Miss Julia Takes the Wheel

by Ann B. Ross

  So while Sam began describing his back spasm episode, praising Dr. Crawford’s wonder tablets to the skies, I kept my silence. Sooner or later, I would have to tell Sam of my reservations about the way the doctor doled out a generous dose of a prescription drug. But for now, it seemed that Sam’s back was behaving itself specifically because he knew he had something on hand that would stop the pain if it came back. That’s called the placebo effect, I think.

  After commiserating with Sam, the Pickenses quickly caught us up with their news—the little girls’ colds had about run their course, James was still complaining of feeling run down, Granny Wiggins was back on the job, and Lloyd was spending most of his spring break working on an essay of some kind.

  “He’s up in his room practically all day every day,” Hazel Marie said. “But now that the weather has warmed up, he needs to be out more. Apparently it’s a research paper he’s working on, and he says he’d rather get it done now instead of waiting till the last minute. Which, I guess, is a good thing.”

  “Well,” Mr. Pickens said, “it better be. He’s falling down on the Rosewood house.”

  “Oh, surely not,” I said, disturbed that Lloyd might not be pulling his weight. “He was thrilled about working on that house with you. And he told me that you were at a stopping place—something about waiting for the drywall crew.”

  Mr. Pickens nodded. “That’s right, but he was supposed to check at least once a day to see how they’re coming along. I’m not sure he’s been over there since Monday at all.”

  “Oh,” Hazel Marie said, quickly coming to her boy’s defense, “I expect it’s because he’s not been able to drive, don’t you? I mean, with you gone and my having to stay in with the girls.”

  Sam smiled. “It’s hard to go back to a bicycle once you get your hands on a car. And he may feel he’s in the way, what with men on stilts mudding the ceilings.”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Pickens conceded. “I just don’t want him starting something he’s unwilling to finish. Besides, he needs to make some money to pay for that run-in he had with a Lexus.”

  I made no comment to that, knowing already that Mr. Pickens and I had some differences in how to raise a boy. I knew, in a way, that he was right, but I didn’t like it.

  So I sat listening to the discussion, feeling deeply concerned about what was after all most likely a typical teenage reaction. But reaction to what? Was he simply tired of construction work? Had he lost the thrill of being a partner in Pickens and Son? Had the accident at McDonald’s crushed his spirit or damaged his dignity? Or was his inattention to the little house related to whatever he’d seen that he’d almost told me about?

  While these thoughts raced through my mind, I felt some discomfort for not having asked Lloyd to drive Mildred and me the past few days. For that reason, he could be thinking, after our close call with a farm truck and an even closer one with a Lexus bumper, that I didn’t want to ride with him again. But the fact of the matter was that Mildred had wanted to make a few extra stops, stretching our two-hour daily outing to three or four hours, and I had thought to spare him the bother. It had taken all my patience to run Mildred’s many errands as it was.

  “But you know,” I said, feeling the need to mount a defense, “that he’s given up some of his afternoons to drive Mildred to visit Horace, which is a good deed in itself. And,” I said, turning to Mr. Pickens, “I expect he’ll come around now that you’re back. The fun of it for him would be working with you, not standing around checking on the work of strangers. Besides,” I went on, dredging up a possibility, “the drywall crew may have made him feel in the way. Or something.”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Pickens said again. “But I don’t want him feeling sorry for himself because he has to ride his bike when we can’t drop everything to let him drive.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “He comes to see us on his bike all the time.” But had he lately? What with being at Mildred’s beck and call, I couldn’t be sure.

  Our dinners were served then, and the conversation turned to other matters. I, however, continued to fret over Lloyd’s apparent disinterest in the house on Rosewood Lane.

  * * *

  —

  The following morning I sat down alone, held my new smart phone that had replaced my much-easier-to-use fliptop, and devoted twenty minutes to sending a text to Lloyd. This was to accomplish two things: to get Lloyd out of the house and to practice the art of texting. After using the delete key more often than any other, I managed to type and send a message:

  WOuld u like to drIVe Mrs. A & me this afernoon?

  The answer came back before I put the phone down:

  Yes! What time?

  Feeling exhilarated by his enthusiasm and what I assumed was his eagerness to have a chance to drive, I replied:

  See u about 3,

  then worried about ruining his ability to spell correctly.

  So, a little before three, I drove to the Pickens house, parked at the curb, walked over to the driveway where the aging Bonneville was idling in place with Lloyd behind the wheel.

  “I’m so glad you’re able to go,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat. “I was afraid your father would have you working at the house or that you’d be too engrossed in schoolwork.”

  “No’m, I’m happy to go. I just hope we don’t meet any farm trucks this time, and I’m not going to suggest McDonald’s again, either.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said, realizing that I had overworked that adjective, but using it anyway.

  We picked up Mildred, who, again, had trouble sliding on the upholstered backseat. Her dress got twisted up around her hips as she tried to slide, but couldn’t. Eventually, with Ida Lee’s help, she got her dress tail smoothed out beneath her, and we set out on another trip to visit Horace.

  “Well, I’m delighted,” Mildred said as soon as she was settled. “Lloyd, I’ll tell you, as much as I appreciate Julia’s help, I much prefer a man to be driving. A man just gives one confidence, don’t you think?”

  Lloyd glanced in the rearview mirror, a little smile on his face, and said, “Yes, ma’am, I hope so.”

  “Julia,” Mildred went on with scarcely a pause, “I’ve decided what car to get for Horace, and at first I was going to wait till he gets home. But now I’m thinking that it ought to be in the garage waiting for him. That way, he won’t have an excuse to put off buying it and, in the meantime, think he can get away with driving that Boxster car again. Don’t you think that’s the way to handle it?”

  “Well, maybe so,” I said, then pointing ahead, said, “Turn right at the sign, Lloyd.”

  He nodded, made the turn, and took us onto Staton Mill Road, which after numerous twists and curves would lead us to The Safe Harbor.

  “What kind did you decide on?” I asked, giving Mildred a quick look.

  “I decided to buy American, so I’m getting a Lincoln Town Car. You can’t beat them for comfort and room to stretch out in. And they must be easy to drive, because why else would every private agency use them?” She paused, then went on. “Of course, I’ve never driven one, but I’ve ridden in the backseat many times, so if Horace needs a driver, this is the perfect car for him. I’ve ordered a black one.”

  “Lincolns are lovely cars,” I said, “but I’ve never driven one, either. You might should give it a test run before you commit to it, Mildred. You know, to see how easy it is to steer for one thing. Horace will probably be limited to in-town driving for a while at least, so he’ll be turning a lot of corners.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Mildred said. “I’ll let Ida Lee do a test drive. I declare, I’ve gotten so used to being driven that I don’t even want to get behind a wheel again. Now,” she said after a deep sigh, “if I could only get Horace to feel the same way. He just goes crazy when he gets in the driver’s seat. I won’t ride with him anymore. Of
course,” she continued, laughing, “I can’t squeeze into the Boxster’s passenger seat in the first place.” She stopped, then, as if she’d just thought of it, asked, “You don’t suppose that’s the reason he loves that car so much, do you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think so,” I assured her. “I think some men prefer little sports cars for their power and speed and, I guess, their sleek looks. It must give them a sense of control.” I stopped, fearing that I’d come too close to the state of the Allens’ marriage, then added, “Or something.”

  “We’re here,” Lloyd said, flipping on the blinker to make a left turn into the rehab facility.

  “Oh, how nice,” Mildred said. “You’re such a good driver, Lloyd. I hardly minded the drive at all. I won’t be but thirty minutes, not a minute more. All Horace does is moan about the food, and that’s as long as I can put up with hearing it.”

  Lloyd pulled up beside the front door, jumped out to open Mildred’s door, and waited for her to struggle out. I was pleased with his gentlemanly conduct, although he hadn’t opened the door for Mildred the first time we’d come. But who could’ve blamed him then? We were both recovering from a close call and, to tell the truth, I’d been so shaken that I hadn’t even noticed that he’d remained in the car. As if to make up for his lapse, he not only opened the car door for her this time, he walked her to the door of the building.

  As he resumed his place behind the wheel, he asked, “You mind if we drive a little more?”

  “Not at all,” I said, pleased that he was eager to improve his skills. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Oh, I thought we could drive maybe another five miles or so, then turn around and come back. I’ve never been any farther on this road, and I’m thinking I ought to know the county better than I do. Now that I’m driving, I mean.”

  “I think so, too. Actually, it’s been years since I’ve been this far out in the county, so I don’t recall much of it.”

  I stopped, remembering the little crossroads community not much farther on where Hazel Marie had grown up and might still have distant kin living there. Did Lloyd know that? Should I mention it? I had no idea how much he knew or even how much he remembered of his young years when his real father visited him once a week on Thursday nights. All I knew was that it wasn’t my place to enlighten him.

  Unless, of course, he asked. So as he turned back onto the road and headed deeper into the county, I tried to prepare myself for any questions he might ask.

  “There’s a little convenience store with a couple of gas pumps not too far from here,” I said. “At least, there used to be. We can turn in there and get something to drink if you’d like. It’s a good place to turn around, too.”

  “Okay,” he said. Then driving with more confidence as the road opened out with little traffic before us, he went on. “It sure is pretty out here. Lots of fields and undeveloped areas this side of the mountains, but not many houses.”

  “Farming country.”

  “Uh-huh, I see a few houses way off in clumps of trees.” He laughed a little. “I guess people don’t much like having neighbors.”

  “Not close ones, anyway.”

  He suddenly looked up in the rearview mirror, braked a little, then resumed speed. “Did you see that?”

  “No,” I said, turning to look back. “All I see is the back of a car heading toward town.”

  “He was waiting at that little dirt road for traffic to clear before pulling out.”

  “I didn’t see him. Who was it?”

  “Well, I didn’t get a good look,” Lloyd said, “but I’m pretty sure it was Dr. Crawford. It was his car, anyway. Not that many silver Lexus SUVs in town. If it was him, they sure fixed that bumper in a hurry.”

  Chapter 36

  *

  “Doctors get special treatment, honey,” I said, straining to turn around for a better look. The car was just disappearing around a curve. “But what in the world would Dr. Crawford be doing way out here?

  “Although,” I went on, “I did hear that he was looking for some undeveloped property, and he’d certainly find it out here. But what would he do with it, I’d like to know.”

  “Maybe sell the timber on it?” Lloyd suggested. “There were trees on both sides of that dirt road he was coming out of.”

  “Who knows?” I said lightly, with a wave of my hand. “I admit to following his lead with the house on Rosewood, but I’m not interested in buying a forest.”

  Lloyd laughed at that. “Maybe he was seeing a patient who couldn’t get to the office.”

  “Not likely,” I said with just a tiny edge of sharpness. “If he couldn’t see Mr. Allen in the emergency room, he surely wouldn’t make a house call.”

  Lloyd turned into the graveled lot of Jimmy’s Gas & Groceries and stopped short of the gas pumps.

  “You want something to drink?” he asked.

  “No, but you run in if you want something.”

  “No’m, I’d as soon go on back. Maybe practice parallel parking, if Miss Mildred’s not ready.”

  So he turned the car around and headed back toward The Safe Harbor. I noticed that Lloyd was driving with more confidence—he even took one hand off the steering wheel for a few minutes.

  “Right there,” he said, pointing to a dirt road on our right as we passed. “That’s where that car was coming from.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, seeing nothing of note except a thick growth of scraggly pines on both sides of the dirt lane and a tilted mailbox with faded numbers, but no name, on it.

  Lloyd eased into the fairly sharp curve not far past the lane, and soon The Safe Harbor loomed before us on its well-manicured knoll. Lloyd slowed, then turned in.

  As he manuevered up the driveway, he said with some hesitation, “Uh, Miss Julia, I really didn’t see who was driving that car. It might not’ve been Dr. Crawford.”

  “I know, honey,” I said with a reassuring smile, “but don’t worry. I’m not going to spread the word around. It’s really none of our business who it was or what he was doing out here.”

  “Yes’m, but that car’s the only . . . , well, what I’m thinking is it could’ve been Mrs. Crawford. I mean, I guess it could’ve. I didn’t get a good look, but she drives it sometimes when she comes to check on their little house.

  “Oh, look,” he said, as we drew closer to the porte cochere, “there’s Miss Mildred. She’s waiting for us.”

  So that was the end not only of our speculation about an unusual car, but of our conversation in general. And, I realized with disappointment, the end of my hope that the boy would reveal what had so concerned him on our earlier drive.

  But maybe it no longer concerned him. Maybe after sleeping on it, whatever he’d seen had receded in importance to him. That would be fairly typical of teenage behavior, or so I had come to understand. If that was the case, then far be it from me to bring it to the forefront again.

  On the other hand, his apparent loss of interest in the little house on Rosewood continued to disturb me. It wasn’t like Lloyd to flit from one thing to another, leaving some undone and others only partially done. He had always had an even temperament that seemed to have grown stronger as he matured. So it bothered me that in this one area, he was beginning to show signs of indifference and inconsistency toward the work that he’d begun with such anticipation.

  Even worse was the thought that he’d turned sulky when his parents couldn’t drop everything whenever he wanted to drive. That was unattractive to even contemplate, and it saddened me to think of our boy sinking into a sullen resentment when he didn’t get his way. In fact, though, such an attitude was so foreign to Lloyd’s nature that I could scarcely credit it. I couldn’t believe that he could so quickly begin to think that riding a bicycle was beneath him.

  The trip back to town passed without incident, but not without a constant flow of words from Mildre
d. After dropping her off at her front porch, I knew I had only a few minutes to ease into the subject of Lloyd’s loss of interest in construction work.

  “So,” I began as he drove out of Mildred’s driveway, “how’s the little house coming along?”

  “It’s looking great,” he said with enough enthusiasm to ease my concerns. “J.D. went over with me this morning and the drywall looks really good. We’re going to start priming the walls tomorrow—at least that’s the plan. Seems like J.D. gets called away an awful lot, and I don’t like to start something by myself.” He gave a little laugh. “Afaid I’ll do something wrong and have to do it over. Or ruin something.”

  “Oh, I doubt you’d do that,” I said.

  “Well, I just feel better when J.D. is there, too. But,” he went on, “you should come by and see it, Miss Julia. We’ll be putting in kitchen and bathroom cabinets next week.”

  “I might just do that. You’ll be working all weekend?”

  “I hope so. But if you don’t see the Bonneville or J.D.’s car, don’t bother stopping. We won’t be there.”

  “What about your bike?” Then before he could answer, I went on. “Don’t you occasionally ride it over there?”

  “I have,” he said with a shrug, “but, you know, I’d rather not. Too much rain here lately.”

  Not that much, I thought to myself. But it would take getting caught in only one downpour to keep me home fairly permanently, so I didn’t push it.

  I walked to my car with a lighter step after Lloyd pulled into the Pickenses’ driveway. I had pinpointed Lloyd’s problem with the little house, and it was something that need cause no worries about his attitude toward work. He simply liked working with his father rather than, for fear of doing something wrong, by himself. Mr. Pickens should appreciate that and be pleased by it.