, telling him what to do?”
“Oh, yessum, I forgot about that.”
“Besides, the reason I resigned was that it got to be too much for me. They were into all these modernistic arrangements, with one stalk and one bud sticking up out of a piece of driftwood. And some just wanted to talk about bonsai and such. Nothing at a
ll that would fit into my traditional decor, so I just lost interest.” I stopped, recalling some of the meetings I’d been to. “Then there were always some who were into growing orchids and wanted every program on that. And LuAnne Conover had a thing about African violets, and I hope I never have to hear another word about African violets. Besides,” I went on, smiling at Little Lloyd, “around that time you and your mother came along, and I decided I’d rather grow little boys than flowers any day. Especially African violets, which always need more water, or less; I never could get it right.”
Lillian pushed through the swinging door, drawing our attention. She looked considerably the worse for the wear, her hair frizzy and standing out from her head and the dress she’d worn to last night’s meeting misbuttoned so that it hung crooked and off-center. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, as if she’d not had enough sleep. But if the snoring I’d heard during the night was any indication, she’d had plenty.
“Y’all want some breakfast?” she asked, her hand reaching for the back of a chair to steady herself.
“We’re having it,” I said, getting up to lead her to the table. “It’s you who needs feeding. Sit down here before you fall.”
Little Lloyd jumped up to get her a cup of coffee, and Hazel Marie started two pieces of toast.
“You feel all right, Miss Lillian?” Little Lloyd asked as he put the coffee in front of her. “You don’t look so good.”
Trust a child to speak from the heart and tell the truth, for Lillian was nowhere near the neatly combed and pressed person she usually was. In fact, I’d never seen her in such an untidy state.
“I got a real bad headache,” she said, leaning her head on one hand while pushing away the coffee cup with the other. “An’ dizzy, my Lord, I might never get myself straightened out.”
“You need some aspirin,” Hazel Marie said, a tiny smile playing around her mouth, which I thought entirely inappropriate. “I’ll get you some, and I think there’s some tomato juice in the pantry. Little Lloyd, would you look for it and put some ice in a glass, while I get the aspirin?”