by Ann B. Ross
“Believe me, I know. Everything she liked was clingy nylon or polyester, both of which are fine in their place, but not for her, and not cut as low as the ones she picked out. And, Miss Julia, she wanted a strapless sundress that was a good two sizes too small and a bikini, of all things. I mean, bikinis can be very attractive on slim girls, but on Trixie? I had to wrap a skirt around her when she pranced out of the dressing room!”
“My word. Can the girl not see in a mirror?”
“She kept telling me that Kim Kardashian wears tight, low-cut things, so I guess she thinks she looks like her.”
“Well,” I said firmly, “she doesn’t. And if she did, I still wouldn’t approve.”
“Me, either. But, Miss Julia, back to the problem of her dating strangers. What about if you went at it another way? You know, instead of telling her that she can’t do it, maybe you could encourage her to bring her dates home. Or at least have them pick her up at your house. Of course, you’d have to act like you’re pleased to meet them. I think that way if any of them have designs on her, they’d think twice after meeting you and Mr. Sam. They’d know that Trixie has people who look out for her, and that she’s not some out-of-control girl looking for a good time.”
I thought about that for a minute. “You know, Hazel Marie, that just might work. At least we’d know who she was seeing and be able to give the police a description if something happened to her.” I shook that thought out of my head. “Heaven forbid. But what you’re telling me is to use reverse psychology—kill her with kindness instead of criticizing her. Well, that’s probably a better course of action than what I’d like to do, which is to ship her to Florida or wring her neck, one or the other.”
Chapter 17
So I walked home with a renewed determination to change my tactics with Trixie. Change them again, I realized, because I had already changed from making polite suggestions to telling her firmly, even harshly, what to do. Now here I was, planning an even more radical change, smothering her and her young men with kindness. I intended to take Hazel Marie’s advice and graciously welcome into my home whatever strange men Trixie took up with by way of the Internet. No telling who would soon be sitting at my table.
It happened to be Sam who was sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking with Lillian, when I walked in. He looked rested and well, not at all like he had just had an internal organ removed. I mentally thanked the Lord that we lived in an age of medical miracles like laparoscopes, lasers, anesthesia, antibiotics, and a number of other things of which I knew nothing but which had obviously restored my precious husband to health.
“Come in, sweetheart,” Sam said, struggling just a little to stand. “We’re discussing the size and quantity of gallstones.”
“Sit down, Sam, for goodness sakes. You don’t need to be jumping up and down in your fragile condition.” I quickly sat so that he would, too. “Gallstones? Wait till you hear what I have to talk about.” And I proceeded to tell them both about Trixie’s penchant for online dating, my fears that she would meet a con man or an axe murderer, and Hazel Marie’s suggestion that we joyfully open our door to any and all ragtag males that Trixie wanted to drag in.
Lillian and Sam took a minute to absorb the implications of Hazel Marie’s suggestion, then Lillian said, “Miss Hazel Marie a smart woman. That do the trick, all right.”
Actually, I’d never thought of Hazel Marie as a smart woman—sweet, kind, the best of friends, yes, but not especially intellectually astute. Yet thinking of the many times when she’d surprised me with her keenness of insight, I had to concede that there was something to Lillian’s pronouncement.
“I think so, too,” Sam said. “It’ll be interesting to see who Trixie invites to dinner, won’t it? And, Julia, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve just had a talk with her and she’s on her way to a job interview.”
“Really!” As my heart lifted at the news, a fleeting thought passed through my mind that I should leave the house more often—no telling how many problems would be solved in my absence. “What kind of job? How did you hear about it?”
“One of the nurses told me about her sister who’s just opened a fitness center and needs a couple of helpers. And, Julia, it’s at the end of Main Street where that little filling station once was, if you remember, so it’s a walkable distance from here. Trixie wouldn’t have to be driven back and forth.”
“Well, that is remarkable news.” I leaned back in my chair, feeling as if a great burden had fallen away. “Maybe she’ll be too busy to fool with strange men. But, Sam,” I said, “what experience does she have? From Trixie’s looks, she doesn’t know a thing about exercising or being fit for anything.”
“That’s the beauty part of it,” he said, smiling as if he knew a secret. “The woman—Susan Odell—who’s opening the business wants somebody she can teach, someone she can use as an example or role model for the young women who sign up for membership. The nurse told me that her sister’s plan is to keep a record of the helper’s weight and fitness regimen so the members can see how effective Ms. Odell’s methods are.”
“Well, I declare,” I said in awesome wonder. “That’s certainly a new twist. From all I’ve heard of those fitness centers, everybody who works in them are so trim and athletic that they intimidate anyone who isn’t.” I thought it over for a second or two. “The only thing wrong with it is if Trixie doesn’t like it and won’t do it. She just seems averse to extending herself in any way at all.” I thought of the pile of dirty dishes left on the table last night.
“Then our part will be to strongly encourage her to do it,” Sam said. “If she’s offered the job, that is. And I think she will be. I know Susan Odell—I helped her close on her house a few years back, and of course a phone call made at an opportune time always helps.” He smiled at me.
“Oh, you,” I said. “You have it all set up, don’t you?” I leaned over to give him a kiss. “Thank you, Sam.”
—
Trixie came bouncing in, slamming the front door and acting more ebullient than I’d seen her—she had just been hired as an assistant fitness trainer, or, from Sam’s description of the job, an assistant fitness trainee. I refrained from asking about her working hours, her salary, her duties, and so forth, for fear that she’d take them not as signs of interest but of criticism. As it was, she was just in time to sit down with us at the dinner table, where she frowned at each bowl and platter passed to her.
“What’s this?” she asked as I passed a platter to her.
“Fried chicken cutlets,” I said. “They’re easier to cut than chicken on the bone. And, look, there’s rice and gravy and lima beans and fresh squash.”
“I like me a thigh,” she muttered, picking through the cutlets with a fork.
“It’s all white meat, Trixie. Take a piece and pass it on.” My eyes rolled heavenward as she finally stabbed a piece and dumped it on her plate. Then she picked it up with her fingers and commenced to eat.
“Trixie,” I said as gently as I could manage and with a forgive-me glance at Lloyd, “the reason we have cutlets is so Lloyd can become adept at using a knife and fork without ending up with a piece of chicken in his lap. We’ll advance to chicken on the bone as soon as he’s ready. I’ll tell you both, though, that it is perfectly acceptable to eat chicken with one’s fingers when it’s served at a picnic or some other casual event.”
She looked at me with a cold stare, then let the cutlet drop to her plate. Licking her greasy fingers, she finally noticed the napkin still folded on the table and proceeded to use it.
“You know what I think,” Sam said jovially and just in time to divert and cool Trixie’s anger at being corrected. “I think we need to invite some people in to meet Trixie. The problem is, however,” he went on, directing the remark to Trixie as if he were imparting a secret, “we don’t know any folks that you’d like to meet. So I’m wondering if you�
��ve met anyone you’d like to invite to dinner. I’d enjoy having a few new faces at the table with new things to talk about. What do you think, Trixie? I know you haven’t been here very long, but have you met anybody you want to have over?”
Well, I thought to myself, Sam is much more tactful than I. My plan had been to flat-out tell Trixie that any person with whom she intended to spend time had to first be appraised and approved by us.
Trixie gave Sam that flat stare for which she was becoming noted, while I wondered if perhaps a certain amount of time was needed for her to absorb and understand what was said. Finally, she said, “You mean that?”
“Of course,” Sam assured her. “We enjoy having guests.”
Trixie’s eyes slid over to me, then quickly away. She knew, I thought, that I didn’t enjoy the guest I already had. A stab of shame shot through me, but it wasn’t sharp enough to turn me into a hypocrite.
“I might know somebody,” Trixie mumbled over her plate as her hair fell around her face.
“Good deal!” Sam said, sounding excessively pleased. “Whenever you want, Trixie. Just let Lillian know so she can plan something special for your friend. Could you tell us a little about him—or her—so we’ll have something to look forward to?”
A small smile played around Trixie’s mouth. “It’s a him, and he has a job that all that economic stuff can’t hurt. Meemaw told me to look for somebody like that.”
“How did you meet him?” I asked and got drowned out as Lloyd jumped in, waving his hand under the table at me to stay off that subject.
“I’d sure like to meet him,” he said a little louder than he usually spoke. “Anybody with a safe job these days is worth knowing.”
Trixie nodded at him, pleased, I thought, with his enthusiasm. “He says he never has to look for customers ’cause everybody in the world works for him. They just keep a-comin’, and all he has to do is set and wait for ’em. They’s a never-endin’ stream comin’ through the door.”
“My goodness,” I said, trying to equal Lloyd’s interest. “I’m impressed. What kind of job does he have?”
“He’s a trainee, just like I’m gonna be.” Trixie pushed her hair out of her face, sat up a little straighter, and announced with pride, “But he’s not just startin’ out like me. He’s in his second year, and after one more, he’ll have his license and can go out on his own or get promoted.” Then, with some smugness, she went on, “And he’s got another business on the side, workin’ for hisself, not somebody else.”
“Sounds like he’s a real go-getter,” Sam said.
“He is!” Trixie nodded vigorously. “An’ that’s just what Meemaw wants.”
I wanted to ask, But what do you want, Trixie? but I didn’t. We were getting more conversation out of her than ever before, and I didn’t want to spoil it by undercutting that grandmother of hers. Time enough for that later on after we’d met this paragon of diligence.
“I wonder if we already know him,” Sam said. “I like to keep up with the industrious young men around town. What’s his name?”
“Rodney,” Trixie said, looking expectantly at Sam as if he couldn’t possibly know more than one Rodney.
“Rodney who?”
“Pace or Peace or something like that,” Trixie said, as if his family name had no importance. I had to fight to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head.
“I know a lot of Paces,” Sam said, seemingly unperturbed at Trixie’s ignorance of her gentleman friend’s familial ties. “It’ll be interesting to discuss it with him. You know how we Southerners like to talk about kinships and who knows who. We can sometimes find that we’re related on one side or the other.” Sam smiled playfully at her. “Kissin’ cousins, even.”
A distressed look passed across Trixie’s face. “Better not be! Meemaw don’t hold with such as that.”
“Sam’s teasing you, Trixie,” I said. “He’s just making conversation. I can’t imagine that any of us are related in any way at all.”
“Mama might be,” Lloyd put in. “Seems like she’s kin to half the people in the county.”
Trixie frowned, studying the matter. “That might be all right.”
“I’m sure it will be,” I said firmly, anxious to steer the conversation away from a discussion of illegal cohabitation, which I assumed was what troubled Trixie and her Meemaw. “And, look, here’s Lillian with dessert. What do we have tonight, Lillian?”
“Pecan pie,” Lillian said proudly, setting the pie and the dessert plates before me. “If anybody want ice cream on top, let me know.”
“I don’t,” Trixie said. “Miss Odell told me to cut down on sweets, so I’ll just have pie.”
“Coming right up,” I said, wielding the pie server to slide a slice onto a plate and passing it to her. I was pleased to hear that Trixie seemed to be taking her new job seriously. “Lillian,” I said, stopping her as she started back to the kitchen, “Trixie will be inviting a young man for dinner soon. She’ll let you know when as soon as she discusses it with him. So, Trixie, when you know the date, why don’t you talk over the menu with Lillian? We’ll want to have something that he’ll enjoy.”
She cut her eyes at Lillian, then gave me that flat look again. “Okay, but he’s awful busy. He’s on call a lot.”
“Is he a doctor?” Lloyd asked.
Trixie thought that over, then found an answer. “Pretty close to it. But he don’t make that kinda money yet.”
“What is he then?” Lloyd asked, posing just the question I wanted to ask. “What does he do?”
“He works at McCrory’s down on East Avenue.” Trixie looked around the table with proud defiance, as if she just knew that we’d expected some low-class employment like changing tires or picking up recycling bins.
I frowned in thought, trying to picture the businesses on East Avenue, even as Trixie kept on singing his praises. “He’s already been to college an’ everything,” she said, “an’ now he’s just before being a full-fledged mortician.”
I swallowed hard. “How interesting,” I said, perfectly balancing my tone with both indifference and curiosity.
Chapter 18
Sam’s eyebrows went up at this announcement, and Lillian, her face a mixture of wonder and fear, stood stock-still listening to Trixie.
Lloyd, undeterred, asked, “Where’d he go to college? Is he a Tarheel?”
Being from Georgia, Trixie didn’t know what to make of the last question, so she ignored it. “He made all As, and graduated from the Forsyth County Technical Institution.”
My eyes widened, hoping that she meant institute, not institution, which evoked a mental asylum in my mind. But who knew?
Sam, smooth as ever, nodded and said, “He is certainly right that he’s in a recession-proof industry.”
Lloyd was fascinated. “Does he actually embalm people?”
“He does everything,” Trixie said. “Just wait till you hear. He’ll tell you all about it.”
Putting down my fork with my pie half eaten, I murmured, “I can hardly wait.”
—
After dinner and after Trixie had again left the house with not one word to us, Sam and I sat in the library while Lillian finished up in the kitchen and Lloyd ran over to his mother’s house to play with his sisters. I had lingered in the kitchen to ease some of Lillian’s concerns before going to the library.
“Miss Julia,” she’d said, “is she gonna bring a undertaker in our house? Somebody that work on dead people? What if he don’t wash his hands an’ he reach under the napkin for a biscuit an’ touch all of ’em?”
“I don’t think we need worry about that,” I’d assured her. “In my experience, undertakers are very careful about their hygiene.” My experience, however, was quite limited, and I, too, couldn’t help but wonder where certain hands had been and what they’d done. “Let’s just hope he’s s
uitable for Trixie and put the rest out of mind.”
—
“Well,” I said to Sam when I joined him in the library and as soon as the nightly news was over, “I guess we’re in for it now. A mortician, of all things.”
Sam muted the television and turned to me with a smile. “Funeral directors do quite well, Julia, and they’re generally a respectable group of professionals. Believe me, Trixie could do a lot worse.”
“I know. I keep telling myself that. At least he—whoever he is—has a job with prospects. But I keep thinking of how she must’ve met him. Online, Sam. Now, just what does that say about him? Because obviously he was looking to meet somebody the same way. So does that mean he can’t get a date on his own? I mean, that’s Trixie’s reason, but is it his, too?”
“Could be,” Sam agreed, “but it could mean that they have something in common. Maybe they’re both shy and uncomfortable in social situations.”
“Well, that’s the thing, Sam. At first I thought Trixie’s problem was shyness, but now she’s acting headstrong and willful and won’t listen to anybody. I’d hoped that Hazel Marie would be able to reach her, but now Trixie’s mad at her for not letting her buy completely inappropriate outfits. She’s just determined to have her own way in everything.”
“Let’s wait and see who she brings home, and if it’s this Rodney she mentioned, I expect we’ll be pleased. McCrory’s is not going to train anybody who’s unsuited for the field.”
“I guess so, unless he’s low man on the totem pole and training to be a gravedigger.” I was unconvinced that Trixie could aim much higher. “Well,” I sighed, “be that as it may. How’s the campaign going?”
“Funny you should ask,” Sam said, smiling. “If you wouldn’t mind driving me, I’d like to make a few stops tomorrow. Now wait,” he said, holding up his hand as I started to protest. “All I want to do is shake some hands when folks go in to work and again when they get off—maybe stop at some diners around lunchtime. Could you do that for me?”
