by Ann B. Ross
Actually, I’d probably have to wait with her for the next bus going south, but I was determined not to leave the station with Trixie in tow. Fuming, I decided that I’d sit there with her if it took all day for the next southbound bus to come in. Let her surprise her grandmother instead of me by showing up out of the blue. And it would be a surprise because I’d been unable to get a phone number for Elsie—either because she didn’t have one or her last name was no longer Bingham even though that was the way she’d signed her letter.
She could’ve just signed it that way, I mused, so I’d know who she was. But then again, she’d mentioned Troy, so she was still married to the same man she’d started out with—Troy Bingham. Maybe, I thought, they used only a cell phone like a lot of people were doing. In which case, their number wouldn’t be listed. The possibility still existed, though, that they simply didn’t have a telephone—Troy hadn’t been that good a catch to begin with.
I let the car idle at a red light, remembering the handwritten wedding invitation we’d received from Elsie the year we’d both turned twenty-one—the year I’d resigned myself to spinsterhood. But not Elsie. She’d been looking for a husband since she’d been sixteen, and apparently Troy Bingham had been the first one to take her up on it. The invitation had been no more than a long boastful dig because she was getting a husband and I wasn’t.
Of course she changed her tune a few years later when Wesley Lloyd Springer came into the picture. Although she didn’t want him—and I didn’t much either—he was a financial catch, as no one knows better than me. Well, Sam and Binkie know, but that’s beside the point.
When that invitation had come, Elizabeth, my youngest sister, said, “I wouldn’t go to her wedding for all the tea in China.” And Victoria had added, “I still have nightmares about that summer. How Papa could’ve sent us to that family is beyond me.” Then they reminded me of the time that Elsie’s mother had chased down a chicken, wrung its neck, and fried it up for Sunday dinner. She’d put a wing on each of my sisters’ plates, looked at me, and said, “Too bad hens don’t come with three.” Then put the boney back on mine. Elsie had come by her meanness naturally.
Except for several preprinted birth announcements from Elsie—for which I’d sent gifts that had never elicited thank-you notes—that wedding invitation had been the last personal contact between us. Until now.
—
When I reached the bus station, I pulled in and parked. Then just sat there deciding how I’d tell Trixie that she wasn’t welcome. I could tell her that we were facing a terribly busy summer with plans to go abroad—I couldn’t flat-out lie and say we were definitely going—and her grandmother hadn’t given us enough time to change our plans. And besides, I didn’t have room for a guest. With all the remodeling I’d done—changing the sunroom into an office and the downstairs bedroom into a library—the only room available was the small one next to Lloyd’s room that Lillian and Latisha used when the weather was too bad for them to get home. It just wasn’t right to give their room to Trixie even though a snowfall was highly unlikely in July.
I glanced at my watch—a few minutes past twelve, but I’d called the station and the bus wasn’t due until twelve-thirty. Another thing Elsie had been wrong about.
Gritting my teeth as I thought about dashing a young girl’s hopes for the summer, I determined to be kind but firm. We just could not have her, that’s all there was to it. I’d have to be strong even if she teared up with disappointment—I was sure that Elsie had filled her head with unrealistic visions of my la-de-dah living, as she’d called it, so the girl was probably looking forward to a round of parties, teas, and dances all summer long, ending up with an engagement ring. Well, if that was the case, she might as well cry with disappointment now as do it at the end of the summer when none of that had come to pass.
Wonder, I thought, if every family has some Binghams around somewhere on the outskirts of their lives. Probably so, I decided, they just don’t let on about it.
Then I began to wonder what Trixie looked like and how I would recognize her. Sam had said that with a name like Trixie, she was probably an outgoing, perky little thing. “The only Trixie I’ve ever known,” he said, “was a cheerleader.” But the name conjured up a different association for me. I rubbed my neck where the only Trixie I’d ever even heard of had almost pinched my head off. Lillian, however, when I moaned to her about unwanted guests, said, “The onliest Trixie I know is my neighbor’s ole dog that sleep under the porch. The girl got to be better’n that.”
Looking at my watch again, I got out of the car and went into the small bus station. It was almost empty—only a few tired-looking travelers sitting in the rows of plastic chairs. I sniffed at the sight of ticket stubs and candy wrappers littering the floor and walked over to the ticket window.
“Could you tell me, please,” I asked of the man behind the grate, “when the next bus to Vidalia, Georgia, comes in?”
He smoothed his thin mustache as his eyes traveled up and around the window—thinking, I supposed. Then he cleared his throat. “That would be your Jacksonville bus. Twelve-forty-five.”
“Really!” I exclaimed, pleased beyond words that I could put Trixie on a southbound bus as soon as she stepped off the northbound one.
“A.M.,” he said, and I had to hold on to the ticket shelf to steady myself.
More than twelve hours to wait. I couldn’t believe it. Well, nothing could be done about it—I’d have to take her home, give her dinner, and bring her back in the middle of the night.
I turned to walk away, disappointed and about half angry, wondering if I could put Trixie on a plane or hire a car service—anything to get her on the way out of Abbotsville.
The roar of a heavy motor and the screech of brakes announced the arrival of a bus. I walked outside to see a cloud of black smoke issuing from the rear of the bus as it pulled in and parked. When the door opened, passengers began to descend the steps to the platform—mothers with babies, a soldier, two unkempt men with paper sacks rolled up under their arms, an old woman with a scarf around her head, a heavyset girl with a shopping bag, and two attractive young women who didn’t seem to be together.
I walked over to the most likely one, smiled, and asked, “Trixie?”
She gave me a scornful look and said, “I don’t talk to strangers, especially in a bus station.” And walked away.
Just as the public address system came to life, announcing, “Bus for Asheville, Knoxville, and points in between now loading at Gate Three,” I approached the other teenager, who was struggling with a large suitcase.
“Trixie? Are you Trixie Bingham?”
“No, ma’am,” she said, hefting the suitcase from one hand to the other, “but I wish I was. I need help with this thing.”
Hope sprung in my breast—maybe Elsie had changed her mind and kept Trixie home. Turning away, I started for my car, thinking that I’d done my part by meeting the noon bus. It wasn’t my fault that Trixie wasn’t on it.
“Uh, ma’am,” a voice said to my back. “I’m Trixie.”
It’s a good thing that I’d had so much experience in handling sticky social situations—you know, the kind that embarrass or shock you, but which have to be managed without letting your true feelings show. This was one of those situations that demanded careful control of my face and voice, because Trixie turned out to be a short, stocky, almost muscular, and not-so-young woman with stringy hair and a sweating face that flushed bright red when I turned to look at her.
“Trixie?” I said, almost strangling on the word.
She ducked her head and clutched a wrinkled Target’s shopping bag closer. “Yes’m, that’s me.”
Lord, even if I’d been looking forward to giving the girl a social whirl in Abbotsville society—such as it was—this was impossible. I glanced down at her hairy legs and large toenails—painted purple—sticking out of dusty sandals,
taking in her bitten fingernails on my way, and realized that this situation called for every iota of self-control and social poise that I possessed.
“How do you do, Trixie,” I managed to get out. “I’m Julia Murdoch. You may address me as Miss Julia while you’re here. But speaking of that, let me say that I’m sorry that you’ve made such a long trip in vain. Ordinarily, we would be happy to have you, but unfortunately, it seems that our plans for the summer call for us to be away. I’m afraid your visit will be an abbreviated one, and you’ll have to return home tonight.”
She shrugged her shoulders, mumbled, “Okay,” and looked from side to side—anywhere but at me.
Well, that was easily done, I thought, as she seemed unruffled by the prospect of a quick round trip. To be sure that she understood, though, I went on. “Yes, as much as we’d like to have you, our summer is completely taken up. But you’ll have dinner with us, then I’ll bring you back about midnight. I expect you can sleep on . . .” I stopped as the girl shifted from one foot to the other, then bent over, shuddering ever so slightly. “My goodness, are you all right?”
“I got to pee real bad.”
“Oh,” I said, my eyes widening. “Well, run into the station. There’ll be a ladies’ room there.”
“Meemaw said they’s nasty people in ’em. I can wait till we get to your house.”
Meemaw? That, I supposed, would be Elsie, but, I declare, I could think of half a dozen more acceptable names for a grandmother—Nana, Grandmommy, Grandmom, Grammy, even Granny—but Meemaw? Thank goodness, I didn’t have the problem, having had no children. Therefore, no grandchildren.
“Well, come on then. Let’s get you home.” I led her toward the car, wondering why she’d brought up the subject if she was able to wait. Then, stopping, I said, “Your luggage! Is it still on the bus?”
“They’s a suitcase somewhere,” she said, making no move to retrieve it. Then she swung the shopping bag around. “My good stuff’s in here.”
“That’s all? For the summer?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice.
Never meeting my eyes, she mumbled, “Meemaw said I’d need different clothes up here, and you’d know what to buy.”
“Get in the car then,” I said, opening the door and thinking that her Meemaw probably expected me to buy the clothes, too. “I’ll see about your suitcase.” Walking back to the bus where the driver was emptying the baggage compartment, I found Trixie’s huge, Samsonite suitcase—the kind with no wheels—among several others. When I tried to drag the thing to the car, the bus driver took pity and put it in the trunk for me.
With that done, I rounded the car to the driver’s side, steeling myself for several afternoon hours of Trixie’s company, while looking forward to the time I could put her on that midnight bus to Georgia.
Chapter 5
As I pulled away from the bus station and headed for home, Trixie sat slumped in the seat beside me, her straight hair falling over the side of her face. I glanced surreptiously toward her several times, thinking that if I were to take her on for the summer, the first thing I’d tackle would be the state of her posture. I wanted to say, “Head up, shoulders back. Sit up straight and act like a lady,” but I didn’t. She was not my problem.
Making an effort to assume the role of hostess, regardless of how brief the role, I tried to draw her out, asking about her trip, her family, her interests—all to no avail. She answered with a mumbled “No’m,” “Yes’m,” or “I guess.” It was enough to make me want to shake her and forcefully say, “Speak up!”
But to tell the truth, the girl needed more than a pep talk, and I was more and more relieved that I wasn’t the one responsible for providing what she needed. Take that hair, for instance. It wasn’t just that her dark roots were showing, it was that the roots had grown out some five or six inches, leaving the bottom five or six inches a brassy blond shade with an undertone of—would you believe—pink.
She took a sudden sharp breath, then crossed her legs, giving me a sudden sharp fear of possible damage to my leather seats. I turned into a Shell station and parked at the side.
“Go use the bathroom, Trixie,” I said. “The door’s unlocked.”
She squirmed, an agonized expression on her face. “Meemaw said—”
“And I say go use the bathroom before you ruin your kidneys.”
That was all she needed. She was out of the car in a flash, scuttling toward the ladies’ room door, while I waited and waited. I sat, hoping that relief would loosen her tongue and brighten her outlook, neither of which occurred.
When she came out of the ladies’ room, I watched as she hurried—no, scuttled was the correct word—back to the car, her shoulders hunched over and her eyes darting fearfully from side to side. What in the world had her grandmother put in her head?
Maybe she was shy and self-conscious—painfully so, from the looks of her. It could be, though, that she only needed a little self-confidence, which she would gain from having a complete makeover. I’d start with hair restoration and styling, professional makeup, manicure, pedicure, more appropriate clothes than the baggy sheath she was wearing, posture and elocution lessons, a book on manners and etiquette, a low-calorie diet, an exercise regimen, and a Lady Schick razor. But she wasn’t my problem.
When I turned into the driveway at home and stopped the car, Trixie stared out the window. “This it?” she asked in the same flat tone she’d been using.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “That’s why we stopped.” Then regretted my sharp reply.
“I thought it’d be bigger,” she said, and I stopped regretting anything but bringing her home.
“Well, come in and meet everybody,” I said, getting out of the car. “We usually go in the back door because we park near it. You can leave your things in the car, since we’ll be going back in a few hours.”
“Meemaw said not to leave this,” she said, hefting herself out of the car, carrying the sack with her.
“Then bring it,” I said, shrugging as I led her to the door. The girl had barely said two dozen words, and already she’d rubbed me the wrong way.
She followed me into the kitchen, stopped short at the sight of Lillian at the counter, and whispered, “That your maid?”
Ignoring the question, I said, “Lillian, this is Trixie Bingham, who is visiting for a few hours. And Trixie, this is Lillian, housekeeper and friend.”
“We glad to have you, Miss Trixie,” Lillian said, drying her hands as Trixie frowned and turned away without responding.
“Trixie’s a little shy, Lillian,” I said, giving her a roll of my eyes. “Is Sam in the library? He’ll want to meet her.”
Trixie, still clasping her sack, followed me into the library where I introduced her to Sam. He, of course, was his usual courteous self, standing to greet her and extending his hand.
Misunderstanding the gesture, she mumbled, “It’s not heavy. I’ll hold on to it.” At which, Sam’s eyebrows shot up.
“Well,” he said, “it’s nice to meet you, Trixie. I expect you’ve had a tiring journey, would you like to rest a while?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she mumbled.
“Come then,” I said. “I’ll take you upstairs where you can freshen up. We’ll have lunch in a few minutes, then you might want to take a nap.”
—
Even though Sam and I usually had lunch in the kitchen, Lillian had set the table in the dining room. When I saw the crocheted place mats and the centerpiece of fresh flowers, I knew that she had taken extra pains in honor of our guest. The first course was cups of chilled strawberry soup. After Sam said grace, Trixie—without following the lead of her hostess—picked up a teaspoon, took one taste, and screwed up her mouth. Then she put her spoon back on the place mat.
“Don’t you care for it?” I asked. “I think it’s nice on such a hot day.”
Trixie
shook her head. “Mine didn’t get heated up.” And she cast a sullen glance in Lillian’s direction.
“Oh, well,” I said, as Lillian brought in plates filled with curly lettuce and fruit, covered with poppy seed dressing. “Perhaps you’ll like the fruit plate better. Oh, look, Lillian has made cream cheese and pecan sandwiches on date-nut bread. This is a treat, Lillian. I feel as if we’re at a ladies’ luncheon, don’t you, Sam?”
“I do, indeed,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I love ladies’ luncheons. I go to them all the time.”
“Oh, you,” I said, laughing, but Trixie just stared at him.
She played around with the canteloupe, strawberries, melon, and kiwi slices on her plate, taking tentative bites now and then, but clearly not enjoying her lunch. All I could think of was how glad I was that I would not be taking her to any real ladies’ luncheons in Abbotsville. If she didn’t like fruit, she probably wouldn’t care for quiche, so what would she eat?
Finally I took pity and asked, “Is there anything you’d rather have for lunch?”
“You got any Doritos or Fritos? I could eat that and maybe some onion dip.”
Lillian’s mouth dropped open.
I quickly said, “I’m sorry, but no, we don’t have anything like that. In fact, we rarely have snacks in the house. What about a peanut butter sandwich?”
“A ’mater sandwich would be better,” Trixie said, “but I’ll take it if that’s all you got.” As if we were woefully deprived of food.
So Trixie had a tomato sandwich for lunch, carefully prepared by Lillian but for which she received no thanks. In fact, when the plate was set before her, Trixie eyed both the sandwich and Lillian as if she suspected some lurking trickery somewhere.
After that unsuccessful luncheon, I suggested that Trixie might like to rest for a while. I made the mistake, though, of mentioning that the room was kept for Lillian and Latisha on the rare occasions they couldn’t get home, hoping to subtly indicate that I was unprepared for an unexpected long-term visitor. Trixie stopped short in the middle of the room, staring at the bed.
