by Ann B. Ross
Sam took one of the recently vacated chairs and, smiling, leaned over and took my hand. “You’re a good-hearted woman, Julia, and,” he went on, “I’m glad to have her here. I was beginning to get concerned about you, so it relieves me to have a professional on the job.”
“Really, though, all I need is you. And Lillian, of course, but did Etta Mae tell you what Binkie said?”
“Apparently she didn’t say much because she didn’t know much. I talked to Binkie myself this afternoon, and all she knows is that the woman is still in the hospital with a blunt-force injury to the head from the impact of a large flat object, which they’ve not identified. She has a multitude of other complaints, as well. Sounds like she’ll be there for a while.”
“Oh my word, that’s not good.” I sat up in bed to look him in the face. “You know who she is, don’t you? It’s Francie Pitts, remember her? And Sam, I wouldn’t believe a word she says. What else did Binkie say?”
“Honey, what I just told you was all she knew, and she got that from somebody in the sheriff’s department. She’s not been allowed to interview the woman yet. Seems the doctor says she’s too traumatized to submit to questions.”
“Uh-huh, she’s too traumatized to submit to questions, but well enough to leak a few hints to steer the investigation toward Etta Mae. That sounds just like something Francie Pitts would do—get her mind set on something and no amount of logic or proof or evidence will get her off it.”
“Well, I don’t know, Julia. It doesn’t seem that she’s named anyone, because apparently whoever it was came up behind her.” Sam turned my hand over, then squeezed it. “I don’t think I know this Francie Pitts. Binkie said she used to live here.”
“She did, about ten years ago, and Sam, she went to our church. When she went, that is, because she wasn’t very faithful and ended up an Episcopalian, I think. I expect you’d know her if you saw her. Her husband, I mean her husband at the time, was supposed to have been in the diplomatic service before retiring. I think he was in Panama at one time or another.”
“I vaguely recall hearing something like that. But no, I guess I didn’t know them.”
“Good thing you didn’t. As soon as she buried that husband, she hooked another one. And because you were available at the time, she might’ve set her sights on you.”
Sam laughed. “I doubt it. Besides, I already had my eye on you.” His eyes sparkled as surprise lit up my face.
“Oh, Sam, you know not. Wesley Lloyd was still alive and well then.”
“I know it, but I figured sooner or later you were going to have a great awakening. I planned to be there when you did.”
Not a great awakening, but a great joy filled my soul as Sam revealed that he’d cared for me long before he’d declared himself. Can any woman resist a man who has loved her from afar? I couldn’t and, obviously, hadn’t.
We talked on about this and that, covering the possible outcomes of Etta Mae’s problem and discussing Francie’s checkered marital history, as reported by LuAnne.
There is nothing in the world like talking over things with a man who listens and responds and adds his opinion and wants your thinking on all sorts of matters. I was the most fortunate of women, and I looked forward to a long, pleasant evening in the company of my husband.
Just then Etta Mae came in, bearing a tray and calling out, “Knock, knock. Supper’s here.”
Sam hopped up and moved his chair out of the way. “Come on in, Etta Mae.”
Etta Mae put the tray on my lap and stood back. “Try to eat all of it if you can. I didn’t give you a whole lot, because you don’t need to overdo it.”
Looking down at the quivering slab of Jell-O and the steaming soup, I said, “I certainly won’t with this. Thank you, Etta Mae. I’ll do my best to get it down. Now, you and Sam go on and have your dinner. I’ll be fine.”
Etta Mae smiled at me. “I’ll come back for the tray as soon as we finish. Then I want to help you get a bath and give you a back rub and get you ready for a good night’s sleep. How does that sound?”
Not so good, actually, though I didn’t say it. My plan was to spend the evening with Sam and provide some enrichment for our marriage, proving thereby that he didn’t need to get any from anybody else. Etta Mae was taking this nursing business entirely too literally.
Before I could say anything, though, Sam announced, “Looks like you two will be pretty busy, so I think I’ll go on over to the church after dinner. I’d just be in the way here, anyway, and Ledbetter will appreciate my showing up. Might as well make some points while I can.”
The bottom just dropped out from under me, and I wondered if I could work up a seizure or something to keep him home. But no, not with Etta Mae around, who would either see right through me or call the ambulance on me. There was nothing I could do but appear undisturbed by Sam’s decision.
“I’ll miss you, Sam,” I managed to say around the lump in my throat. And without any effort at all, a few tears filled my eyes.
Sam apparently didn’t notice, for he leaned down and gave me a kiss. “I’m leaving you in good hands.”
And away he went to eat dinner with Etta Mae and Lloyd, and then to spend a couple of hours in the company of Dr. Fred Fowler, sneaky seducer of lonely women.
Left alone, I looked askance at that meager meal on my lap, realizing that I’d not had a decent one since Sunday afternoon—which hadn’t been all that filling to start with—and here it was Monday evening. So let’s say since Saturday night, and I was about to cave in. But I could hardly eat the little that was there because I’d so quickly gone from the high of Sam’s decision to bypass that meeting to the low of his change of mind. Sudden emotional peaks and valleys can wreak havoc with one’s appetite, even when one’s stomach is empty.
I ate what I could, so Etta Mae and Lillian wouldn’t fuss at me, set the tray aside and tried to calm my agitated nerves. How I was going to get through the next few hours, knowing that Sam and Dr. Fowler would be near each other, I didn’t know.
After the meal was finished downstairs, Sam came back up to see me. By that time, I was so on edge that I wanted to fling myself at his feet and beg him to stay home. But I restrained myself to a few pitiful sighs, without giving away my deepest concern.
“Sam,” I said, after he leaned over and kissed me good-bye, “I want to caution you about that counseling session. We were only supposed to be there as role models, not active participants. And just remember that Dr. Fowler is not a medical doctor, so you don’t have to believe everything he says.”
Sam laughed. “The wool doesn’t get pulled over my eyes too often, sweetheart. I practiced law too long for that. Now you have a nice evening, and I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
And off he went, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it other than have a major relapse, which I’d already waited too long to pull off. But at least I’d kept myself out of that enrichment session, and that’s what I’d started out to do. The thought of having to make eye contact with that redheaded fool of a marriage counselor made my stomach turn, so I’d spared myself that humiliation. Now all I could do was hope that Dr. Fowler wouldn’t know who Sam was and that Pastor Ledbetter would hold his tongue and not tell him.
Soon enough, though, Etta Mae was back in my room, ready to get me bathed, redressed, combed and rubbed down. She was quite efficient, obviously from having a lot of practice with weak or ailing patients, of which I was neither but had to pretend to be.
After she had me back in bed, she gave me a dandy back rub and finished off with a dusting of talcum powder. It did feel wonderful, since I’d begun to worry about developing bedsores from my day and a half of lying around. Then Lloyd stuck his head in the door to ask how I was feeling.
“I’m much better, honey,” I assured him. “I fully intend to be up and doing tomorrow.”
Etta Mae raised her eyebrows. “We’ll see about that.”
Ignoring the cautionary tone of her voice, I asked Lloyd
about his day at school, especially what extracurricular activities he was planning for the new school year.
“I’m thinking of going out for soccer,” he said. “Except some of the kids began working out before school started when I still had the tennis clinics. They’ll be ahead of me, but I don’t mind sitting on the bench if I don’t get to play.”
“That’s a good attitude, but I’ll be surprised if you have to sit on the bench for long. Just remember that very few people are good at every sport—think of Michael Jordan when he was playing baseball. Tennis is probably your game.”
“I think so, too. But boys’ tennis at school is not until spring, and I want to do something to stay in shape.”
Well, bless his little heart, he was so serious about everything he did, and because he wasn’t a natural athlete, all I could do was encourage him in his efforts. I feared he was doomed to soccer disappointment, but perhaps he’d shine at tennis in the spring.
When he left to do homework, Etta Mae said, “Would you like to try to sleep now? Or do you want to watch a little television?”
“Neither one. I’ve already slept too much today, and there’s nothing on television. Oh, except Antiques Roadshow. You can turn that on if you want.” Maybe looking at all those old things would keep my mind off what was going on in the church across the street. Etta Mae turned on the television set that Hazel Marie had hidden away in a French provincial gilt-encrusted cabinet that had most certainly not been intended to house a television set, seeing that television hadn’t been invented when the cabinet was made.
Etta Mae puttered around, straightening jars and bottles on Hazel Marie’s dressing table, cleaning the bathroom and in general trying to earn her money.
“Etta Mae,” I said, “please sit down and rest. You’re making me nervous.” That wasn’t all that was making me nervous, of course, because just as soon as Sam returned, I knew I could have a major marital crisis on my hands. It would all depend on how willing Dr. Fred Fowler was to preserve a respectable woman’s reputation and her good name. To say nothing of her marriage.
Chapter 16
Not quite two hours later, we heard Sam entering the front door and locking it behind him. Etta Mae hopped up, asked if I needed anything, then excused herself to head for the sunroom.
“Call me if you need me during the night,” she said, with a last smoothing of my sheets.
Lying alone in the bed, I heard Sam walking through the house, turning off lights and, finally, climbing the stairs. He stopped by Lloyd’s room and spoke to him for a while, then, loosening his tie as he came, appeared in our room. I held my breath, as I searched his face for some sign of his mood—had he been enriched or had he been enlightened?
Neither, it seemed, for after inquiring about the current state of my health, he proceeded to ready himself for bed, just as he did every night.
“Well,” I said, unable to stand the suspense any longer, “are you feeling any richer? Maritally speaking, that is.”
He twisted his mouth, frowned a little, then said, “Can’t say that I am, now that you mention it. You would’ve been bored silly, Julia. Dr. Fowler, whoops, I mean Dr. Fred, which is what he wants to be called, spent the whole time telling us what he’s going to do but no time at all on doing it.”
Dr. Fred? I mulled that over, thinking it sounded awfully close to the name of a certain television counselor, which in my opinion was no coincidence. Maybe Dr. Fowler had visions of enriching millions of marriages in one fell televised swoop.
“Anyway,” Sam went on, “we heard about his background and his experience, and the reason for having the sessions.” Sam stopped and yawned. “I think I was bored silly myself.”
That certainly did my heart good, though I was careful not to let it show. “I expect he’s only having the sessions because Pastor Ledbetter asked him to, plus he’s getting paid for them. But what did he say his reasons are?”
Sam smiled. “To hear him tell it, he’s been entrusted with God’s plan for marriage, and his aim is to put more fun and romance into this most intimate of relationships. And get this, Julia, he’s going to identify the twelve insidious love busters and teach us the twelve love kindlers that will transform any marriage, no matter how little a given couple has in common. And believe it or not, he guarantees that his plan for stirring the embers will put the spark back in a marriage in only six weeks. Now, aren’t you sorry you missed it?”
The slightly ironic tone that Sam was taking as he recounted the good doctor’s plans reassured me, and I was gradually able to relax. So far, so good.
“Who all was there?” I asked, as Sam went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
After a while he came back and climbed into bed. “Let me see. The Conovers were there, though Leonard looked half asleep. And Ledbetter, but not Emma Sue. He made some elaborate excuse for her, said she wasn’t feeling well and needed to stay in bed. Maybe the two of you caught the same bug.”
My eyes darted around, thinking about that. “Maybe we did,” I said, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Emma Sue had the exact same symptoms I had, which is to say, none.
“And,” Sam went on, as he switched off the bedside lamp, “the Comptons, remember them? We went to their wedding last year.”
“Oh, she’s Elsie and Ben Landrum’s daughter, isn’t she? My goodness, I wouldn’t think they’d need any rekindling after such a short time.”
“Well, you never know. Then there was Mack Grover and his wife, both of them looking a little embarrassed to be there. I guess it was kind of like admitting publicly that something’s wrong with your marriage.”
Exactly, I thought, and wondered again why he’d been so willing to attend.
Sam turned over and put his arm around me. “You’re feeling better?”
I nodded against his chest.
“Dr. Fowler said that he’s often called a love doctor, but I don’t think we need one, do you?”
Indeed, I did not.
Bright and early the next morning—well, as soon as Sam left for the office at his house—I was out of bed, fully dressed and on my way downstairs, just in time to meet Etta Mae coming up with my breakfast tray, an aromatic aura of eau de cologne and oatmeal surrounding her.
“Miss Julia!” she cried. “What’re you doing up? You need to be in bed.”
“No, I don’t. Just turn around and let’s go to the table. I’m tired of that bed and tired of having nothing fit to eat.”
Issuing cautionary advice to my back, she followed me into the kitchen, where I had to endure the same warnings and dire predictions from Lillian.
“Both of you, just hush,” I said, taking my place at the kitchen table and unfolding a napkin. “I am perfectly all right now and ready for some real nourishment. There’re things that need to be done today, and the first one is to visit Francie Pitts. If Binkie can’t get in, maybe we can.” I paused to accept a plate of scrambled eggs and grits from Lillian. “Well, maybe not you, Etta Mae, because Lieutenant Peavey might not look too kindly on that. But I can certainly call on her. Lillian, put some bacon on this plate, please.”
Lillian put her hands on her hips and pronounced, “You don’t need no greasy bacon on yo’ stomick, sick as you been.”
“That’s right,” Etta Mae chimed in. “You have to be careful what you eat for the next several days. If you’re determined to be up, then Lillian and I are determined to see that you eat right. Lillian,” she went on, turning to her, “just bland, non-greasy foods for her.”
“Now listen, you two,” I said, straightening up from my plate. “I am not sick, but I’m going to be if I don’t get something filling to eat.”
“Yes’m,” Lillian said, “but you been sick, an’ you can’t go eatin’ jus’ anything. It’ll tear yo’ system up good.”
“You should listen to her, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae warned. “You don’t get over all the digestive upsets you’ve had in just one night.”
“But I’m telling you,” I s
aid, reaching for another biscuit, “I am not sick.”
“Maybe not now,” Etta Mae said, “but you do need to go easy so you won’t have a relapse.”
“Will you two listen to me?” I said, deciding that I’d better own up to what I’d been doing if I wanted any peace. “I am not sick now, nor have I been sick. I hate to admit this, and if either of you let on to Sam about it, I’ll deny it to my dying day. But the fact of the matter is, it was the only way I could see to get out of going to that meeting last night. So there. Now, Lillian, will you please bring that plate of bacon over here.”
They stared at me for a good minute, then Lillian flapped a dish towel and said, “They Lord. I been worryin’ myself to death about you, an’ you been playactin’ all this time?”
“Well, yes, and I’m sorry. But I thought I was sick, especially when I read that announcement in church Sunday morning. I almost threw up all over Judge Peeples, who was sitting in the pew right in front of us. And Lillian, I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you’d give me away. Without meaning to, I mean. And besides, my stomach kept on clinching up every time I thought about going to that marital enrichment class. So, see, I wasn’t telling too much of a story.”
Etta Mae sat there with her mouth open. She closed it, then opened it to say, “I’d love to go to something like that if I had a husband to go with. Why didn’t you want to?”
“Well, if we’re being honest . . .”
“’Bout time,” Lillian snapped.
“Wait, now don’t get upset with me. I had a very good reason for not going, but it’s not one I wanted Sam to know about. Lillian, you remember Dr. Fred Fowler, who came around not long after Mr. Springer passed?”
Lillian squinched up her eyes and frowned, thinking back. “He that runty little redheaded man?”
“That’s him, and he’s the one who’s leading the enrichment sessions. I couldn’t face him, Lillian, and you know why. I was afraid he’d humiliate me, or even worse, say something to Sam. You know the man can’t be trusted to tell the truth—and I speak from woeful experience. Instead of enriching our marriage, I was afraid he’d end it.”