Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  But deciding that I’d gone this long without serving alcohol, I saw no reason to start now. Besides, everybody knew that it would flow freely at Mildred’s, so there’d be few who wouldn’t be eager to go on to her house. So eager, I hoped, that they’d forgo even a courtesy call at Madge’s tea.

  To tell the truth, though, I seemed to be only going through the motions. As happy as I was to have Sam back, I went about preparing for the party with a heavy heart. What I’d done to Helen and what she was doing in return, to say nothing of Ken Whitman’s condescending manner to me, put a pall over not only an insignificant party but also the whole Christmas season.

  In fact, it dawned on me that there had been nothing but a series of tit-for-tat retaliatory events ever since Madge Taylor had been inspired by another of her bright ideas. After that, one thing had just led to another.

  Had it all been my fault? Should I have shrugged my shoulders and overlooked Madge’s transgression of the zoning ordinance? Or had I simply been determined to deny a home, illegal though it was, to those who had none?

  I declare, I didn’t know, but it was something to think about. And to pray about.

  * * *

  —

  Sunday morning, the day of our parties, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to church. Maybe that was all the more reason to have made the effort, but I convinced myself that there was too much to do at home that morning. Besides, I thought, who would miss me? Sam decided to go alone because he’d missed so many services, so if anybody cared, he’d be there to represent us both.

  So I poured a third cup of coffee at the kitchen table and perused the Sunday paper, paying my usual attention to the classifieds. Lillian came in early, even though I’d told her to take her time. The party wouldn’t start until two o’clock, and we were already well prepared. But I was glad to see her, because she lifted my spirits with her excitement. Bless her heart, she loved party days even though they meant more work. They also meant a larger paycheck as well, although she enjoyed parties so much that a bonus seemed to be merely a nice by-product. In my current atoning state of mind, though, I intended to make this bonus more than a mere afterthought.

  “Miss Julia,” Lillian said as soon as she hung up her coat in the pantry, “the Lord givin’ you a perfect day for a party. Jus’ look out there at them clouds down low. An’ the wind’s pickin’ up right smart, an’ they’s a little bit of ice in the air.”

  “That doesn’t sound so perfect to me,” I said, looking worriedly out the window.

  “Oh, yes’um, it is, ’cause that’s Christmas weather. We been havin’ too many summer days too late in the year, an’ it’s time for wood fires an’ hot spiced tea an’ presents on the tree.” Then she laughed. “The radio already playin’ Christmas carols this morning.”

  “Well,” I said, smiling with her, “turn the radio up—maybe a few carols will put me in a Christmas mood, too. Did Latisha come with you?”

  “No’m, she comin’ with Janelle ’bout lunchtime. I figure they don’t need to be here too early. But she real excited, thinkin’ she’s a big girl with a big job to do.”

  I had engaged Latisha, Lillian’s great-granddaughter, and Janelle, their teenage neighbor, to take coats from arriving guests upstairs to lay across my bed. Their agile legs and feet were more able to go up and down stairs than those of many of the guests.

  After folding the paper and before going upstairs to dress, I spoke briefly on the phone with Mildred and found her equally excited about our double party day.

  “I’m as ready as I’m going to be,” she said, “and I’m really looking forward to it. You won’t believe how good things are smelling from the kitchen. Ida Lee is preparing turkey tetrazzini, even though she worried that people might be turkeyed out after Thanksgiving. But I’m not since I had ham for Thanksgiving. Besides, it’s a great buffet dish, and she’ll have enough to feed an army. I love the almonds in it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, I do, too.” I paused, then said, “Mildred, have you heard from Helen?”

  “Yes, in a roundabout way. She had her maid call with her regrets. She won’t be here.”

  “She didn’t afford me the same courtesy. She hasn’t responded to my invitation at all, which is so unlike her. But after joining forces with Madge, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I expect she’ll go to Madge’s tea, if she goes anywhere. Oh, Mildred, I am so sick about this. I mean, I don’t care whether she comes to my party or to your party or even if she goes to Madge’s. I’m just sick about how deeply we’ve offended her.”

  “I’ve already told you how I feel about that,” Mildred said with some firmness. “You just have to rise above it and give her time to do the same. And she’ll come around, Julia. I’m convinced of it.”

  I, however, wasn’t so sure, but there was little I could do about it as Helen had ignored all my efforts to see or talk to her.

  * * *

  —

  Guests started arriving a little before two, eagerly shedding coats in the hall into the arms of Latisha and Janelle, then hurrying to the fireplace in either the living room or the library. Candles were burning on the table and in the large hurricane shades on the mantels, the Christmas tree lights were glowing, and the music that Lloyd had selected played in the background, although mostly drowned out by the excited greetings to and from the guests.

  It was the first event of Abbotsville’s party-filled season, and everybody seemed in a holiday mood aided, I thought, by the wintry-looking day. Thank goodness the mood was infectious, for my spirits began to lift as well, and Sam put it over the top. I had suggested, because my guests would all be ladies, that he go on over to Mildred’s and wait for me there. Instead, even though he had never been known as a jokester, he stayed and added to the merriment.

  As the ladies milled around the table and lingered by the fireplaces, talking and laughing, he came down the stairs dressed in an old black suit, white dress shirt, a red bowtie, and white gloves. Mingling with the guests, a round silver tray in hand, he announced that he was the waiter, specifically engaged to serve at the party. Offering refills of punch or oyster stew, tempting with more hors d’oeuvres, and ladling out compliments right and left, he was the perfect mixer. The ladies loved it, and nobody left until it was time to go to Mildred’s party.

  * * *

  —

  Hurrying across our adjoining yards, Sam and I bent against the icy wind, running some thirty minutes or so late for Mildred’s party. It had taken awhile to mete out the coats as my guests prepared to leave, not, though, without a lot of hugs and cheek kisses and thanks for a lovely party. Then I’d lingered to help Lillian clear the table and put away leftovers.

  “Take whatever you want with you, Lillian,” I said, pleased by the end of a successful social occasion, as I placed envelopes on the table. “Latisha and Janelle will want some snacks. And their pay as well.”

  “Yes’m, but you better run on. Miss Mildred’s ’spectin’ you. We’ll lock up.”

  “Well, I have to wait for Sam to change clothes,” I said, laughing. “He just made the party, don’t you think?”

  “He sure did,” she agreed. “He so good, he might think about hirin’ out.”

  We laughed together, then I left the kitchen to make sure that all the candles had been extinguished. Sam and I had already decided to leave the tree lights and the electrified candles burning while we were at Mildred’s—something I rarely did for fear of fire. But Mildred’s house was lit up in every window, top to bottom, and our Christmasy-looking house next door added to the festive atmosphere of the entire street.

  * * *

  —

  By the time we entered the crowded, noisy foyer at Mildred’s, her party was in full swing. Whereas mine had been graciously correct, hers was already entering the raucous phase. That’s what an ample supply of spirits, as well as the addition of men, will do
. It was, I thought, the perfect counterpart to mine—each party reflecting the personality of its hostess.

  Sam and I merged into the throng, moving slowly from one joyous group to the next—greeting, laughing, talking, and making the rounds of the lushly decorated first floor of Mildred’s home. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens were there—he already full of Christmas spirits, as indicated by the welcoming hug he gave me. Binkie and Coleman Bates; Pastor (retired) and Emma Sue Ledbetter; Dr. and Sue Hargrove; the Armstrongs—Joe and Callie, minus, thank goodness, their many children; Rebecca Smith, the librarian whose eyes lingered on Sergeant Coleman Bates; Vanessa Wells, the delightful and knowledgeable owner of the local bookstore; Jackie Thomas, who was on the board of directors of the First Abbotsville Bank, and her husband; the Hudsons, a realty team; the Elliots, Sharon and Wesley, who were accountants; the Fitzpatricks; the Harrimans; and on and on—everybody who was anybody in Abbotsville. And that included not only the immediate neighbors of the Cochran house but also Will Brewer, the city attorney who we hoped would evict Madge and her crew; three of the five city commissioners—which made me wonder where the others were and if that indicated the way they’d vote on zoning; the sheriff; a number of physicians, dentists, and attorneys; to say nothing of a generous sprinkling of known supporters of nonprofit enterprises, including Kenneth Whitman and his wife, both of whom I avoided. Mildred had left no one out.

  With down-home Christmas music by Aaron Neville, Alabama, and Mannheim Steamroller blaring, voices and laughter got louder, especially when Callie’s husband looked out a window and announced that it was snowing in Dixie.

  When a danceable song came on, Sam took my hand and led me to the foyer, where other couples were already swaying to the music.

  “Umm,” Sam said, leaning his head against mine as we two-stepped almost in place, “you smell so good.”

  “Thanks to you,” I whispered, and hoped he’d remember that the year and my Chanel were both nearing the end.

  A good hour or so into the party, I was able to corner Lisa Hudson in the dining room, where she was getting a second helping of Ida Lee’s congealed salad. As we both edged toward the foyer, I casually asked about the local real estate market and got the usual answer from a Realtor—everything was down, nothing was selling, people were delaying listing properties, and so on.

  “It’ll pick up in the spring,” I said to encourage her, but then turned and saw Pastor Robert Rucker and his wife, Lynette, being welcomed by Mildred. They were slipping off coats in the foyer and laughingly making their excuses for being late.

  “We got caught at the Homes for Teens,” Pastor Rucker told Mildred, as if that would be a perfectly acceptable excuse to her. He didn’t notice the way she squinched up her eyes and tightened her mouth. “You understand, I know,” he went blithely on. “A pastor’s work is never done.”

  “Well,” Mildred said, quite graciously, “I hope my party doesn’t count as more work for you. But I’m glad you’re here. We’re still serving, so go right on to the dining room.”

  “Oh,” Lynette said, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the crowded rooms, “it’s not at all work to come here. Your home is just so elegant, and Robert and I could hardly wait to get here.”

  I held my breath, hoping that Mildred would let that pass without reminding Lynette that all they’d had to do was make a choice.

  Being reminded by the Ruckers of the reason for our parties on this particular day, I took note of the number of young, smart, and capable professional women who were enjoying Mildred’s hospitality—every one of whom was generous with her financial support of worthy causes. I also noted, in comparison, my contemporaries, also smart, capable, and generous, but whose activities had been limited to keeping house, volunteering for church and civic responsibilities, and rearing children. I knew that Madge would’ve loved to have attracted anyone from either group to her project.

  Mildred and I had successfully forestalled that, at least temporarily, but somehow I didn’t feel so good about our success. On the other hand, I always felt a glow of satisfaction, and maybe a tinge of pride, after a social event that had gone smoothly. And now Mildred and I each had another one to our credit, although I wasn’t feeling so proud of either of us.

  It wasn’t until I thought again of how Madge was continuing to arrogantly defy the zoning ordinance that I was able to justify my pleasure in Mildred’s lovely party.

  Chapter 31

  Sam and I braced each other as we walked home across Mildred’s lawn, the snow-tipped grass blades crunching under our feet. The snow had stopped, having left a glistening coat of white on bushes and lawns. A few drifting clouds moved across the moon as we picked our way home. The hour was late, for we had stayed until all the guests had left so we could discuss the day.

  “I think we did what we set out to do,” Mildred had said, summing up my feeling as well. “I talked a little with Lynette Rucker, and I’ll have to say, Julia, that your preacher’s wife has a lot to learn. She’s either unaware of what’s going on or she has no tact. I asked her straight out about Madge’s tea, and she raved over the house and what they’ve done to it. She even said to me, ‘You should’ve been there.’”

  “Oh, my,” I said, rolling my eyes just a little. “She just doesn’t think before she speaks, or maybe the pastor hasn’t told her anything. Did she say how many were there?”

  “She mentioned a number of pastors who dropped in—”

  “Probably from the seven churches.”

  Mildred nodded. “Probably. Lynette said they were to be commended because a pastor’s Sunday afternoons are usually reserved for a nap.”

  “Well,” I said, laughing, “Sundays are their busiest days, but I expect they’d rather not have their naptimes known. Who else was there, did she say?”

  “Hardly anybody. She said Madge was teary-eyed when they left because, Madge said, the town had turned its back on children who had no place to lay their heads.”

  That just flew all over me. How like Madge to denigrate the town—specifically Mildred and me, I knew—instead of acknowledging her own responsibility by choosing an unsuitable location.

  Sam interrupted my recollection of our debriefing session by saying, “I’m planning to talk to Binkie tomorrow and find out where she is on that house. From what I picked up from Pete Hamrick tonight—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “One of the commissioners. You know him.” Sam grinned. “At least, I hope you do—you voted for him. He’s a real wheeler-dealer, always has an ear to the ground. Anyway, he’s heard that a few boys are about to be moved in—maybe within the next week or so. He seemed fairly sure that the commission will be asked to grant a variance to the zoning, and he’s dreading having to make a decision on something that’s so controversial.”

  “Oh, my goodness, Sam,” I said as we stepped into the house and began to divest ourselves of coats and gloves. “What’re we going to do?”

  “Prepare to speak against granting any kind of exemption. Which, as I’m sure Binkie’s warned you, will, as a public meeting, hit the papers and divide the town.”

  “And,” I added, “label us selfish and immoral. Oh, Sam, why couldn’t Madge have done it legitimately in the first place? And why couldn’t the zoning board have told them from the start that they couldn’t use that house? It could’ve been stopped in its tracks at the beginning if people had simply done what they were supposed to do.”

  “I know, I know,” Sam said, a worried frown deepening. “But what concerns me now is Pickens. He said that if that house is allowed to function as planned, he’ll sue the Homes for Teens board of directors as a group and as individuals for loss of value to his house and for anything else he can think of. He’ll do it, too, because he doesn’t care what people think of him.”

  “That’s because he’s gone half the time,” I said, shivering from the cold. “He doesn’t
have to see people day in and day out, but Hazel Marie and Lloyd do.” Then, heading out of the room, I said, “I’m turning up the thermostat. It’s cold in here.”

  After turning up the setting a notch or two, I walked on into the library, switched on a lamp, and stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Sam!” I cried, then called him again, unable to take in what I saw.

  He ran in, calling, “What is it? What is it?” Then he, too, skidded to a stop at the sight of what had been done to our beautiful room.

  Cold air was rushing in through an open window, chairs and a sofa were overturned, papers from the desk were strewn across the floor—all of which I had taken in with one sweep of my eyes. Now they were trained on the most unbelievable object taking pride of place right in the middle of the floor.

  “Is that . . . is that what I think it is?” I asked, pointing to the yellowish-brown swirled blob dead center of my Mohawk carpet.

  “Oh, my word,” Sam said, mopping his face with his hand. “Yes, I think I can safely say that it is.”

  Swallowing hard, I said, “Oh, Sam, who would do such a thing? We’ve not only been broken and entered, we’ve been desecrated! Let’s get it up. Let’s get it up right now!”

  “No,” Sam said, taking my arm and urging me out of the room. “Leave everything as it is. We have to call the sheriff.” He turned to leave, murmuring, “Whew. Glad my photos were upstairs.”