Miss Julia to the Rescue

by Ann B. Ross

  “Oh, I don’t know, Julia,” Mildred said. “Agnes has led a strange life, I grant you, but I don’t think she’s actually wicked. Why don’t you just tell Adam he doesn’t have to work for anybody he doesn’t want to work for? He may feel obligated, but he’s not legally obligated. We’ve all had people walk off a job or refuse a job, haven’t we?”

  Well, no, I hadn’t, but Mildred was a lot more picky than I was, so I expect she’d had experience with people who wouldn’t work for her. I decided not to point that out.

  “I think,” I said after giving it some thought, “that I should speak to Adam about this. I’m not sure how much good it’ll do, but he needs to at least know she’s upset with him because of me. Then,” I went on with a bright idea, “I’ll give him enough to do so that he can work at my house for as long as he wants to. He can even read his Bible on my time, I don’t care. And Agnes can keep on blaming me, but maybe she’ll leave him alone.”

  Mildred opened her mouth to say something, but Ida Lee appeared in the door. “Excuse me,” she said, “but Miss Lillian just called to say that the carpet men have arrived.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thank you, Ida Lee. I have to run, Mildred. Thank you for the tea and the warning. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  Chapter 39

  After checking the roll of carpet to be sure they’d brought the right one, I led the two men up to Sam’s new office in the sunroom. I had selected a tightly woven, almost commercial grade of carpet so Sam’s executive chair would roll smoothly over it without needing plastic mats and runners strewn everywhere.

  Leaving the men to it, I tapped on the bedroom door, then walked in. Josh was painting in the bathroom while Adam was putting meticulous strokes on the window trim. He turned and gave me a tentative smile as I entered.

  “Almost through,’ he said.

  “It looks lovely,” I said, surveying the soft ivory paint on the woodwork. “So much more soothing than pink. Adam,” I went on as I walked over to him and lowered my voice, “I don’t mean to interfere in your business or your work schedule, but if you’d like to make a full week here, I could use some help putting furniture and boxes of books into the sunroom. And the carpet will be laid in here tomorrow, so furniture can be moved back in then.” Before he could respond, I hurried on. “Before you decide, I have to tell you that Ms. Whitman is most upset with me and you—you for not dropping everything and going to her, and me for preventing you from going. Frankly, I think she has some nerve for making such demands, and I want you to know that I can find work for you and Josh for as long as you want it. If you stay here long enough, she might get tired of waiting and leave you alone.”

  A worried frown creased Adam’s forehead as his eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but at me. Fearful that I had overstepped, I immediately regretted speaking so openly about one of his clients. My first thought was that I had misinterpreted what I had perceived to be a reluctance to work for her.

  Yet he was reluctant about something or somebody, and what else could it be? Certainly not working for me.

  Looking distressed, Adam said, “She already called me. I told her I had to make the week here.”

  “Why, that’s perfect. It’s all settled then, and you don’t need to give it another thought.”

  “No’m,” he said, shaking his head miserably, “ ’cause I lied about it.”

  “Lied? That’s hard to believe. How did you lie?”

  I thought if his shoulders slumped any farther, they’d soon be on the floor.

  “I told her you wanted me to stay on here.”

  “Well, I do! How could that be lying?”

  “Because,” he said, giving me a quick glance, “I told her that before you asked me to stay. So I guess I better go on out there and, maybe, make up for it.”

  Scripture verses began flitting through my mind as I searched for some redeeming reference about lying in a good cause. I wasn’t having much success in finding one.

  “Uh, well, Adam,” I began, thinking furiously, “you know that the Bible gives us some stern warnings against drunkeness. We’re warned over and over about it. On the other hand,” I went on as his frown deepened, “we are also told to take a little wine for the stomach’s sake. So it seems to me that that’s a good analogy for lying under duress. We shouldn’t do too much of it, but a little now and then can be helpful under certain circumstances, even if we don’t have stomach problems.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “All I’m saying is that you weren’t lying, you were making a presumptive statement because you knew I’d need you. You were thinking ahead on my behalf and should be commended, not condemned, for it. So you’ll be here tomorrow and maybe on into next week?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, nodding with some hesitancy. “Don’t know about next week.”

  “We’ll see about that later, then. But if Agnes Whitman gives you a hard time, you have my permission to blame it all on me. I’m not afraid of a skinny tattooed woman who thinks she’s the boss of the world.”

  That brought the flash of a smile, but it didn’t last long. “I’ll probably pay for it, though,” he murmured.

  And, I thought, I probably would, too. I’d taken scripture out of context to prove that a little lie wasn’t as bad as a out-and-out lie. The fact that we all tell little white lies every day didn’t exactly absolve me. But what do you do when a friend needs reassurance about what she’s wearing? I was in good company, though, because I was reminded of some of Pastor Ledbetter’s less efficacious pronouncements after a convoluted effort to find a scriptural basis for some of his opinions.

  I didn’t let it worry me. There were too many other things rushing through my mind. As far as I was concerned, Adam was safe for a while and I could focus my worries on Etta Mae, who’d be in the clutches of that possibly snake-handling sheriff in a few hours, and on Mr. Pickens, who would be facing an official grilling by that selfsame treacherous law officer.

  So I showed Adam where Sam’s office furniture was stored and explained where I wanted each piece in the sunroom. Then I took the newspaper into Lloyd’s room, where I could occupy myself in a semblance of peace and quiet to await supper. Gradually, I began to hear the sounds of workmen gathering their tools and leaving. When all was quiet downstairs, outside and in, I went to the kitchen, where Lloyd had just come in.

  We had supper at the kitchen table by ourselves, for I had told Lillian to go on home, that we’d clear the table and do the dishes. It was something to help me while away the long evening, which didn’t get any shorter when Lloyd went out to ride his bicycle after we finished.

  I wandered around the house, looking at what had been accomplished—not much—by the work crews during the day. The new library was larger by a good two feet where the closets had been removed, and a tarp had been stapled over the hole in the wall where the fireplace would be.

  I walked outside to examine the brickmasons’ work and was pleased to see that the fat part of the chimney was coming along nicely. Of course the lawn was a mess with pallets of bricks, wheelbarrows and discarded cement bags ruining the grass and one of my hybrid rhododendrons.

  I saved the best for last and went up to Sam’s new office. There was his large mohagony desk and chair, right where I wanted them; his easy chair; his lamps, which needed better placement; and the boxes of books and papers, which he would have to shelve himself. But the room was ready for him, so at least one part of my project had come in on time.

  For the rest of the evening and on into the night after Lloyd and I went to bed, my mind was filled with concern about Etta Mae and Mr. Pickens. And all because of one lanky and laconic sheriff of an out-of-state backwoods county who had the power to wheedle his way into Etta Mae’s heart, arrest and remove Mr. Pickens from the arms of his family and totally disrupt my sleep.

  Chapter 40

  My anxiety hadn’t lessened during the night. In fact, by morning, it was worse.
My overriding concern at the moment was for Etta Mae: had she gotten home all right, had the sheriff been a gentleman, what was his attitude toward snakes, had she put him in a good mood, although not too good, before he interviewed Mr. Pickens this morning?

  As nine o’clock approached, Mr. Pickens took first place on my hit parade of worries. I was tempted to go over there and sit in on the interview if they’d let me. And if they wouldn’t, I’d be there to comfort Hazel Marie if Mr. Pickens was led away.

  “Lillian,” I said, as I paced the kitchen floor, “I can’t stand this. I thought Etta Mae would call and let me know how the evening went, but she’s at work now so I hesitate to call her. And I’m so distraught over Mr. Pickens, I don’t know what to do.”

  “You done had four cups of coffee. It’s no wonder you so antsy. Jus’ set yourself down an’ wait till somebody lets you know something.”

  “Easier said than done.” But I did as she told me and sat down, only to begin drumming my fingers on the table. The noises of the work crews didn’t help my nerves, other than to reassure me that work was progressing. Adam and Josh had come in earlier and were putting the finishing touches on the room upstairs, and before I could find any peace the carpet men were knocking on the door, ready to install carpet in the new bedroom.

  Adam came down, tapped on the kitchen door, and asked if I had anything for them to do while the carpet was being laid.

  “We’ll move furniture in when they finish,” he told me, but I reminded him that the paperhanger had to have room to work, so we couldn’t move all of it.

  I walked through the house with him, pointing out which pieces could go upstairs, some stacked in the middle of Hazel Marie’s former bedroom, but most of them in the hall that had been cleared of Sam’s office furniture. Eventually, all the furniture from what had been our bedroom downstairs would go into the new bedroom upstairs, which meant we’d finally have the living and dining rooms back to normal.

  Adam nodded agreement to everything I said, but he didn’t have much to say for himself. He seemed, in fact, morose and heavy laden, which I put down to an overactive conscience about avoiding work for Agnes Whitman—lying to her, he would call it, while I would term it finishing the job he started for me.

  “At least,” I said, “we’ll have room to walk when part of this is upstairs.” I was trying to carry on with Adam as if I’d noticed nothing wrong, then I nearly tripped again over that old Oriental that was still rolled up in the hall. “This thing is going to break my neck. It needs to go to the cleaners so I can give it away.” Maybe Hazel Marie could use it at her house as a memento, so to speak, of the night her babies were born.

  Sam called just as I got back to the kitchen to remind me that he’d be home Tuesday, as if I hadn’t been counting the days. The thought of his being home lifted my spirits, although I had to hold my tongue in order not to tell him that Mr. Pickens was being officially interviewed even as we spoke, and who knew what would happen after that?

  “I be glad when he come home,” Lillian said as she went into the pantry to get a broom. “Maybe he calm you down.”

  “I’ll calm down when this mess is over. Of course, having him home will help, but I’m hoping it’ll be over by the time he gets here.”

  She just shook her head and started out with the broom. “Gotta sweep off that front porch,” she said. “An’ run the vacuum in the front room. Them men tracking dirt all over the house.”

  So nine-thirty came and went with no word from Hazel Marie, then ten, then ten-fifteen, and it was all I could do not to pick up the phone or else dash over there to find out for myself.

  At ten-twenty the phone rang and I nearly killed myself getting to it.

  “Miss Julia!” Hazel Marie wailed as I thought my heart would stop. Images of Mr. Pickens being led away in handcuffs flashed through my mind.

  “Oh, Hazel Marie, what happened?”

  “You won’t believe what J.D. just did.”

  “What? What did he do? Has he been arrested?”

  “No! He’s fine, but he invited Sheriff McAfee to supper tonight, and James is gone and I can’t cook and the babies are crying and I’m at my wit’s end! I can’t believe he’d do such a thing!”

  “Wait, wait, Hazel Marie. Slow down and tell me what happened.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. “Well, you know the sheriff came to interview J.D. at nine this morning—.”

  “Yes, I know, I know. But how did it go? Did he believe Mr. Pickens?”

  “I guess, ’cause they’re in there talking about fishing and hunting and I don’t know what all. I just left after J.D. asked him to supper, because I nearly fainted when he did it.”

  “Well, but you were in the room when the interview was going on? How did it go? Was the sheriff upset?”

  “Oh, it went fine,” she said, passing it off as if the interview hadn’t been a source of anxiety to us all for days on end. “I told J.D. he ought to stay in bed. I had him propped up with pillows, and I put all his medications on the bedside table so the sheriff could see how sick he is, and I told him not to shave or comb his hair. You know, so he’d look like he was too sick to be moved. If the sheriff wanted to move him, I mean.”

  “Good thinking, Hazel Marie,” I said, pleased that she’d had that much forethought. And even more pleased that Mr. Pickens had followed through, which meant that he’d been more concerned about a possible arrest than he’d let on. Mr. Pickens wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do or that he didn’t see the need to do.

  “All right,” I went on, “so the interview is over and they’re just chatting? That’s reassuring but, Hazel Marie, you must have a long talk with your husband when this is over. He should never issue an invitation before talking it over with you. But where is James? Why can’t he fix supper?”

  “J.D. did that, too!” Hazel Marie’s voice was showing the strain as it went up an octave. “He gave James a long weekend off to go to a homecoming at his family’s church. In South Carolina! So he’s gone and I’ll be all by myself in that kitchen!”

  “You really need to have a talk with your husband,” I repeated, but what was done was done and no amount of talking would help the current situation. “Maybe we could ask Lillian.”

  “Oh, would you? She would save my life, Miss Julia, because it’s either that or hot dogs, which is the only thing I can cook without ruining. Or maybe peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” She stopped, seemed to consider the matter, then went on. “Any other time, I’d get J.D. to grill something outside because I can bake potatoes and make a salad, but I don’t think it’d look too good for him to get out of his sick bed and cook. Do you?”

  “No, that wouldn’t do,” I agreed. “He needs to limp around as long as the sheriff is there, maybe even have his dinner on a tray in bed. But listen, Hazel Marie, I’ll see what Lillian says. But you need to speak to her, too. If she can do it, you should plan the meal, let her know what you want.”

  “Anything, anything,” Hazel Marie cried. “Whatever she wants to cook will be fine. Tell her I’ll pay her double, triple, anything she wants, because who knows but that sheriff could have a change of heart and take J.D. with him.”

  Well, I didn’t think that was likely, because if Sheriff McAfee had arresting on his mind, he wouldn’t hang around to see what kind of supper he’d get. Still, I could understand Hazel Marie’s concern. No woman wants to make a poor showing at her dinner table.

  “Here’s Lillian now,” I said as Lillian came into the kitchen to put up the broom. “I’ll see what she says.”

  I covered the phone and explained Hazel Marie’s problem to Lillian. “So she wants to know if you’d be available to fix supper at her house tonight. If you can’t do it, Lillian, just say so. She can order out. Get pizza or something.”

  “Law, no!” Lillian was horrified. “That ole sheriff might take Mr. Pickens off an’ we never see him again. Tell her I be glad to do it, ’specially since
Latisha spendin’ the night with a little friend. Oh, an’ tell her what we got a whole lot of in the freezer.”

  “Chicken!” I said. “That’s perfect. Hazel Marie,” I went on, turning back to the phone. “You think the sheriff would like fried chicken?”

  “He better, ’cause I would.”

  “Good, and don’t worry about side dishes. Lillian will know what to fix, maybe some corn and a few other things. You go ahead and set the table—that’s all you need to do. Well, except see to the babies.”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you what a load is off my mind. But, Miss Julia, would you come, too? I think it’d be a whole lot easier if there were other people around the table. You know, to make conversation.”

  “Why, yes, I could do that.” And, I thought, find out at the same time what went on during that interview and hope to goodness that Etta Mae had deflected the sheriff’s interest away from anything I might’ve done in his jurisdiction. “And here’s another thought, Hazel Marie, why don’t you ask Etta Mae, too? If she says no, then we’ll know their date last night didn’t go too well. But if it went okay, then he’ll be too taken up with her to give Mr. Pickens much thought.” Or anybody else.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Hazel Marie said. “I’ll do that right now. And tell Lillian I love her to death for doing this. Tell her I’ll dance at her wedding.”

  After hanging up, I told Lillian what she’d said.

  “Huh,” Lillian said, smiling in spite of herself, as she wiped off a counter, “that be a long time comin’, ’cause I don’t have no more marryin’ on my mind.”