Miss Julia Hits the Road

by Ann B. Ross

  “Yes, that’s what we’d want. But of course, if you wanted a trickle left for local use, we’d work with you on that.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Nolan. After what I’ve seen and heard about that water, I wouldn’t want a drop of it for local use. Why, there’s likely be a stampede for it as it is now, and our hospital’s not equipped to handle medical emergencies on such a scale.

  “With that understood,” I said, standing to indicate that the interview was over, “I’ll talk to the Willow Lane Committee right away, and let you know something as soon as we decide.”

  Mr. Nolan stood and shook my hand. “I think you’ll find us a good company to do business with.”

  “One other thing, Mr. Nolan,” I said as we walked toward the door. “Did Clarence Gibbs know about your interest?”

  “Oh, yes. Since he was the owner, I began to feel him out as soon as I got to town. We were willing to buy the whole parcel just to get the water, but he kept putting me off. It was only later that I learned he’d tied everything up, hoping to get your house, too. I had to wait, just like he did, to see if you came up with the purchase price in time.”

  He gave me a knowing look, seeming to appreciate how I’d managed that. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think he could decide between selling to us or sinking a lot of money into a bottling plant. But if he’d put that water on the market, even diluted, well, it’s a good thing you saved him from the consequences.”

  I held the door for him and said, “Clarence Gibbs would be a better man if a few consequences came his way. But don’t get me started on that. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Nolan; don’t leave town until you hear from us.”

  Sam came over last night and had dinner with Little Lloyd and me. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens were out somewhere, no telling where. I didn’t know and I didn’t ask.

  After we’d eaten, Lillian and Little Lloyd went upstairs to watch television, while Sam and I sat in the living room, watching the fire in the fireplace. I was feeling very warm and satisfied with the way things had turned out at the meeting of the Committee to Save Willow Lane. What it came down to was that we were going to have our cake and eat it, too—the Willow Lane residents would reoccupy the houses again, while enjoying the benefits of selling water to the Tarheel Fertilizer Company. And maybe we all would benefit from a new and improved root enhancer when it hit the market, although I would be unlikely to use it. Oh, and we decided to protect the cemetery with a wrought-iron fence, creating a small parklike setting with a historic marker to honor the dead.

  But to my dismay, the Tarheel folks, in an environmental-protection frenzy, went ahead and left a trickle in the spring, saying it would serve as a natural water feature for the area. Thurlow Jones, however, insisted on the erection of a warning sign that he, himself, worded:

  !DANGER!

  DIRE CONSEQUENCES RESULT

  FROM INGESTING THIS WATER!

  I had given him credit for being concerned about his fellow men until I heard him say that the sign was to remind himself not to tamper with the water again. He said that every now and then he was tempted to try small doses to see what it would take to get the ideal response.

  And I was sorely tempted to call him over to the house later that week so he could see the consequences of fooling with that water. I’d just finished my toilette when Lillian banged into the kitchen, shrieking her head off.

  “Miss Julia! Miss Julia!” she screamed. “You got to see it. Come quick!”

  All of us, Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd included, dropped what we were doing and flew down the stairs.

  “What is it?” I called, fearing the worst.

  As Lillian led us outside and around to the back of the garage, Hazel Marie gasped, “Don’t tell us it’s still growing!”

  “It’ll be a jungle!” Little Lloyd yelled.

  Well, not quite. The once-exuberant snowball bush had used up all its strength. There it lay, dried up and yellowed, in tendrils on the ground, not even a shadow of its former self.

  “It done withered on the vine,” Lillian said.

  “Oh, the poor thing,” Hazel Marie said.

  “The poor thing, nothing,” I said. “Poor Thurlow, if he gets a rebound like this.”

  We looked at each other and started laughing, while I hoped that Little Lloyd wouldn’t know what tickled us so.

  “Well,” I was finally able to say, “I guess the honorable thing would be to tell the fertilizer company about this.”

  “I wouldn’t, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said. “They’re going to do their own research, so they’ll find out soon enough. Besides, for all we know, Thurlow may not’ve had the same reaction. I don’t guess you’d want to ask him, would you?”

  She guessed right, so I threw up my hands and said, “We’ll let the buyer beware, then.”

  After all that excitement, I began to feel complacent about the upcoming home tour and flower show. It had lost some of its steam for me, since we no longer needed the revenue from it. Income, however, is always welcome. It was all I could do, though, to put up with LuAnne’s new enthusiasm for fund-raising. She announced to me that she had found her calling, even though she had not given one thought to what she’d be raising money for, much less to the toll it takes on the ones doing the raising. Her latest idea was to have another Poker Run and flower show in the spring, of all things. I was quick to inform her that I didn’t know of a cause in the world that would induce me to get on a motorcycle again.

  “But, see, Julia,” she’d said, her hands fluttering around.

  “You wouldn’t have to ride, although I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to. You could enter the flower show, though, because I’m thinking we could have categories like Burnout Pit and use smoke tree branches, or Motorcycle Mania and use helmets or biker boots or oil cans for containers. Or—I know—maybe have one called H.O.G. Heaven and use Birds of Paradise in the arrangements. That would really be something, wouldn’t it?”

  “Really something,” I agreed, but refrained from saying what that something would be. “And who or what would you be raising money for? I’ll tell you this, LuAnne, I expect there’s not a soul in Abbotsville who’d be willing to shell out another cent. We’ve asked about all we can ask of them.”

  “You really know how to put a damper on somebody else’s ideas, Julia,” she said. “I just know that a combination Poker Run and Flower Show would be a big draw, and those bikers would have an opportunity to put a little refinement in their lives. Big Bill Beasley, for one, would love it.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “LuAnne, the last thing in this world that Big Bill Beasley or any other of those bikers would love is a display of flower arrangements. That’s the most unlikely thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  She got mad at me then, and went home, but not before telling me that I wasn’t the only one who could do whatever she pleased. “Emma Sue and I are thinking of going into business,” she said, lifting her head in pride. “If not fundraising, then maybe bridal-consulting or catering or something. Pastor Ledbetter said she couldn’t do it, but she’s going to, anyway. And I want you to know that we were going to ask you to come in with us as a silent partner. But, since you couldn’t stay silent if your life depended on it, we’ll just get our financial backing somewhere else.”

  I let her have the last word, since that proved I could hold my tongue when I wanted to. Then I went into the kitchen and had a cup of coffee with Lillian, the one person I could count on not to aggravate me beyond endurance.

  In spite of the fact that things had worked out to my satisfaction, there was still a nagging concern on my conscience. Sitting there on the sofa with Sam, I decided that this quiet evening was a good time to free myself of it.

  “Sam,” I said, after a few deep breaths to get my nerve up, “I hope you won’t hold it against me, but I have a confession to make.”

  Although we’d started out with a decorous distance between us on the sofa, somehow we’d both edged toward the middle. So I f
elt him stiffen when I announced my intention to admit a wrongdoing.

  “Is it about Thurlow?” he asked.

  “Thurlow!” I did some stiffening of my own. “Why would I have anything to confess about him?”

  “I don’t know, Julia. He just seems mighty taken with you.”

  “Well, I am certainly not taken with him. The idea! Why, Sam, that old man’s crazy! He hardly comes to my shoulder, and he’s careless with money.” I stopped, wondering if that last charge should be counted against him. Thurlow had put the Willow Lane Fund over the top, for which he deserved proper appreciation. But that didn’t mean I had to admire his profligacy. “Besides, he’s not clean.”

  “Well, preserve us from uncleanliness,” Sam said, laughing. “So if it’s not Thurlow, what could you have to confess?”

  I turned my head as a wave of shame swept over me. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I’d doubted his sanity, that I’d feared he’d been on a downhill slide into a mental fog, and that I’d watched him like a hawk for any sign of the senility that I’d convinced myself he was suffering from.

  “On second thought,” I said, thinking that I shouldn’t disturb the serenity of the evening. “Maybe another time would be better.”

  Sam slipped his arm around my shoulders, letting it lay along the back of the sofa. “This is as good a time as any, Julia, because I have a confession to make to you. I confess that I’ve been remiss in not making my intentions clear. So I’m going to remedy that right now. Julia Springer, I confess that I think you are the bravest and most loyal woman I know. Even though you’re prone to go off half-cocked on occasion, you absolutely delight me. What it comes down to, Julia, is this: I want you to stay away from Thurlow Jones and stick close to me. My heart can’t take any more distress than you’ve already put it through.”

  My own heart about stopped at that moment, as I mentally thanked Thurlow for being good for something more than doling out money. Then I took Sam’s hand and leaned my head against his chest, unable to stop the smile that spread across my face. If I had ever had one doubt about the state of his mental health, it had just been put to rest.

  “Now,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I’m ready to hear your confession.”

  “Well,” I said, deciding that some confessions are better left unmade. What Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sam, but that poetry you’ve been sending me is just, well . . .”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Yes,” I said, looking up at him. The old saying that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder came to mind and, as no other eye would ever see his poetic efforts, I spoke the unvarnished truth. “Yes, it’s beautiful to me.”