by Ann B. Ross
“Well,” I said, hardly knowing what to say. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Mildred, and I guess this is one of them.”
“And I guess,” she said, somewhat sharply, “that this will teach me not to wish for something I don’t have. I might get it in another one of His mysterious ways.”
Wanting to avoid a theological discussion of the workings of divine grace, I asked, “When will Penelope be coming? Will Tonya bring her?”
“Oh, no,” Mildred said with more than a tinge of sarcasm, “Tonya is much too busy picking out wardrobes, talking to producers, and inviting camera crews into every nook and cranny of her life. Of course, I told her in no uncertain terms that she did not have my permission to discuss me in any way whatsoever. So if that show intends to include her relationship with Horace or me, or our reaction to her transformation, well, they’ll just have to think again. I told her I wouldn’t stand for it, and I told her I’d have every lawyer I know suing the producer, the director, and all the stars, including her, for defamation of character.”
“My goodness,” I said, appreciating the fact that Mildred was on a first-name basis with more lawyers than I even knew by sight, “that should make them all think twice.”
“Well, it should, but then Tonya told me that Meryl Streep is being offered the mother’s part, so I’ll have to wait and see.”
Rolling my eyes just a little, I changed the subject again. “Are you doing anything special to get ready for Penelope? It might be good to have a few toys and books for her, maybe fix up one of your guest rooms to appeal to a little girl.”
“Yes, I suppose I should,” she said, as if resigned to her fate. “I have all of Tonya’s outgrown books and toys packed up and stored in the attic, waiting, you know, for a grandchild. Who would’ve thought one would come this way?”
“There are worse ways,” I briskly reminded her. “So, if this is the way it’s going to be, Mildred, you might as well make the best of it. Who knows? Having that child may end up being the best thing that could’ve happened.”
“Don’t be such a Pollyanna, Julia. You know I already have my hands full with Horace. I don’t need somebody else to look after and tend to, because he’s getting worse by the day. I declare, it’s as if he’s forgotten everything and everybody he ever knew. He told me the other day that I was the best mother anybody could have. Can you believe that? So now it looks as if I’ll be mothering not only a strange child, but an even stranger husband.”
“Uh, Mildred,” I said, very carefully, “have you had Horace evaluated? I mean by a neurologist or by somebody who specializes in similar disorders? It may be that something can be done to help him. Although I must say that he seems healthy and happy, or so Sam tells me.”
“Of course I’ve had him looked at and examined from one end to the other. I just hate to advertise how much he’s declined. He’s been diagnosed with symptoms of Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, but at least it’s just a few symptoms, not the actual disease.”
“That’s true,” she said. Then after a deep breath, she added, “Except the only way to diagnose the actual disease is through an autopsy which I am not ready to authorize.”
“Oh, my goodness, I should say not. But, Mildred, it may help Horace to have a child around to give him something to think about and enjoy.”
“Yes, I’m trying to think on the bright side. But I’ll tell you, I don’t know how much longer Ida Lee and I can manage him. He will just walk off at the drop of a hat. Ida Lee found him wandering halfway to town just yesterday, and what if he takes that child with him one of these days? If I don’t get help with him soon, I may have to put him away somewhere.”
“Weren’t you going to talk to Miss Wiggins? If she can’t help you, she may know somebody who can.”
“Yes, she called this morning and said that something had come up that will take all her free time for a few weeks, so she can’t do it. But she’s asking around to try to find somebody for us.”
Giving Mildred a few more encouraging words to end the call, I hung up feeling guilty for doing her out of the help she badly needed, but mentally rejoicing that apparently Etta Mae was filling her free time with looking into buying The Handy Home Helpers.
Chapter 16
We should’ve put Etta Mae on the hunt for help with Horace much earlier because it was not two days later that she sent Mr. Grady Peeples to ring Mildred’s doorbell.
“You should’ve seen him, Julia,” Mildred told me after the interview. “I almost chastised Ida Lee for letting him in, which should teach me not to judge by appearances. But at second glance, I realized that he had dressed for the occasion. His jeans had a crease in them which meant he’d gone to the trouble of ironing them. His flannel shirt—checked, no less—was buttoned to his throat and sported a thin knit tie. His lace-up boots had been polished and shined to a fare-thee-well, and his L.L.Bean jacket looked spanking new. He also had the courtesy to remove his Panthers ball cap when he came inside. If you don’t get the picture with all of that, I’ll just say that he was country down to his knobby red hands. Thank goodness, though, he didn’t have a beard, just a slightly bushy mustache.
“And, thank goodness,” Mildred went on, “I didn’t act on my first impulse, which was to tell him the position was already filled. Because the more I looked at him, the more I became aware of the care he’d taken in preparing for the interview. That meant something to me, as did his manner in general. He told me that he’d worked at a sawmill until it closed down a few years ago when he had to take whatever he could get. Then he said his wife ‘up and died,’ on him, and ever since he’s done a little bit of everything from carpentry work to being a janitor and driving a school bus. I immediately took note of that because if there’s one thing Horace needs it’s a good driver, so I hired him on the spot.”
“A young man?” I asked.
“Young enough. Fiftyish, I’d say. He has some gray in his hair and in his mustache. I liked his attitude, Julia. Sometimes you just have to go on your intuition. So I did.”
Thinking to myself that she should’ve checked his references, I refrained from second-guessing her. She needed help with Horace and may have been grasping at straws, but who could blame her? She’d be just as quick to fire him if he displeased her. Meanwhile she had someone who would entertain, distract, and tag along with Horace wherever he decided to go without worrying that he’d never get home again.
“And, Julia,” Mildred said, taking up her tale, “he’s actually worked for an elderly man—a neighbor, he said—who needed help with getting in the shower and changing clothes. And, I’ll tell you, though I hate to admit it, but that’s exactly what Horace needs. As fastidious as he’s always been, he just will not take a shower, and Ida Lee says she hasn’t washed any of his underwear in over a week. Can you imagine! So that was the first thing I set Mr. Peeples on doing. I sent him right upstairs and told him to clean Horace up. I wanted him shaved, his hair washed, teeth brushed, and clean clothes on him, and I wanted that done every day. Mr. Peeples said, ‘Ma’am, you got it.’ And sure enough, he brought Horace down an hour later, sparkling clean and smelling like Bay Rum, and best of all, in good humor. I think I’ve found a jewel, thanks to Miss Wiggins.”
“I’m so glad for you,” I said, then thinking of Horace’s attachment to his little red Porsche in the garage, I asked, “Are you going to let Mr. Peeples drive Horace’s car?”
“Honey,” she said, relief obvious in her voice, “if he’s good enough to drive a school bus with twenty or thirty screaming kids in the back, he can drive any car he wants to, including mine.
“Now,” she went on more soberly, “if I could find someone of equal ability for childcare, I could rest easy. Ida Lee found Doreen for me—you’ll probably see her flitting from room to room like a little scared rabbit. But better that than someone who chatters all day long. Ida
Lee needed help because the room that connects to mine will be Penelope’s, and right now I’m using it as a closet. So we’re moving everything out and making it a bedroom again.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful, Mildred,” I said. “I was thinking that a child might be lonely off in one of your guest rooms. I’m glad you’re doing that.”
“Well, I’m trying to make the best of it, but, I declare, I feel as if I’ve become nothing but a hiring agency. Now I have to start looking for a nanny or an au pair or somebody to look after Penelope.” The name was pronounced with a tinge of distaste, after which she paused, then cautiously asked, “Do you think Granny Wiggins might be interested?”
“Mildred,” I said, shocked that she’d even consider such a thing, “don’t you dare go after her. Why, she’s practically a member of the Pickens family, and how in the world would Hazel Marie manage the twins without her?” Granny Wiggins, Etta Mae’s grandmother, in her oversized tennis shoes and rolled-down stockings, had been with Hazel Marie since the twins were born. “And if you were to try to tempt her away, I wouldn’t be surprised if J. D. Pickens came after you with a shotgun or, who knows, a kitchen knife. You know how he is.”
Mildred giggled. “Oh, I do know. But I’m just talking. I wouldn’t do that to Hazel Marie, although Granny Wiggins would be perfect for me.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ll just have to wait and see. Maybe somebody else will show up at the door like Mr. Peeples did.”
* * *
—
For the next few days we grew accustomed to seeing Horace and Mr. Peeples strolling together like two old friends up and down the Allen yard and around the block, weather permitting, of course. To see them, though, you would never think that one was looking after the other, and I commented to Sam that Mildred seemed to have lucked out again.
Not only that, though, Mr. Peeples—I mean, Grady, as he insisted that he be addressed—established a schedule that seemed to ease Horace’s late afternoon agitation. It had become noticeable that Horace grew more anxious about wanting to go somewhere as the day drew closer to sundown. Grady arranged to show up at the Allen house in the early afternoon, took Horace for a walk “to wear him out,” saw that he ate a good dinner, then sat and talked with him until bedtime. And, Mildred told me, he usually had planned some entertainment to keep Horace’s mind occupied. They watched television, talked about their childhoods, tried to put puzzles together, and even, she said, played with toy cars. And once, she told me, Grady had brought his fiddle and played music for him.
“That didn’t go over so well,” Mildred said. “Horace tried to dance a jig—something he’s never done before—but tripped over his feet and fell. Why in the world he was moved to try such a thing, I don’t know. He’s a lovely ballroom dancer, but after falling, that was the end of that.”
Nonetheless, the schedule set up by Grady seemed to help Horace settle down, until the morning I walked into the kitchen and found Horace eating breakfast with Sam.
I looked from Lillian, who shrugged her shoulders and flipped a few more pancakes, to Sam, who smiled and welcomed me to the table.
“We have a guest, honey,” he said, moving the syrup pitcher across the table from Horace. “Come join us.”
I did, taking note of the pajama top that Horace wore, his uncombed hair, and his obvious enjoyment of Lillian’s cooking. I spoke to him, but the only comment he made was when he leaned over to Sam and loudly whispered, “Who’s that woman sitting over there?”
Sam walked Horace home, while I called Mildred to let her know that her wandering husband was on his way back. Not being up herself, she’d not known that he was gone. For myself, I’d been relieved to find when Horace stood up from the table that he was wearing a pair of pants and not the matching bottoms to his pajama top.
That little escapade created another problem for Mildred because it now seemed that Horace needed someone with him twenty-four hours of the day. She never considered getting up early and filling in until Grady arrived in the afternoon.
Instead, she moved Grady into the guest room next to Horace’s room, had an intercom system set up between them, and probably paid a mint for both.
“Mildred,” I said cautiously, after seeing Grady’s pickup truck arrive with some of his belongings, “do you think it’s wise to have a strange man in the house all the time? I mean, Ida Lee’s apartment is out over the garage, and you and Penelope will be alone and, well, you really don’t know Mr. Peeples all that well, and . . .” I trailed off, letting the rest of my concern hang in the air.
“That’s not a problem,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Grady and Horace will be at one end of the hall, and Penelope and I will be at the other end. All the doors lock, and I have the keys, and, furthermore, I told Grady that the only weapon allowed in the house was the shotgun under my bed. I’m not at all worried.”
“Mildred . . . ,” I began.
“I know,” she said, nodding. “With a child in the house, I’ve put it in a safer place. But Grady doesn’t need to know that.”
So, after getting Grady moved in and a room prepared for Penelope, Mildred said she’d done all she could do. Although much relieved to have Horace so capably cared for, she nonetheless mourned over what she called the loss of her husband’s companionship.
“It’s as if thirty-five years of marriage never existed,” she said. “We have nothing to talk about. He still refers to me as his mother and thinks he’s living in Virginia where he grew up. Actually, I think that’s where he was trying to go all those times when he walked off. He keeps talking about getting ready to go home, and it just does me in to have all our years together erased as if they’d never been.”
After hearing that, I thanked the Lord that both Sam and I still seemed to know each other, although it scared me to death when I forgot a hair appointment with Velma not two days later.
So, as Mildred’s household seemed to settle down with Horace in good hands and Ida Lee, with Doreen’s help, managing everything else, the days were soon accomplished that a child was added to the mix.
Chapter 17
After a phone call from Tonya about a week later, Ida Lee and Mildred went to the airport to pick up Penelope, with Ida Lee driving since Mildred was too nervous. Tonya, it seemed, was much too busy to accompany the child to her new home, so Penelope was flying in alone.
I waited at home, almost as nervous as Mildred, to hear what the child was like and to try to stop imagining a few harrowing events that would unhinge Mildred and scar the child for life. Let’s face it, the Allen household was not an ideal place to raise a child, especially one who had just been adopted from who knew what awful circumstances, and then been upended from that new home to be sent off to live with another set of strangers.
And let’s face this, too, from the thoughtless way Tonya had adopted Penelope without a word to her mother, it was fairly clear that Mildred hadn’t done such a good job with raising the child that she’d had under more normal circumstances.
I feared for Penelope, not for her physical well-being—she would have the best of everything—but for her little soul. She had been seemingly tossed aside by both natural parents and adoptive parent. Needing some reassurance, I said as much to Lillian.
“Chil’ren can overcome, Miss Julia,” she told me. “They’s a lot of ’em that have worse than that happen, an’ they come out all right. All they need is one somebody that cares, an’ that can be anybody.” And she gave me a good, long stare.
I didn’t quite know what to make of that, but I filed it away for future reference.
“So,” I said, “what do you think of asking Penelope over to play with Latisha some afternoon? Would Latisha like that?”
“She sure would,” Lillian said, turning back to peel more potatoes. “You know how she like to be the teacher, so she’ll take that little girl under her wing.” Lillian chopped up the last of the p
otatoes, then said, “I jus’ hope Penelope don’t mind bein’ bossed half to death.”
* * *
—
“Miss Julia?” Etta Mae Wiggins said when I answered the phone that afternoon. “I did what you said and talked to Mr. Blair. He was real nice, except he kept asking if I was sure I wanted to buy a business.” She paused as if thinking of what he’d said. “I think he was making sure that I could afford it, and of course I can’t. But I didn’t say that, just thought about what you would’ve said. So I told him that it depended on how good the business is and how much the seller wants for it, just like you told me to say.”
“That was good, Etta Mae. I’m sure you did fine. So,” I went on, “what’ve you found out? How much is it?”
When she told me what Lurline Corn wanted for the business alone, then more than doubled it for the business with the property, it almost took my breath away. “What,” I gasped, “did Mr. Blair say?”
“He said she must think she’s sitting on a gold mine. I guess that means she’s asking too much. I mean, I thought it was too much, but anything would be for me.”
“Etta Mae,” I said, quite firmly, “you have to stop thinking that way. You have access to a reasonable amount for that business—it’s as good as in your pocketbook—so you have to begin acting like it.”
“Well, I’ll try, but, Miss Julia, I’ve never bought anything that I couldn’t put on layaway, and this seems so far out of my reach that it’s hard to believe.”
“Believe it, because we’re going to look into it and make an offer if the business is worth it. Did Mr. Blair get any records that’ll show how the business is doing?”
“Yes’m, he gave me some copies, but I’m not sure I know how to read them.”