Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  “Yes, you can. Look, Miss Julia, I retyped your speech and included everything you changed. All you have to do is stand up there and read it. And don’t worry about explaining why you’re here and Mr. Sam’s not. Whoever introduces you will probably cover that.”

  As if in a trance, I walked with Lloyd into the large meeting room where military flags stood in stanchions, and service emblems, along with pictures of presidents, generals, and Medal of Honor winners, hung on the walls. Men and a few women of all ages, but mostly elderly, milled around the room, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and eating glazed doughnuts. As we entered the room, every one of them turned and looked us over. I thought I would die or maybe faint.

  A slender man with a full mustache broke away and greeted us, but I declare, I couldn’t tell you his name. My hearing was gone and my vision, filled as it was with that huge crowd, was fading in and out of some kind of fog.

  Lloyd spoke with him—I could only nod my head—then Lloyd took my hand and led me to a low platform in front of the room. “Just take one of the chairs, Miss Julia,” he whispered, “and get up when he introduces you. I’ll be in the audience. Here, let me hold your pocketbook. You have your speech?”

  I nodded, although by this time the paper was wadded up in my sweaty hand. I sat down, tucked in my skirt tail so I wouldn’t shock the audience, and saw a podium with a microphone stuck on it. Oh, Lord, spare me.

  The man with the mustache went to the podium, told the crowd to quiet down and sit down, and took a few minutes to go over some items of interest to everyone but me. I didn’t hear a word he said, but then before I knew it and long before I was ready, he called my name.

  I rose unsteadily, then teetered to the podium, looked out over a haze of faces, and wished for the Rapture. Then one face stood out in the fog—Lloyd’s, several rows back but smiling with encouragement.

  I leaned toward the microphone, took a deep breath, blew it out, and was startled to hear it reverberate around the room. Moving a few inches back, I smoothed out my speech, determined now to read the thing and get it over with.

  I couldn’t see one word. Every one of them had disappeared or else I had gone blind, and the crinkled page itself seemed to go and come in my shaking hand. Even worse, I knew my skirt was trembling along with my knees and I was just before heaving in front of all those veterans of foreign wars.

  But then I heard myself speaking. I mean, I just opened my mouth and words came out—not the words on the paper, because I couldn’t see them, but words—if they would just keep coming, that would get me through the next few minutes, then out of that place.

  “I know you were expecting Sam to be here,” I started off, “and, believe me, you aren’t the only one.” I paused as a low murmur rippled across the room. I sought out Lloyd’s face, the only one I could discern, and he gave me an encouraging thumbs-up even though he knew I wasn’t following the script. I opened my mouth again.

  “But don’t give up on him,” I went on. “The next time he’s scheduled to be here, he will be, because if I get through this today, you can be sure I won’t.” Another murmur, louder this time, swept the room, unnerving me to the point that I knew I’d better hurry and finish—you never know what an unruly crowd will do.

  “However . . .” I stopped, cleared my throat, and wished I’d gone to the bathroom before speaking. “However, I expect many of you already know Sam Murdoch, especially those of you who’ve been in trouble with the law.” A ripple of laughter interrupted me, so I ran my hand down the bodice of my dress, making sure that a button wasn’t undone. Disregarding such rudeness, I pushed on, aiming toward a stopping place. “And the fact that you’re here today and not in jail or fighting foreclosure proves that you know what a good lawyer he is. Was, I mean, because he’s retired, which is why he’s able to run for office. He’ll be just as good a state senator as he was a lawyer—looking after your interests in Raleigh. I mean, looking after your interests here while he’s in Raleigh—bringing in jobs, widening the road, doing something about taxes, opening his door—his office door, not the door to our home—to everyone, and I assure you that he will not forget to pile up manure in Raleigh. I mean, in the south forty. Wherever that is.”

  Out-and-out laughter stopped me in my tracks. One man slapped his thigh and another nearly fell out of his chair. I ignored it all because I didn’t know what was so funny and, even better, I could see the end in sight. And when I reached it, I intended to head for the car and the road home, never to return.

  “So if you want the best man to represent you, to speak for you and to you, you will vote for Sam Murdoch. He is without doubt the best man for the job, and I ought to know—I live with him every day.”

  I stepped back, folded my unused speech, and was struck still by thunderous applause. Before I could get off the platform, people surrounded me, shaking my hand, telling me I could come back anytime, and that it hadn’t mattered what I said, they’d already planned to vote for Sam.

  —

  “Oh, Lord, Lloyd,” I said when we were finally back in the car. My hands were still so shaky I could hardly get the key in the ignition. “It was awful, just awful. Let’s get away from here.”

  “No, it wasn’t awful,” Lloyd said, staunchly supportive as he always was. “I’m telling you, they loved it, especially the pile of manure. They’ve heard so many political speeches saying the same ole things that you just blew them away.”

  I pulled out onto the highway, wanting away from that place as quickly as I could be gone. “I heard them, Lloyd. They were uneasy, whispering and murmuring, wondering what in the world I was saying. There must’ve been a hundred people there, all of them ready to tell me to shut up and leave.”

  “No’m, I counted. There were twenty-six, counting you and me.”

  “Is that all? Seemed like more to me.”

  “And all that murmuring you heard? They were smiling and grinning and enjoying what you said. And that’s the truth, because I was right there with them.”

  “Well, it didn’t sound like it. But I’m just glad it’s over. I’ve always been glad when anybody’s speech is over, but I never knew what a relief it is to finish one of your own.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Keep that thought, because you have to do it three more times today.”

  “How can I?” In my agitation, I let the car drift onto the dirt shoulder. Swinging it back onto the road, I moaned, “I don’t even know what I said!”

  —

  We got back to Abbotsville just in time to go to the Kiwanis luncheon, the next stop on our itinerary for the day. I don’t want to talk about that except to say that I might’ve been able to eat something if they’d had the speeches before the meal instead of after. As it was, I could hardly manage a bite for fear of leaving something between my teeth and for getting more and more frightened of standing up in front of that crowd—much larger than the VFW group—which was accustomed to hearing well-delivered oratory.

  And on top of that, their business meeting went on and on interminably, so as I noticed several yawns and lots of droopy eyelids throughout the audience, I decided to do them and me a favor. I would cut my speech to the bone.

  “I’m here,” I said when I was finally introduced as Sam Murdoch’s “better half,” “to urge you to vote for Sam Murdoch for the state senate. There are some pamphlets by the door for you to pick up as you leave, so you don’t need me to tell you what you can read for yourself. Let me just assure you that Sam will represent you with honesty and integrity. Thank you for my lunch, your time, and your vote. Good afternoon.”

  —

  “How did it go, Lloyd?” I asked as we got into the car to travel to the next event.

  “Well, it probably could’ve been a little longer. You know, to mention the things Mr. Sam wants to do. But I heard several people say they were glad they didn’t have to listen to a long speech.”
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  “That’s okay then,” I said, “because I didn’t want to give one. Most of them were half asleep by the time they got to me, anyway.”

  “I guess, but maybe you ought not cut it down much more. Pretty soon you’d be saying, ‘Vote for Sam Murdoch,’ and nothing else.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s a thought.”

  —

  After driving down the mountain to Polk County, depending again on the electronic voice from the GPS to get us there, I parked in front of a brick ranch-style house in a hilly residential area.

  “Lloyd,” I said as I tried to do something with my hair using the mirror on the visor. “I’m hoping this will be easy. The hostess is an active party member, and she’s invited some friends and neighbors, hoping to interest them in volunteering.”

  “That’s good,” Lloyd said as we got out of the car. “You’re used to talking to ladies. You want me to stay in the car?”

  “Oh, no. I want you with me in case I lose my eyesight again. Don’t forget the pamphlets. They’ll cover whatever I happen to leave out.”

  Virginia Case was a well-girdled woman with a hairdo that featured a jaunty flip on one side of her head. She welcomed us into her home and led us to the living room where everything was beige except the eight or nine ladies sitting around and the abundance of crocheted doilies on every piece of furniture. She introduced me, pointed me to a straight chair, and asked Lloyd if he’d like to go outside and play on the swing.

  “He hands out Sam’s pamphlets,” I quickly said. “I need him to stay.” She frowned, but brought in another chair which she put out in the hall for him.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” Mrs. Case said, clapping her hands to get the attention of the group, none of whom were talking. They were too busy staring at me. “Ladies, we have a treat this afternoon. This is Sam Murdoch’s wife, who is helping him in his campaign for the state senate. She is a helpmeet in every sense of the word and a wonderful model for us to emulate as we all get behind our husbands and walk hand-in-hand toward success.”

  And then that woman proceeded to list off every one of Sam’s campaign points. I mean she didn’t miss a one, including the woes of the dairy farmers. I sat and listened, wondering what would be left for me to say. And the longer she talked, the madder I got. Why had I suffered agonies of stage fright on the way down the mountain to never have the stage? And why had my time been taken up that I could’ve better used to visit my hospitalized husband? Which of course I didn’t want to mention.

  “In conclusion,” she said, for which I thanked the Lord, “we’re disappointed not to have the candidate himself, but please welcome his wife. I promise you that the next time I invite you over, that handsome Sam Murdoch will be here.”

  By the time she finally stopped and turned to me with a peremptory wave of the hand to get up and do something, I was seething. With an effort of will, I said, “Thank you for having me. As Mrs. Case has so ably pointed out, Sam Murdoch is the ideal candidate and I hope you will vote for him. Your help will be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”

  And that was the end of that. Mrs. Case was somewhat offended that I declined the offer of tea and Pepperidge Farm cookies, but pleading another stop on our schedule, I ushered Lloyd out and hurried to the car.

  “Have you ever seen such a bossy woman?” I fumed as I turned the ignition. “I thought she’d never stop talking. We could’ve stayed home for all the good coming down here did.”

  “She was something, all right,” Lloyd agreed. “I wouldn’t have minded a few of those cookies, though.”

  “We have a couple of hours before the next event, so let’s go by the hospital and see Sam. We can stop in the snack shop on our way. I’m a little hungry myself.”

  Chapter 15

  We hurriedly had toasted pimento cheese sandwiches in the hospital snack shop, although I took time to call Lillian to tell her we wouldn’t be home for supper.

  “Just leave something for us,” I told Lillian. “I’ll warm it up when we get in. You go on home, and . . . oh, wait, Lillian, how’s Trixie? Did she get some shopping done?”

  “Yes’m, but I don’t know what she bought. Miss Hazel Marie brought her back ’bout lunchtime, an’ she been upstairs ever since. She don’t like my comp’ny.”

  “She doesn’t like mine, either, so just overlook her poor manners. We’re going up now to see Sam, then on to give the last speech. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  —

  I was so glad to see Sam and to see him looking well and especially to hear that he would be discharged the next morning, which I could hardly believe. He was fully dressed, minus only a tie, and sitting in a chair reading the newspaper. When Lloyd and I walked in, he gave us a broad smile and I gave him a kiss, then collapsed into a chair, suddenly overcome with fatigue. Giving speeches takes an enormous amount of energy and I had none left.

  “How’d it go?” Sam asked eagerly, reaching for my hand. “Don’t leave anything out. Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I said. “The whole day went by in a haze of strange faces and all kinds of voices. Except mine. Sam,” I went on, feeling about ready to cry, “I may have hurt your chances, and I’m so sorry.”

  Lloyd piped up. “Don’t believe her, Mr. Sam. She did great every time. Everybody loved her.”

  “Virginia Case didn’t,” I reminded him.

  “Well, phooey on her,” Lloyd said. “She just wanted to take over.”

  “Yes, and she was expecting my handsome husband but didn’t get him.”

  Sam and Lloyd laughed, but I was still stewing over how Sam’s chances would be affected by my poor performance as a speaker. Instead of getting better with practice, I had gotten worse. And I still had to get up in front of another group that night.

  But that was going to be the last one. “Sam,” I said, “you might as well call Millard Wilkes and tell him to cancel everything on your schedule tomorrow. If you’re coming home, I intend to be there with you. I haven’t been able to be at your bedside today, but I aim to nurse you at home. After tonight I’m through giving speeches.”

  “That’s fine, honey,” Sam said. “I’ve already talked to Millard and he has tomorrow covered. I should be able to do a little the next day, but I can’t drive for a few more days. So, would you mind being my driver?”

  Relief flooded my soul at the thought of no more speeches on the horizon. I smiled at him. “I feel as if I’ve just gotten a promotion, so, no, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  —

  But as Lloyd and I drove downtown to the next and final event of the day, I couldn’t help but reconsider my flat refusal to give any more speeches after that one. I could’ve said, “I’d rather not,” instead of “I’m through.” Because the fact of the matter was that if Sam asked me again, I would do it, regardless of any disinclination. And the more I thought about it the more I realized that there is no virtue in doing something for someone else when it’s something you also want to do. That’s merely being helpful, but it’s hardly commendable. The real virtue is in doing something you don’t want to do, but doing it because someone else wants it. And who better to do that for than Sam?

  —

  After the last speaking event of the day, Lloyd and I got home about eight-thirty. I was beyond tired. Four times—four times—that day, I had stood in front of a group of people and groped for words that I could neither read nor even see on the paper. Don’t ask me what I said—I don’t know.

  All I could remember was Lloyd telling me right before each speech after the first one, “Don’t forget the pile of manure. Everybody loves that.”

  And I guess they did, because each of those crowds—except the ladies at Virginia Case’s house—practically laughed me off the platform whenever I remembered to mention it. As images of the day flashed in my mind, I recalled the woman who’d grabbed my arm as I was
going out the door of the VFW hall that morning to tell me she’d enjoyed my speech. “You’re better than Wanda Sykes,” she’d gushed. Not knowing any women politicians, much less Wanda Sykes, I just thanked her, hoping she meant it as a compliment, and went on my way.

  Lloyd had assured me after each speech that I was doing fine even though I’d not followed the written script. My eyesight had kept getting worse as the day progressed—something to do with the lights aimed at the platforms, I thought, because I had no problem with my vision once a speech was done.

  But I will tell you that as poorly as I felt I’d done at each event, the one that evening was by far the worst. The meeting was held in a private room off the main dining room of the S&W cafeteria in downtown Abbotsville. Lloyd and I arrived at six-twenty-five—right on time—only to learn that the group had just finished dinner, to which we had not been invited.

  And what a group it was. Lloyd told me later that there were nine men, each one taking care to tell me that he was a retired executive from some major company, and to intimate that his former level of employment gave him unique insight into every field known to man. They all sat back around the table, their arms folded, and awaited my presentation. I felt like a new employee whose job depended on the grade they gave me.

  They unnerved me to such an extent that I started with Sam’s background, then quickly swerved to list his plans for the future—widening the interstate, reforming taxes, bringing in jobs, and so forth. Then just as I said, “Relocating manure piles,” they began to interrupt me with questions and comments.

  “What kind of jobs? Where’s he going to get them?”

  “Where’s the money to widen the interstate coming from? The DOT has already spent what was allocated.”

  “Reform taxes? Sounds like a tax increase to me.”

  “What about education? Where does he stand on technical schools? And what about home schooling? How do those kids compare to the ones in public schools?”