Miss Julia Paints the Town

by Ann B. Ross

  But contrary to Loretta’s generalized endings, I like to know the details and I expect you do, too, or you wouldn’t have gotten this far. So here they are.

  LuAnne was not only mortified, but hurt, at Arthur’s shameful departure in the care of federal agents. “He fooled me, Julia,” she told me later. “He led me on, making me believe he was so cosmopolitan and so sophisticated. And all along, he was nothing but a crook.” Then she got a mushy look on her face. “Well, like I always say, home is where the heart is, and one in the hand is worth two in the bush. And now that Leonard’s home, and happy to be there, mind you, it’s all worked out for the best. Still,” she said longingly, “it was fun while it lasted.”

  Mildred and Horace have settled back into their former roles: She demands and he hops to. She tells anyone who’ll listen that she’s forgiven him for throwing her money away and for making her plan a funeral that never came about, but every now and then she laments, in a joking way, the loss of her shooting skills. “I used to be a crack shot,” she’s said on more than one occasion. “I really need to practice more.” Horace always jumps up and offers a pillow for her back or some other helpful ministration. I think they’re happy together. Well, she’s happy. I don’t know about him, but he’s still around catering to her every wish.

  Helen Stroud divorced Richard so fast it must’ve made his head swim. I guess he didn’t care, though, because the word around town is that he’s on a South Sea island somewhere, having never been brought to justice. But I’m a firm believer that your sins will find you out, and sooner or later he’ll get his.

  After the dust settled, Helen had lost her lovely home to help reimburse those who’d lost more than that. She ended up in a small condominium—not built by Arthur Kessler, I assure you—and continues in all her offices because we keep electing her. I’m happy to report also that her strength of character has reasserted itself and she’s come to understand that my husband has more important business to tend to than hers. We’re still friends, but I keep a close watch on them both.

  I still laugh when I recall what Latisha said when Poochie first stood Lady Justice up in Mildred’s yard. Everybody had pushed in close to see and touch the statue, although she did look strange with her arms bent the way they were. Latisha took a good, hard look at her and said, “Why that woman got her arms wrapped around like that? She cold?”

  And speaking of Lady Justice, the garden club has bitten the bullet and made plans for a town park on the site of the old courthouse—just as soon as all the lawsuits are settled and Mr. Kessler is forced to remove the remains. We’ll have our gazebo back and all the plantings, which will be laid out along formal pathways with benches to provide rest for the weary. Lady Justice will be the focal point of the park, although Greg Rogers, the landscape designer we engaged, almost disengaged us because a certain contingent kept insisting on a burbling fountain as the centerpiece, relegating Lady Justice to a lesser spot. You can imagine how that went over with me, after what I’d gone through to get her. But the plan is fixed now, drawn and voted on, awaiting only the clearing of the rubble. I’m pleased with it, so you know how the design turned out.

  Then we had another problem with Lavinia Markham, who got exercised over the statue’s indecent exposure of one breast. “It’s just stuck out there,” she said, “for everybody to see, and I, for one, think it gives the wrong impression of our town. Why, who knows? It could encourage massage parlors and tattoo artists and all sorts of unsavory things.”

  Emma Sue thought we should keep a scarf draped over the offending shoulder, but was voted down when somebody remarked that it would resemble a wet T-shirt contest whenever it rained.

  Finally, some of the garden club members voluntered to keep a garland of flowers or greenery—depending on the season—around the statue’s neck and arrange it artfully enough to prevent shock and overstimulation in any close observers.

  And continuing to speak of Lady Justice, when Brother Vern heard that she is to be installed in the center of the park, half a block from the Hallelujah House, he was fit to be tied. He showed up at a Board of Commissioners meeting, took the microphone and proceeded to rant for thirty minutes about the audacity of putting up a false idol in our midst. “How am I gonna preach the word of God,” he’d bellowed, “with that heathen woman holdin’ forth on the courthouse grounds?” Of course, she’d been holding forth above the courthouse grounds for a hundred years or more, which hadn’t seemed to bother him. He had to be restrained from going another half an hour.

  After the meeting, as he stormed out still full of righteous indignation and threatening to sue the county for sponsoring a pagan religion, I’d walked alongside him for a ways.

  “Brother Vern,” I’d said softly so as not to be overheard, “if you look closely at that statue, you’ll notice a tiny hole in her left shoulder. It’s hardly noticeable because she’s so flaky, but it can be pointed out. It’s just about the size of a BB shot, and you know they’re still looking for whoever discharged a firearm in the city. If I were you, I’d get over this concern about paganism in the park and concentrate on what you heard from on high.”

  I thought he’d burst wide open, he was so filled with outrage and sudden understanding. After he got his mouth closed, he turned on his heel and stalked off. We didn’t hear another word on the subject from him, but he’s still preaching and occasionally casting a few aspersions at people who pretend to speak for the Lord. I don’t let it worry me, but if Lady Justice ever comes up missing, I’ll know where to look.

  Pastor Ledbetter still rules the roost across the street. Oh, he went to Raleigh, as I understand it, and met with the session of that new church. From what Emma Sue told me, he laid bare his soul, telling them of the burden of having a suddenly unsubmissive wife who was suffering through the change of life—which was the wrong tack to take since Emma Sue was long past that, as anybody who could count would know. Apparently he expected them to take pity and welcome his solitary self with the open arms of fellowship. That didn’t happen. His brothers in Christ went into a closed meeting, then retracted their call, telling him, as he’d often told us, that any man who couldn’t control his own family had no business running a church. So he’s back home, and still expostulating from our pulpit. He recently gave a series of sermons on woman’s place in God’s plan for the world, but I didn’t listen. He’d given those sermons several times before, so you’d think he’d have learned better by now. I think the latest series was aimed specifically at Emma Sue, but she was probably tired of hearing it, too. I know on at least one Sunday when we were streaming out of the church, she handed me a list of possible candidates for the offices of the Women of the Church in the next election. “I know I shouldn’t have done this during the sermon,” she whispered, “but I thought I’d better jot them down while they were on my mind.”

  I should say something about Etta Mae Wiggins. That young woman has proven herself a worthy companion in so many ways, and I’m ashamed of myself for thinking so little of her in the past. One can’t help how one was raised, but the virtues of dependability and courage and willingness to help can outweigh one’s lack of social graces. Besides, social graces can be learned, whereas one either has integrity or one doesn’t. And she does.

  Mayor Outz has been hinting around for the park to be named for him—he suggested a plaque at the foot of Lady Justice with his name on it—but I’m putting a stop to that. In the first place, it doesn’t need a name. The courthouse park is what we’re already calling it, and that’s the way it’ll stay. And in the second place, if it’s named for anybody, it should be called the Etta Mae Wiggins Park or the Poochie Dunn Park, but there’s no way I could publicly justify either one without giving away my own participation. I’ve said a dozen times in Sam’s hearing—I’d never tell him a direct story—that I don’t know exactly how or why Poochie took it on himself to rescue that statue.

  And Sam? Well, Sam is the same, thank goodness. I’m not a person who
likes change, especially in a husband. If you start out with one who’s kind and considerate and even-tempered and who doesn’t demand an accounting of what you do every minute of the day, you have every right to expect him to stay that way. And that’s Sam, straight up and down.

  I must admit, though, that on occasion he’ll give me a long, thoughtful look. But only when that statue is brought up in conversation, which I try to do as infrequently as possible.

  Oh, I forgot to mention that Poochie got his truck. He settled on a red 2003 Ford Ranger 4X4, loaded with an extended cab—whatever all that means. The price was a little steeper than I’d had in mind to pay, but Poochie proved to be a bit sharper than we’d given him credit for. When I’d tried to steer him to something more in line with my thinking, he’d given me that innocent smile and asked, “You ever tell Mr. Sam how you climb up on that dome?”

  I turned him right around, saying, “Let’s not look any further, Poochie. I think that Ford Ranger is the truck for you.”

  So he’s happy and so am I, now that he’s out of my hair, and I intend to devote myself from now on to easing any concerns that Sam might have. A virtuous woman is more precious than rubies, you know, and being virtuous in all my works is what I aim for. Just as long as nobody steals from me like Richard Stroud did or causes an upheaval of the town like Arthur Kessler did or shoots at me like…Well, there are times when even a decorous and retiring woman has to take on the whole town, if need be, and use all the faculties at her disposal to see that justice does indeed prevail.