Miss Julia Knows a Thing or Two

by Ann B. Ross

  So, after a taste of winter, a few balmy days with the temperatures in the fifties and sixties, with the occasional inching up into the seventies, reminded us of why we preferred to live in the South. I sat in the library in a wing chair beside the east window, enjoying the sun beaming through as I made a few more Christmas lists.

  Lillian stuck her head around the hall door and said, “Miss Julia, come look at something out here in the kitchen.”

  “What is it?” I asked, putting aside my legal pad and rising.

  “You gotta see it,” she said, smiling, as I followed her to the window behind the kitchen table. “Look out there,” she said, pointing toward Mildred’s well-kept side yard.

  “Well, I never,” I murmured, as I peered through the glass at Horace Allen and Alicia, holding hands as they strolled along together.

  “That’s the second time they come around the house,” Lillian said. “’Cept this time they set down on one of Miss Mildred’s yard benches for a while. An’, Miss Julia, they was jus’ talkin’ away at each other, an’ Mr. Horace, he stopped one time an’ look like he was tellin’ ’Licia about a flower or something. An’ it looked like he know what he was talkin’ about, too.”

  “That is just so sweet,” I said, “but I wonder where Grady is.” Mr. Peeples was supposed to be watching Horace every minute to prevent him from wandering off. “You think he’s keeping an eye on them?”

  “Maybe he’s in the backyard, waitin’ for ’em to come back around.”

  “I hope so,” I said, wondering if I should call Mildred and tell her that Horace was on a looser rein than usual. It’s not easy to be a desirable neighbor. One never knows whether to report everything observed, thereby being referred to as nosy, or to keep one’s distance and be accused of being unneighborly. “Let’s keep an eye on them, Lillian. If they head for the sidewalk, I’ll call Mildred.”

  “Yes’m, ’cause we know Mr. Horace don’t know what day it is, and ’Licia don’t know where in the world she is, so somebody gotta watch out for ’em.”

  “That is the truth,” I said, “and furthermore, I sometimes wonder if Mildred herself knows up from down. Do you know what she was thinking just the other day?”

  “No’m.”

  “She was looking into boarding schools for Alicia. I couldn’t believe she’d send that child off to another new home, and I told her it was cruel to even consider such a thing.”

  “I’m glad you did, Miss Julia,” Lillian said. “That little thing jus’ a baby an’ she been moved around so much, she pro’bly think nobody wants her.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Mildred, and she told me not to get so exercised over it because she couldn’t find a school that would take a child so young. At least in Virginia, which is where she’d been looking. So she’s stuck with the local school and a tutor to catch Alicia up to whatever grade she’s in. And I’m glad. Public school was good enough for Lloyd, excellent for him, in fact. I told you about his PSAT score, didn’t I?” I stopped and allowed myself a moment of pride. “Public school will be good enough for Alicia, too, and good for her, as well.”

  * * *

  —

  I went back to my wing chair in the sun, but couldn’t get my mind focused on Christmas lists. Instead, I began thinking about the state of our schools. Granted, I was not exactly well-informed, having had no children of my own enrolled in them, but I’d picked up a good bit from hearing conversations among women who did.

  And it seemed to me that lately public schools in general, elementary through the high schools, were committed to turning out technicians, rather than well-rounded educated graduates. Yes, of course I knew that we were in the so-called Electronic Age, but was it really necessary to replace Ancient History and Latin with Web Design, Coding, software, hardware, and memes—whatever any of that was?

  I had read that in an earlier age, only those who knew Latin were considered even basically educated. Yet it had taken a temper tantrum by J. D. Pickens to persuade the school board to offer two semesters of Latin and Ancient History so that Lloyd and a few other students could have the basics of a classical education before going off to college.

  So maybe I’d been wrong in pushing a public school for Alicia. Maybe only private schools were still committed to an education beyond how to use a keyboard. But, no, I couldn’t believe that Alicia would benefit from being uprooted and sent away again. It could be that she’d be emotionally prepared for a boarding school in a few years, but at the present time, I strongly felt that what she needed was a stable home.

  And if Mildred didn’t understand that, I feared for that little girl. In fact, from the wider viewpoint of education in general, I feared for us all.

  It’s been said that those who don’t know history are bound to repeat it, and if you don’t believe that, just read even a little about the decline of the Roman Empire and compare it to what you read in the morning newspaper or hear on the news. High taxes, constant wars, large bureaucracies, falling birth rates, multiple divorces, social license, decreasing agricultural acreage, increasing city populations on the dole, incompetent governance, porous borders, rebellions, and increasing demands for government handouts. Does any of that sound familiar?

  Ah, well, bemoaning the state of affairs is the armchair version of getting up and doing something to help matters. But what could I do? Far be it from me to march in a protest or run for office. The only thing I might be able to do was to put in my two cents about the care and education of one small girl, and even that could be seen as none of my business. But, well, the same could’ve been said concerning Lloyd, my dead husband’s illegitimate son, but thank goodness I hadn’t said it.

  Sometimes, regardless of how determined one is to mind one’s own business, there are good and imperative reasons to speak one’s mind and to go as far as to meddle in the affairs of others in order to make things come out right. In such situations it really doesn’t matter how many new leaves you try to turn over.

  Chapter 22

  “Can you come over?” Mildred asked when I answered the phone. “I am at my wit’s end.”

  So I went and was now sitting across a tea table from her, waiting to hear how she was bearing up.

  “It’s Grady,” she said, heaving a great sigh. “Grady Peeples, who has so relieved me by looking after Horace. He’s come down with the flu or something. I had to send him home for fear that all that wheezing, sneezing, and nose blowing would infect Horace, who, as you know, Julia, simply cannot afford to get sick. He’s so vulnerable to everything that comes along even when he’s healthy, so in his present state I dare not expose him to anything that would make things worse than they are.”

  “Of course not,” I said, gingerly holding a cup and saucer. “You take such good care of him, Mildred. But I am sorry to hear that you’ve had to send Grady away. He seemed the answer to prayer.”

  “Oh, he certainly was—intense prayer, in fact. But now,” Mildred said with another sigh, “I’m right back where I was, trying to keep Horace occupied so he won’t wander off. But I have had help from a most unexpected source. You won’t believe this, Julia, but Penelope or Alicia or whoever she is has stepped up to the plate, so to speak.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I’ve seen the two of them walking around the yard. And, Mildred, they seemed to be engaged in an active conversation. She was holding his hand, and they were talking back and forth. Of course, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Alicia was talking much more than I’ve ever seen her do before. Just chattering away, in fact.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that. It has certainly been a pleasant surprise that they’ve taken to each other so well. She even reads to him, which is particularly helpful around dinner time when Horace usually gets so restless. Of course even as thankful for it as I am, it also saddens me. I mean, just picture me looking in on them in the upstairs sitting room and seeing that tiny l
ittle girl reading about Jack and the Beanstalk to my husband of so many years. And seeing him completely engrossed in the story.

  “Of course,” she went on, “Horace was never much of a reader in the first place, so perhaps he’d never heard that story. That would explain his interest.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would,” I said, agreeing even though my heart sank at the thought. “But I’m sure it encourages you to know how well Alicia reads.”

  “Well, it would have if she’d been reading something appropriate to his age and education. But,” she said dismissively, “a nursery rhyme book? I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, Mildred, the child is only, what? Seven years old? Eight? As small as she is, she could be even younger. I think you should be grateful that she’s helping him pass the time. Better Jack and the Beanstalk on his mind than a little red Boxster car.”

  “You’re right,” Mildred said. “I know you’re right, and there’s something very dear about her concern for him. She’s not asked one question about his condition. She just seems to know that he has to be watched and cared for. It couldn’t have come at a better time since Grady’s out of the picture. Temporarily, I devoutly hope, because I’m the one who has to see that Horace showers and dresses. After that, she seems to take over. I’m so glad I ordered the Ken doll along with the Barbie, because Horace is entranced with all the outfits to put on and take off. Of course, he’s always been interested in fashion—Armani, especially—so it’s quite sweet to watch them select the styles for their various outings.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I murmured as a wave of sadness swept over me at the decline of such a once-dashing man-about-town. Then to steer the conversation away from that depressing subject, I said, “Latisha is coming over after school at least one day next week. I’ll let you know when, because we’d love to have Alicia, too, if you can spare her.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure she’ll want to although Horace will miss her. That is, if he even notices that she’s gone. But,” Mildred went on, “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve decided to honor my grandmother’s memory and Tonya’s choice by calling the child Penelope. I’ve thought long and hard about it, Julia, and since Tonya is making her a Beasley legally, then we should firmly embed her into the family and the sooner the better.”

  I was nonplussed, whatever that meant. “But, Mildred, won’t that confuse the child? I don’t think . . .”

  Mildred waved her hand. “I’m doing the best I can for her, and right now it has to be Penelope so I can at least pretend she’s a Beasley. Although when I look into those black eyes which no Beasley has ever had . . .” She sighed as if long-suffering were her portion in life. “I might as well tell you, Julia, that I have little choice in the matter. Tonya called last night and I was so excited to tell her that we’d learned that Alicia is the child’s name. But she’d known it all along and told me in no uncertain terms that it has to be Penelope—some legal matter apparently pertaining to Tonya’s trust fund, which she herself changed. So Alicia is out. We are all to call her Penelope. I know it’s a mouthful, but, please, no Penny. Tonya was adamant about that. In a sense, she gave me my marching orders—so different, you know, from my Tony—but, it is a family name so I’m inclined to agree with her. You don’t mind explaining it to Lillian and Latisha, do you?”

  To Lillian and Latisha? And who, I wondered, would explain to Alicia? I opened my mouth to say something but nothing came out, so shaken was I at the absolute gall not only of Tonya but of Mildred for playing so fast and loose with a child’s sense of herself.

  “Well, anyway,” Mildred went on as if having taken care of one problem she was moving on to the next, “speaking of school, I’ve discussed the situation with the powers-that-be, and since it’s so close to the Christmas break, they’ve advised me to wait until the next semester to enroll her. That way she’ll have more time to become acclimated before starting school.”

  “That sounds like good advice,” I said, wishing she’d had some of the same when it came to names. The cup tinkled in my saucer, and I realized my hand was shaking. Pulling myself together, I murmured, “What grade will she be in?”

  “Well, I’ve found some papers that say she’s eight years old, so she should be in the third grade. But since she’ll start with only half a year to go, they say it’ll be better to hold her back in the second grade.” Mildred sighed. “Which, in a way, is a shame. Tonya was such a good student, you know.”

  I blinked at the non sequitur, since it did not follow that Tonya’s abilities would’ve had any effect on Penelope Alicia, her having been adopted and all. So, using all my accumulated social skills to manage an untenable situation, I commiserated again with the loss of Grady, confirmed the playdate, and took my leave, wondering all the while if Mildred, herself, hadn’t become slightly unhinged.

  * * *

  —

  Blowing through the kitchen door, shedding my coat as I came, I sang out, “Lillian, Mildred Allen is losing her mind. Do you know what she’s doing now?”

  Lillian looked up from the sack of beans in her lap. “No’m. All I know’s it’s too early to be buyin’ a mess of green beans.”

  “Well, she’s . . .” I looked around. “Alicia’s not here, is she?”

  “No’m, she still walkin’ with Mr. Horace, last I looked.”

  “Oh, well, good.” I pulled out a chair from the table, sat down, and caught my breath. “She doesn’t need to hear this, except sooner or later, she will. And it will be a miracle if she doesn’t turn out to be the most confused child in three states. Now, Lillian,” I said, leaning toward her, “you heard just as I did that Alicia told us—well, told Latisha first—that her name is Alicia. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes’m, I cert’ly did.”

  “Well, and you know that Tonya in the most high-handed way possible took it on herself to change that perfectly good name to Penelope, which is what she told her mother, I mean, Penelope’s grandmother . . . I mean, told Mildred what her name was to be. So, Mildred didn’t know that it was actually Alicia until we told her. Right?”

  “That’s right.” Lillian snapped a green bean. “You tole her.”

  “And she went back and forth about it right in front of my eyes, saying first that Tonya was to be commended for naming the child Penelope so she’d feel a part of the family. But then she—Mildred, I mean—turned on a dime and decided that Alicia was a name that reflected a certain high South American heritage, something I never knew, and was, therefore, the preferred one. But now, now, Lillian, she’s decided that it has to be Penelope after all because it honors a Beasley ancestor and it might hurt Tonya’s feelings if it’s not used. Well!” I flung out my arms in frustration at something so simple having been made so complicated. “Who cares about Tonya’s feelings? Who’s thinking of Alicia’s feelings? Or Penelope’s? Or whatever her name is?”

  I sank back into the chair, surprised by my own vehemence. “Anyway,” I said, calming myself, “at least now Mildred has tacked both names onto the child, though she can’t decide which should come first to make the most attractive set of initials for monogramming.”

  “So,” Lillian said, “what we s’posed to call her?”

  I thought for a minute, then, reassuring myself, said, “Alicia. Alicia, because that’s what she herself told us. Who should know better, I ask you. I mean,” I went on, “you don’t just change a child’s name willy-nilly on a whim. Why, Lillian, your name is your identity. It’s who you are, and what your parents chose for you. And that little girl doesn’t have her parents anymore and she’s been dragged all over creation, and now, strange people keep changing her name. She won’t even know who she’s supposed to be. I could just cry.” And to my surprise, I just about was. “It’s hurtful, Lillian, and I am just done in at Mildred’s lack of sensitivity for Alicia’s feelings. Or if she happens to be Penelope—hers, either.”

  “Well, Mis
s Julia,” Lillian said, “Miss Mildred, she got a lot on her right now, an’ she tryin’ to please ev’rybody while tryin’ to decide who need pleasin’ the most.”

  “You’re right, Lillian, as you usually are and I think, deep down, that it’s Tonya who burdens her the most. And with good reason, I should think, considering the thoughtless way Tonya is treating her.

  “And then there’s Horace. I should be more sympathetic, I guess, but I do worry about the child and what kind of damage all this up and down, back and forth, in and out about her name is doing to her.” I rested my head on my hand and sighed again. “So what do we do? Keep on calling her Alicia here in our house, but refer to her as Penelope in Mildred’s? I declare, I don’t know if I can keep them straight at the right place at the right time. How in the world will that little girl?”

  “Well,” Lillian said as she dumped a handful of snapped beans in a pan, “I tell you the best thing to do.”

  “What?”

  “Come up with another name that’ll work at both places and won’t make nobody mad for not sayin’ the right one at the right place.”

  “Another one? My word, Lillian, she has a gracious plenty already.” But then, because of a knowing smile lurking around Lillian’s mouth, I leaned forward and asked, “Like what?”

  “Think about it, Miss Julia. We all already do it all the time with Lloyd, an’ nobody think a thing about it. I think maybe Honey be a good one ’cause that’s what I call her now. It come kinda nat’ral, an’ it say a lot to her without botherin’ anybody else.”

  “Well, they Lord!” I said, blowing out my breath. “An affectionate name. Of course! That’s brilliant, Lillian. We won’t add to her confusion by using Alicia or upset Mildred by going against her wishes, and, you know what? I don’t really care what it does to Tonya.” I slapped my hand lightly on the table. “Honey, it is.”