Miss Julia Renews Her Vows

by Ann B. Ross

  LuAnne pulled at my sleeve as we drifted toward the table. “Julia?” she whispered. “Let me tell them, okay? I’ve got something even you haven’t heard.”

  “You mean about . . .?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, as if I were a little slow on the uptake. “Francie Pitts, of course. But what I don’t understand is why you invited some of these people. If they know her, she must’ve really gotten around before she moved away.”

  I didn’t respond to that, only saying, “Just jump right in, LuAnne, anytime you want to. I’ll be glad for you to tell them.”

  I hurried away and directed Emma Sue to the place at the end of the table, opposite me. As our pastor’s wife, she expected it, and most of us honored the expectation. Quickly moving around, I edged Mildred Allen to the place at my right, not because she was the honored guest, but because I knew she’d be supportive when it came time for my announcement. And also because Mildred needed the extra room that an end seat would give her.

  I had not bothered with place cards, hardly knowing how to seat such a motley gathering—some didn’t even go to Velma and most of them had never met Etta Mae. Some hostesses, and I was usually one of them, put a great deal of thought into placement, as the French say, but as we say in Abbotsville, whom to seat by whom or, more generally, whom to keep away from whom. On this occasion, except for Emma Sue and Mildred, I let them fend for themselves.

  Lillian had prepared our plates in the kitchen, so as soon as we were seated, she began serving them. The plates looked lovely, as did the centerpiece, and as I passed a basket of rolls I was pleased with the general air of companionable conversation that was taking place. I’d been right about the wool suits, for that was what most of the women were wearing. All except Etta Mae Wiggins, who was wearing a long-sleeved dress with an almost equally long slash of cleavage. Yes, I know it’s the current style, but I could do without seeing what shouldn’t be shown, especially when I’m eating.

  But I was glad to see her—she and I had been through too much together for me not to appreciate what a stellar person she is, in spite of her taste in fashion, men and a number of other things. It pleased me to see that Binkie Enloe Bates, my sharp little attorney who looked like a high school cheerleader, had taken Etta Mae under her wing and was engaging her in some mile-a-minute conversation.

  “Okay, ladies,” LuAnne sang out as soon as I lifted my fork, “here’s what you’ve been waiting for. You’ll never believe this, but Francie Pitts is back in town, and she’s looking for her sixth husband!”

  Emma Sue, Mildred and Helen Stroud immediately looked at LuAnne, their attention fully engaged. Everybody else frowned because they didn’t know Francie and had no interest in what she was doing. I expect they were wondering why in the world I’d invite them to a luncheon to hear such a thing. Just wait, I thought.

  “It’s true,” LuAnne said, having gotten their attention and holding it as she took a bite of chicken à la king. “You may not know this, but she’s buried five husbands in ten years, and everybody at Mountain Villas says that no single man out there is safe. And they’re getting worried about the married ones.”

  After answering several questions as to where Francie had been and why she was back, LuAnne glowed in the spotlight. “But here’s the thing,” she said, trying to appear concerned but inwardly delighting in such delicious news. “The last I heard, which was just this morning, was that the Coral Gables police want to talk to her about her next-to-last husband. Now don’t get me wrong, they’re not calling it a suspicious death, but they are looking into it. But I think,” she said, then pausing for maximum effect before going on, “they’re considering her a person of interest. She certainly is to me.”

  Well, that created a buzz of talk, even among those who didn’t know Francie from Adam, and LuAnne reveled in being the bearer of bad news.

  The topic of Francie entertained everybody throughout the meal, as those who knew her supplied interesting tidbits of her life to those who didn’t. In addition, her hats came in for an inordinate amount of discussion.

  After Lillian cleared our plates, she brought in a lemon chiffon pie and a stack of dessert plates, placing them before me for serving. As she came back in, bearing the silver coffee pot, she leaned close and whispered, “You better get to it if you goin’ to.”

  I nodded, knowing the time had come. When each guest had a slice of pie in front of her and after they’d seemingly exhausted Francie as a source of wonder, I drew a deep breath and announced, “Well, I know you’ll all be interested to know that our sweet Hazel Marie is now a married woman and—”

  That was as far as I got, for Etta Mae squealed with unmitigated delight and there was a sudden chorus of exclamations of astonishment and questions of when, where and who.

  Raising my hand to quiet them, I went on. “Of course, she married Mr. J. D. Pickens and—”

  I had to stop again to let the cries of wonder and more questions die down.

  “And to tell it all,” I said, trying to express some small amount of outrage, which they would expect from me, “those two got married in secret, would you believe? Back in the summer when they went to California, and didn’t tell anybody, not even me or Lloyd, because they were ashamed of themselves for doing it without any of us being there. Their plan, which I only recently learned of, was to get married again—well, I guess more along the lines of renewing their vows—at Christmas and have a big reception at the club. In fact, Hazel Marie had already started on the guest list. And also,” I said, trying to get in every excuse I could think of, “they didn’t tell anybody because they were afraid they’d hurt Lloyd’s feelings for leaving him out. So,” I went on, daring to look around the table to see how they were receiving the news, “that would’ve worked if Hazel Marie hadn’t gotten sick, which was all the more reason for them to keep the secret—she wasn’t able to enjoy married life or even to move in with Mr. Pickens. And besides, he had a commitment in Charlotte and couldn’t look after her, so they just kept quiet about it. And now,” I said, planting a big smile on my face, “and now, or rather, just recently, they’ve learned that she’s expecting. So,” I hurried on, “they have renewed their vows in a quiet, family service because they wanted Lloyd to be a part of it and because I wasn’t sure that an out-of-state ceremony would be binding.” I smiled again and tried to look a little embarrassed. “I really think they were just humoring me, and it was actually for Lloyd’s sake. Of course he’s just thrilled to death. You know how much he thinks of Mr. Pickens, and to have him as his father, well, it’s really been an extraordinary time for all of us.” I trailed off, because every woman sitting there knew exactly who Lloyd’s real father had been, and I could’ve put a sack over my head for reminding them of it.

  “Julia!” LuAnne demanded, “why didn’t you call me the minute you found out?”

  “Well, I—”

  “She’s expecting?” Etta Mae Wiggins asked, wiggling with excitement. “When is it due?”

  “Where’re they going to live?” Helen Stroud asked. “They aren’t moving away, are they?”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Mildred asked. “Why isn’t she here?”

  “Oh,” Tina Doland said, “I can’t wait to tell everybody. It’s so romantic.”

  Emma Sue was frowning. “I thought she was taking a job in Florida.”

  Tonya Allen said, “That poor girl. Getting married and pregnant and sick all at the same time.”

  Velma said, “I’ve been wondering why she hasn’t been in the shop. I bet she really needs color by now.”

  “Who’re we talking about?” Miss Mattie Freeman asked, swiveling her head from one speaker to the other.

  “Yes,” LuAnne said, picking up on Emma Sue’s remark, “what about that job she had?”

  “Oh, well,” I said, hoping to sidetrack her, “she’s had to turn that down. As you can imagine with all this going on.”

  “Well, I don’t understand,” LuAnne said, frowning. “Didn�
��t she know she was married when she took it?”

  “They were thinking of moving to Florida, LuAnne,” I said, with some firmness so as to put an end to that line of questioning. Then, raising my voice to get the attention of the others, as well as to give them something else to chew on, I said, “Now for the really big news, something that I know you’re going to rejoice about with us. They’re expecting twins!”

  That about brought the house down. I’d never heard the like of oohs and aahs and other expressions of joy and wonder—so many, in fact, that they completely overwhelmed any lingering suspicions in the minds of a certain few.

  “Twins!” Etta Mae shrieked.

  “No wonder they had to tell it!” Tonya said. “I wouldn’t wait till Christmas, either.”

  “When did you find out, Julia?”

  “What does Lloyd think?”

  Miss Mattie peered around through her thick glasses. “Who’re we talking about now?”

  “I bet her new husband’s surprised!”

  “Oh, I bet she is!”

  By this time, they were all laughing and the questioning glances were being ignored, so I was breathing somewhat easier—until Mildred said, “But why isn’t she here, Julia? We want to congratulate her.”

  “Two reasons, Mildred,” I said, and everybody stopped talking to hear what they were. “Number one, she had a doctor’s appointment that I was unaware of when I set this date, and number two, she’s a little embarrassed at getting pregnant so fast.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mildred laughed, as she lightly slapped my arm, “she shouldn’t be! At her age, the faster the better. But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

  By the time they’d left, still talking and laughing, some with real joy for Hazel Marie, I felt purely drained. But it was done, and I was reasonably pleased with the way it had gone.

  “Lillian,” I said, pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen, “I hope I never have to go through something like that again. Pour us some coffee, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I hear most of it already.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t see all the frowns and sidelong glances. I just hope to goodness I answered the main questions.” I took a cup from her and sat down. “Actually, though, I pretended I didn’t hear half of them.”

  Chapter 8

  It wasn’t fifteen minutes later that the phone rang and LuAnne said, “All right, Julia, I want the real story. You know it won’t go any further.”

  Well, of course I didn’t know that, so I assured her that she already had the real story and repeated it all again. She seemed less than satisfied, but I stuck to it by refusing to add or subtract anything from it.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” Lillian said when I was finally able to hang up. “You gettin’ good at all that storytellin’.”

  “Well, I should hope so. I’ve had to do enough of it. But Lillian, I’d do the same for you if you got in a similar situation.”

  She started laughing, finally saying, “I like to hear some story you tell about me. Talk about miracles, you be yellin’ ‘Hallelujah! ’ all over town.”

  As Sam, Lloyd and I slid into our usual pew on Sunday morning, I reached for the hymnal to look up the hymns that were listed in the bulletin. Not that I intended to sing any of them, especially because hardly anybody but Sam and the choir could sing them, but I did like to participate in the service by being on the right page.

  It was both a pleasure and a relief to begin taking up our weekly routine after so many upsets and worrisome occurrences. Mr. Pickens had come walking in with a little more swagger than usual on Friday afternoon, acting full of himself and carrying on with Lillian and Lloyd until I’d about had enough of him. But Hazel Marie was packed and ready—wearing one of her new maternity outfits—to go on their close-to-home honeymoon at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville. She was excited about going, but she tried to hide it, telling me earlier that she was trying to be a proper married lady with good manners and a sedate outlook. She said she didn’t think it was appropriate to get all giddy and excited about things now that she was the new Mrs. Pickens.

  “Hazel Marie, honey,” I’d said, “marriage does bring change to your life, but don’t feel that you have to totally redo yourself.”

  So off they went, and the house had settled down to a semblance of the way it once was. I told Lillian to take the whole weekend off and everything had gotten so quiet that I hardly knew what to do with myself.

  Of course, I had to face the members of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class that morning and was inundated with questions about Hazel Marie—a clear indication that the word had gotten around. I had my story down pat by then and just rattled off the same reasons, excuses and explanations that I’d been giving, so easily by this time that I’d almost come to believe them myself.

  When Pastor Ledbetter rose up behind the pulpit, he gave me a hard look, even while he was welcoming visitors and announcing the first congregational hymn. I had counted on Emma Sue’s telling him the news because I hadn’t been able to bring myself to lie to his face. I suppose I’d been guilty of skirting the truth to him before, but never on the scale that this instance would have required. So I knew from his stare and tight lips that his feelings were hurt because he hadn’t been asked to do the remarriage or the renewal or whatever it was that Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens had. I couldn’t return his look, nor was I able to give him any assurance of my continued respect for his office, if not for him. As a matter of fact, I was feeling just a little shame that I’d gone to such lengths to make sure that he would have nothing to do with helping Hazel Marie in her plight. He was, underneath it all, a man of good heart, which, however, could not compensate for his also being a man of rigorously held views as to what was right and what was wrong. Even worse, he made sure that everyone knew just what those views were, and woe betide any of his flock who stepped over the line.

  While the choir sang the anthem, I looked through the bulletin to catch up on the announcements of the various activities that were offered to church members. The Every Member Canvass was coming up soon, so we were urged to prayerfully reconsider the amount of our tithes and offerings because the church was in dire need of a youth minister. The Knitwit Group would be meeting in the Fellowship Hall for a demonstration of some new stitches. The Young People’s Group was making plans to go to Carowinds in Charlotte, and they needed a few more chaperones, plus any donations anyone wanted to make. Canned foods for the hungry were being collected in a basket located in the narthex. A marriage enrichment program for at-risk couples was starting Monday evening in the church parlor, and there was a sign-up sheet in the secretary’s office for anyone wanting to attend. I sniffed and read on.

  Then my eyes nearly bugged out. The enrichment sessions, called Stoking the Embers, were to be facilitated by Fred Fowler, BA, MA, PhD, a Christian psychologist with thirty years of experience in rekindling the flame of Christlike love in limping marriages.

  I swallowed so hard that I almost strangled myself. Dr. Fred Fowler! Could it be the same Dr. Fred Fowler who’d been part and parcel—and instigator—of the most shameful moment of my life? How could the pastor have brought that redheaded fool back to the church? What had he been thinking?

  Oh, I knew what he’d been thinking. And it certainly hadn’t been about my feelings. In fact, it was a slap in the face. It was all I could do to sit there, stiff as a board, and endure the rest of the service. Just as the pastor began his sermon, Sam put his arm around the back of the pew, encircling my shoulders, as was his custom. I couldn’t even look at him. Did he know about Dr. Fred Fowler? Did he know about Dr. Fred Fowler and me? I wouldn’t put it past Pastor Ledbetter to have told him. But no, I reassured myself, Sam knew nothing about that episode in the bridal parlor. He would’ve said something, asked me about it, indicated in some way that he knew what had happened. Sam wasn’t a man to close up and silently suspect the worst. And there’d been no change in him or in his attitude—no narrowed eyes, no
snide remarks, nothing except a willingness to fall in with the pastor’s plan of getting us to a marriage counselor who, to my certain knowledge, was a sneaky, underhanded and pitifully poor excuse for a leader, guide or facilitator of any kind of an enrichment program.

  Just see if I ever had the pastor do anything for anyone in my family ever again. I no longer felt even a smidgen of regret for bypassing him during our recent troubles. He’d be lucky to get the merest greeting from me ever again.

  I sat there stewing and simmering, getting more and more agitated as he droned on and on about whatever his sermon topic was that Sunday. I couldn’t tell you a word he said or any one of the three points he made. All I could think of was how quickly I could get out of the church and what I could do to forestall a meeting between Dr. Fowler and Sam. For even if the pastor had held his tongue, would Dr. Fowler?

  Finally, that interminable sermon was over and we rose while the choir and the pastor sang their way down the aisle during the recessional hymn.

  “I don’t feel well, Sam,” I said, as the congregation bustled around, gathering themselves to file out of the church. “I’m going out the back.” I pushed Lloyd out ahead of me and, going against the flow of exiting congregants, headed for the back of the church.

  Sam could go out the normal way and shake the pastor’s hand if he wanted to, but not me. The only way I could get out of that counseling session the following night was to get sick and stay sick.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Julia?” Lloyd asked, hurrying to keep up with me as I headed around and past the apse and down the back stairs to the Fellowship Hall. “You got the flu like Mama had?”

  “I expect I do, so don’t get too close. I don’t want you catching it.” Out the back door we went, Lloyd trotting along beside me as I sailed past the cars in the parking lot, around that brick monstrosity of a Family Life Center, across the street and finally through the door of my house. “I’m going to bed, Lloyd. You and Sam can fix your own lunch.”