Miss Julia Knows a Thing or Two

by Ann B. Ross

  “It’s nice to see you, Miss Julia,” Ida Lee said. “Be careful going home.”

  “Thank you, Ida Lee. I will.”

  As she turned to open the door for me, I said, “How do you think Mr. Allen is doing? You’re around him as much as anybody, and I know Mildred is worried.”

  She hesitated for a second, then said, “He’s not doing well at all. We don’t dare leave him alone or he’s out the door before we know it.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call us if you need to. Any time at all for either one of them because I’m concerned about Mildred, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ida Lee said, a frown appearing on her lovely forehead, “I am, too.”

  I left then, and picked my way slowly across the crackling grass until I safely reached my own door.

  Chapter 9

  Sam had come in by the time I got home, so we had a few minutes together in the library before supper. Before I could launch into the plans that were bubbling around in my mind, he smiled and said, “Guess who I saw downtown today.”

  “Who?”

  “Ernest Sitton, looking the same today as he’s looked for twenty years. A little grayer, maybe, a little paunchier, but wearing the same three-piece suit he always wears. He must have a closetful of them. Good lawyer, though.”

  “I don’t really know him,” I said, not one bit interested in Ernest Sitton, but Sam enjoyed people, the more individualistic they were, the better. Fortunately for him, Abbotsville had a gracious plenty of eccentric characters who kept him entertained, but I had too much on my mind to appreciate another oddity like Lawyer Sitton. “I’ve heard he has the first dollar he ever made and plenty more to go with it.”

  Sam nodded. “He’s not a spendthrift, that’s for sure. I once heard him tell a client that time was money and he didn’t plan to waste it on a scoundrel charged for the third time with the same crime when he hadn’t been paid for the first time.” Sam laughed at the memory. “Then he left the courthouse. Drove all the way from Delmont just to tell him that.”

  “My goodness,” I said. Then, unable to wait any longer to tell him of my day, I quickly brought him up to date on my luncheon with Etta Mae Wiggins and my visit with Mildred.

  “So,” I said with justified satisfaction, “it could work out that Mildred gets excellent help and Etta Mae has a job regardless of what that Lurline woman does.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sam said, frowning. “The only problem will be the timing—Mildred needs someone now, while Etta Mae has a job which may be permanent no matter who owns the business. And you have to consider that Horace might not take to a woman companion or Etta Mae may not be able to handle him if he gets worse.” Sam stood before the fireplace, rocking on his heels, as he thought through the problem. “If he has to go into an assisted-living facility, Etta Mae would be jobless again.”

  The air in my sails began leaking just a little, but I rallied by saying, “I don’t think Horace is anywhere near having to do that, and I doubt Mildred would put him away even if he were. She has the means to keep him home regardless of his condition, mental or otherwise. If, that is, she can find the right kind of help and the kind of which she approves. And you know,” I went on, perking up at a happier thought, “I’m just not convinced that Horace is that bad off. What he needs is some entertainment, a little distraction from thinking about driving his car. It’s likely that he hasn’t regained his strength after that heart attack and that his mental condition will improve as everything else does.”

  “That’s true,” Sam said, nodding. “But if he does get better, Etta Mae will still lose her job.”

  “Oh, my goodness, Sam,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “here I was, thinking that I’d found the perfect solution to two problems, but I see now that it could add to Etta Mae’s.”

  I was thoroughly deflated by this time, so it was with great effort that I reminded myself of my intention to stop trying to solve the problems of other people. Having recognized my unattractive tendency to manage the lives of others, I’d promised myself to let them flounder around on their own. Yet I had jumped in with both feet with a solution that could end by making things worse for Etta Mae.

  That should’ve taught me a lesson, but I could no more stop worrying and thinking about that young woman’s dilemma than I could fly.

  Maybe, I thought, I could ask around and find out who was interested in buying The Handy Home Helpers outfit, then find out what the new owner would do—keep the present employees on or start with a clean sweep.

  And, of course, there was the Dollar Store to look into. It would be nice to know just what their plans were. If those executives only wanted Lurline’s property—a large, convenient lot on Delmont’s Main Street as I recalled—she could simply sell it and shut down the business.

  Of course if she was a businesswoman as I was, she’d be loath to close an active business and walk away without getting anything for it. And who could blame her? Not I, that’s for sure.

  * * *

  —

  The following morning, after a restless night, I dressed warmly but down, not up. Here’s a tip: if you’re looking for good terms on something you’re interested in buying, don’t go dressed to the nines. No use flaunting your financial status.

  I had looked out the window when I first got out of bed, half expecting to see tree limbs weighed down with ice. That would’ve changed my plans considerably, but sometime during the night the weather had changed its mind. According to the Asheville weather report, we had gotten the tail end of a cold front the afternoon before, and by now it was dropping snow on Virginia and Pennsylvania. Better them than us.

  Sam had a meeting at the church that morning, so he’d gotten up early. He was still at the table by the time I came downstairs, so I joined him and waited as Lillian broke an egg into a skillet.

  “What’s on your agenda for the day?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, nothing much. I may do a little shopping. Christmas will be here before we know it, so I need to start on that. I declare,” I said, leaning my head on my hand, “we barely get over Thanksgiving before Christmas is upon us. Although I must say that Thanksgiving this year was unusual, but very nice.” I put my hand on his arm and smiled, for we had spent the day together without having guests or being guests. The Pickens family, with whom we normally spent holidays, had gone to Williamsburg that week, and I had given Lillian several free days. We had had Thanksgiving dinner at the club, and the day had been spent in the best of company—our own.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “our gift list gets longer every year. It’s not that I dislike getting gifts for so many, it’s more a fear of forgetting somebody.”

  “I’m happy to leave that concern with you.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, smiling my thanks as Lillian placed a warm plate in front of me, “because I had already decided to leave all the gifts for men with you.”

  Sam’s eyebrows went up. “How many would that be?”

  “Well, there’s Mr. Pickens and Coleman, maybe Bob Hargrove and the preacher, if you’re so inclined.”

  “An hour or so at The Home Depot should suffice for them all.”

  “Oh, Sam, do put a little thought into it,” I said, although I knew he was half teasing me. “And I’ve just thought that Horace might like something under the tree, although we’ve not done anything for him specifically in the past.”

  “Don’t you want to give family gifts? That would cut the number in half, making it easier all around.”

  “Not really, because everybody would do the same for us, and we already have three popcorn poppers.”

  Sam laughed. “I see the problem.”

  “Anyway, we need to think of something special for Lloyd and go in together on that. It’s just that the older he gets, the harder he is to buy for.”

  “Maybe something for his car?”

  “I
can’t imagine what that would be. When you shop for the men, look around for something for him. I’ll probably get him one or two things, too.”

  Sam smiled again. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  “Well,” I said, “you know I don’t believe in spoiling children, but he hardly qualifies as a child anymore. Lillian,” I said, turning to her, “what about Latisha? What would she like for Christmas?”

  “I think they all want the new things that ding and have pictures on ’em and games to play, but . . .”

  “Oh, yes, electronic things. That’s what you can look for, Sam. See what’s new for the twins’ age and Latisha’s and Lloyd’s, as well. Oh, and for Gracie, too.” Little Gracie Bates was Binkie and Coleman’s daughter, and the twins belonged to Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens, a man who always had to outdo everybody else.

  “What about you, Lillian?” Sam asked. “Wouldn’t you like one of those vacuum cleaners that cleans on its own?”

  “Lord, no, Mr. Sam. That thing would scare me to death, it come sneakin’ up on my heels, nudgin’ at my feet, an’ followin’ me all over the place.”

  “I feel the same way, Lillian,” I said, rising from the table. “We’re about to become overly automated, if you ask me. Did you know that you can even answer the doorbell when you’re under a hair dryer at Velma’s? I just don’t need to be in touch that badly, especially since it’s usually a Jehovah’s Witness at the door.”

  Sam laughed and got to his feet. Walking over to me, he put an arm around my shoulders. “You’ve about given me some badly needed Christmas spirit, and I’m going to get my shopping done early. Have a good day, honey.”

  “And you, too,” I said, fully intending to make it so.

  Chapter 10

  As I drove into Delmont, some ten miles or so from downtown Abbotsville, I was amazed to see how it had grown. I’d not had reason to visit the little town in several years, so I slowed to take in all the changes. Small houses dotted the hillsides, new streets opened onto the main road, and a huge apartment complex covered several acres. Where had all these people come from and where did they work?

  I figured out the answer as I slowed even more for the three blocks of downtown Delmont. There were fewer CLOSED signs in shop windows than when I’d last been there. The street was lined with parked cars, indicating that business had picked up considerably. I noticed a new gas station right across the street from the old one, and glimpsed a huge new Food Lion grocery store on a side street.

  Delmont, I realized, had become a bedroom community. As house prices had increased in Asheville, and Abbotsville had filled up, Delmont was receiving the overflow. They’d even added a traffic light on the main street—one that had red and green lights instead of only a flashing yellow one.

  Seeing an empty parking space, I pulled in, then out, then back again, hating parallel parking but finally getting the car reasonably situated. Holding my head up high, I walked away, ignoring the two feet or so between the car and the curb. I strolled along, glancing in shop windows as I held my coat closed against the cold. I was aiming for the drugstore that I knew had a small fountain area. As it was the middle of the morning, I was counting on finding few customers and a bored waitstaff.

  Entering the drugstore and sitting at a tiny metal table, I slipped off my coat and glanced at the menu while surveying the store itself. It was not doing a lot of business, so when the not-so-young waitress ambled over for my order, I knew I had timed it correctly.

  “Coffee?” she asked, holding out a cup and saucer in one hand and a glass coffeepot in the other. She smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth.

  “Yes, thank you. It’s nippy out there.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she said, pouring my coffee, then setting the pot on the table. “But I’d rather have cold than ice any day. ’Course the kids was disappointed. They’d hoped the school buses wouldn’t run. But to my mind, we really dodged the bullet last night.”

  “We surely did,” I agreed, pleased that I’d found what I wanted—a talkative waitress. “Do you live here in Delmont?”

  “All my life and don’t intend to leave. You want some pie? We got cherry and it’s fresh.”

  “That sounds good,” I said, although it didn’t.

  She was back in a few seconds, setting the pie, a fork, and a paper napkin in front of me. “You visitin’ in Delmont? Don’t think I seen you before.”

  “Yes, just visiting. Well, no, in fact I’m here to look into The Handy Home Helpers. You see,” I went on, putting a worried frown on my face, “a friend is getting where he needs help, and his family doesn’t know whether to keep him at home or find a place for him.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, leaning against the table, “everybody’s havin’ that problem. But I’ll tell you the truth, I wouldn’t count on The Handy Helpers if I was you.”

  “Oh? Why not? I’ve heard good things about them.”

  “Well,” she said, lowering her voice and bending closer, “from what I hear, they’re about to go out of business or something. Lurline Corn, that’s who owns it, is dyin’ to take the money and run. Only thing is, nobody’s got the kind of money she wants.”

  “You mean it’s for sale?” I pretended to be both surprised and disappointed. “That’s too bad. I was hoping it would be a possibility for my friend to stay home and get the care he needs, as well. But, I guess, if it’s actively on the market, his family should wait to see who the new owner will be.” This was where I expected to hear the details of the sale—who was buying it, when the sale would be finalized, and some of the new management’s plans for the business.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, then went off on a tangent, “but here’s the thing, she—Lurline, I mean—she’s got that prime lot right here on Main Street, and word’s out that a Dollar Store’s looking at it. Listen, she could make a killin’ if they was to buy it, and I hope they do. Can you believe it? A Dollar Store right here in Delmont. Why, this town would set up and take notice with something like that. It could draw other stores right along with it. We might even get a Walmart one of these days.”

  “That would be nice,” I said with a slight shiver down my back. “So convenient, you know.”

  “It sure would,” she agreed. “The way it is now, we have to drive all the way to Fletcher to do any decent shopping. I’ll tell you one thing, though, Lurline better do something soon or get off the pot. I heard them Dollar Store people’re thinking her lot’s not big enough. They’re lookin’ out on Springer Road, too. I know, ’cause a couple of ’em came in here and I heard ’em talkin’.”

  “Sherrill,” a voice from behind the pharmacy counter rang out. “You got a customer at the front counter.”

  “Oh, good grief,” she said, “I gotta get busy. Nice talkin’ to you. Enjoy that pie, you hear?” And off she went, after confirming what I’d already heard, as well as dropping some new information, both of which was exactly why I was sitting there trying to eat cherry pie that was as dry as a bone.

  * * *

  —

  Springer Road, I thought as I sat in the car, letting the engine run to warm up the interior. Named for my late, unlamented husband, Wesley Lloyd Springer, not because of any particular honor bestowed on him, but because he had owned the only business on it—the Hillandale Trailer Park. Springer Road was paved, but just barely. There were no sidewalks. The pavement, chipped and broken on the sides, simply fell off on either side into fairly deep ditches. It was what was once called a farm-to-market road, running perpendicular to Delmont Road, then winding around curves, up and down hills, and eventually connecting some miles away to the road to Brevard.

  Pulling out of the parking space, I drove slowly on, catching the green light, and easing along until I came to the end of the three-block business district. And there on the left, just as I remembered it, was the small brick bungalow with a metal railing around a
cement front porch. A sign, almost as large as the house’s facade, read:

  THE HANDY HOME HELPERS

  CARE YOU CAN TRUST

  And under that was a smaller sign that read OFFICE with a large red arrow pointing toward the porch. It was a corner lot, so I turned left and, as there was no traffic behind me, slowed to get a good look at the grounds. There wasn’t much to see—two large trees in the front yard, and a small gravel lot in the back. Two cars were parked there, and another sign pointed to a rear entrance.

  It was a nice-sized lot, probably listed as two town spaces on the tax rolls, but if my mental picture of your average Dollar Store was accurate, it wasn’t the ideal size for another one. Still, it would draw foot traffic, although I’d not seen very much of that on the sidewalks.

  Circling the block, I came out again on Delmont Road and followed it on to Springer Road. Since I was in the area, I decided to look in on the trailer park, having left it totally in Etta Mae’s hands for longer than perhaps I should have. Turning in onto the lane that led into the park, I was pleased to see several evergreen azaleas planted by the small, tasteful sign. The twenty or so trailers, a mixture of both single- and double-wides, looked neat and well-kept. There was no litter and only a few of those large, plastic tricycles that were a blight on your average family lawn. Etta Mae’s trailer looked as if it had been winterized—the striped awning had been put away, as had her two lawn chairs. The only potted plants were two small cedar-looking bushes on either side of the doorsteps.

  On the whole, I was quite pleased with the way the park looked, having seen no full clotheslines strung from trailer to trailer, heard no loud music blaring from any of them, and seen no overturned garbage cans. One of the most consistent problems at the park—besides domestic disturbances—had been scavenging animals from the heavily wooded areas near the park. Raccoons, possums, and the stray dog or cat had depended on garbage cans for their livelihood. Early on in her employment, Etta Mae had charged me for the purchase of a BB gun and an inordinate amount of ammunition, but she’d put a stop to the nightly raids, as well as, according to rumors from the Delmont deputies, cut down on the number of domestic calls they’d had. An armed woman, even with only a BB gun, had been an effective deterrent.