by Ann B. Ross
“I’m doin’ good ’cause today’s Sar’day, an’ I don’t have to go to school an’ eat that mess they give me on a tray. I tole Great-Granny she ought to go over there and show them ladies how to cook. All they know how to do is put hairnets on their heads, but they could just let them ole gray hairs fall whichever place they want to, for all the eatin’ that gets done.”
“Law, Latisha,” Lillian said. “Miss Julia don’t want to hear that.”
Before I could assure her that I found the perils of the school lunchroom fascinating, Latisha changed the subject. “Guess what, Miss Lady? I’m gonna go with Lloyd an’ Mr. Sam to do some hammerin’ on telephone poles.”
“You are?” I looked to Lillian for confirmation.
She shrugged, resigned apparently to letting her go. “I tole Mr. Sam she gonna talk him to death, but he say she entertain him an’ he wants her to go.” Lillian rolled her eyes just a little. “I hope he know what he doin’, ’cause she about to talk my head off.”
Sam hung up the phone and turned to us, a pleased smile on his face. “Got us a big, roomy truck that will carry us all.”
“I thought you were going to use yours,” I said, thinking of the old, wired-together pickup that came with Sam when we married and which was still taking up space in the garage.
“Coleman has a double cab,” Sam told me, “which, if we all go together, we’ll need so everybody’ll have a place to sit. If we took mine, somebody would have to sit on somebody’s lap.”
Lloyd looked up from the piece of toast he was smearing with peach preserves. “I’d probably have to hold Trixie and get smushed flat.”
“Lloyd,” I warned softly, but I couldn’t help but smile at the image of Trixie on his lap.
“No, you won’t, Lloyd,” Latisha said. “I’d jump on your lap ’fore she can get there. Won’t be no smushin’ goin’ on with me around.”
“Thanks, Latisha,” Lloyd said, grinning. “I’ll count on that.”
“We’re in good shape now,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together, as I realized how excited he was to be out on the campaign trail again. “Coleman wanted to go with us, but he’s on duty. Hurry up, Lloyd, as soon as Rodney gets here, we’ll be off. Where’s Trixie?”
“I heard her in her room,” I said, “so she’s up. Sam, please for my sake, take it easy today. It takes time for your internal organs to adjust to having something removed, so you ought not to jiggle around too much.”
Lloyd looked over at me, his mouth open. Then he started laughing. “You mean there’s an empty place inside Mr. Sam and all his other organs have to scramble to fill it up?”
Sam and Lillian laughed, and Lillian said, “I can jus’ see that now.”
“Well, it stands to reason,” I said. “But whether they’re in there scrambling around, I don’t know.”
Just as the front doorbell rang, we heard Trixie bounding down the stairs to answer it. She was beaming as she ushered Rodney into the kitchen, but my smile of welcome dried up fast. Rodney was in pressed blue jeans with a polo shirt and looked neat and ready for action. But it was Trixie who took my breath away. She was wearing a pair of those skintight spandex athletic shorts, which weren’t too short as they came almost to her knees, but they were molded to every roll and bulge the poor girl had. She also had on a halter of sorts, something that looked like a sports brassiere that I’d seen in a Title Nine catalogue which had appeared unsolicited in our mailbox.
“This is my work uniform,” she proudly explained to Rodney. “It’s what I have to wear at the fitness center. I think we’re going to get a lot of exercise today.”
“Perfect,” Rodney said, manning up to what was probably more than he’d expected to have to deal with.
“Well, folks, let’s be off,” Sam said, picking up a toolkit full of nails and hammers. “Rodney, you and Trixie can pile in with us or you can follow us to Coleman’s to get his truck.”
“We’ll follow you,” Rodney said. Then to Trixie’s obvious dismay, he added, “Anybody want to ride with us?”
“We better go with Mr. Sam,” Lloyd said. “Come on, Latisha, let’s go.”
“Lloyd,” Latisha said, as loud as if he were two blocks away. “How ’bout me an’ you ridin’ in the back of that truck?”
Lloyd shook his head. “Can’t, Latisha. It’s against the law.”
“Well, shoot,” Latisha said. “I was countin’ on everybody gettin’ to see us.”
“Honey,” Sam said to me as he started for the door, “remember to watch for Jimmy Ray’s ads today. You and Lillian both, if you will.”
“We will,” I assured him. “And we’ll give you a complete rundown when you get home. But, Sam, please don’t do too much. If you get tired, come on home.”
“I will, but I’ll be fine.” And with that, the whole crew of them left for Coleman’s so they could go politicking in his double-cab pickup with a long bed full of posters and yard signs.
Chapter 23
“Lillian,” I said, as soon as the door closed behind them. “What’re you doing here this morning? I didn’t think you were coming in today.”
“Well, I wadn’t till Latisha say she had to see what Lloyd was up to, an’ she wanted to see Miss Trixie, too. So we come in, an’ now off she go with ’em.”
“Then why don’t you go on home? You’ll have the whole day to yourself for a change. But if you don’t mind, keep your television on and watch for Jimmy Ray Mooney’s ads. Make some notes so Sam will know what they say.”
“I think I’ll go on then. You want me to come back an’ fix some supper? They all be comin’ in starvin’ to death.”
“No, you don’t need to come in. I’ll have supper ready for them.”
Lillian didn’t say a word, but she stopped what she was doing and stared at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, laughing. “I hope to goodness I’m capable of boiling some hot dogs and putting out ketchup and mustard.”
“That what you gonna serve?”
“I sure am. It’s Rodney’s second favorite dish and I hope Trixie will notice my effort to please. I’ll run to the store a little later and get what we need.”
“I’ll make you a list so you won’t forget something. An’ I’m gonna put down some baked beans and some slaw and such like that. You can get it all at one of them deli counters at the store. You might not even think of filling up a plate till you see they’s nothin’ on it but a hot dog all by its lonesome.”
“I’m sure you’re right, so thank you. If Latisha wants to eat with us, I’ll let you know. We’ll get her home after supper.”
—
After Lillian left, I wandered somewhat aimlessly into the library, wondering what I should do with a long, quiet day all to myself. But not so quiet after all, because I had to nerve myself to turning the television set on, assuming that Jimmy Ray would use the local channel beaming from Asheville for his ads.
So with the constant din of children’s shows and commercials for cereals and juices and toys, all aimed at the Saturday morning audience, running in the background, I tried to catch up on some piddling work I’d been putting off. Well, not work, exactly, but an attempt to weed out my address book by transferring current addresses and phone numbers into a new book. My old book was half covered with strike-throughs and erasures of names of those who had moved away or passed on. It was slow work because I had to stop every time the shows broke for commercials—which seemed to be every five minutes—so I could see if Jimmy Ray was on.
By the time I got to the Cs, I put down my pen and sat back in the chair. This was mindless work, and my mind had been going its own way, thinking over what was happening in our lives. Here Sam had survived a major operation and I had survived public speaking, and we were both trying to survive Trixie. It was time to take stock again and see where we were headed. It could be t
o Raleigh, which would mean a real change in our lives, even if it were for only two years. On the other hand, it could be that we’d be staying right here after a loss to Jimmy Ray.
As a rule, whenever I took time to take stock, I ended up feeling grateful and reassured that things were as they should be, but not this time. Sam seemed to think that there was a real possibility that he could lose the election, and, I now realized, he had steeled himself against disappointment by saying from the first that he could take it or leave it.
I no longer believed that. Seeing his excitement and enthusiasm for nailing posters on telephone poles, recalling his anxiety about meeting his commitments while he was in the hospital, I realized that he really wanted to win.
When the outcome of something doesn’t matter to me, I just turn it over to the Lord, telling Him that whatever He decides will be fine with me. And I’ll be honest about it—it didn’t much matter to me which way this senatorial race turned out. If Sam won or if he lost, I could accept either one with equanimity. Maybe because I had so little invested in it, the outcome was of little consequence to me. But, as I now knew, that wasn’t true of Sam.
However it turned out, though, I would have to be prepared to be a support to him. And I’ll just be honest and admit that so far supporting Sam in his campaign had become more and more of a burden for me. It wasn’t that I wanted him to lose; it was just that I kept wishing he hadn’t gotten into it in the first place. I wanted to be—and intended to be—supportive, but my heart wasn’t truly in it. Given the choice, however, between beating the bushes for votes and sailing on the high seas, I had resigned myself to beating the bushes. At least we were sleeping in our own bed at night.
I sat up straight and reached for the remote to turn up the sound—the ad I’d been waiting for was on. There they were—Jimmy Ray and his daughter, Jimmie Mae, and her three stairstep children, pictured on a front porch swing. The camera zoomed in on Jimmy Ray and, as I scribbled as fast as I could, he said, “I’m Jimmy Ray Mooney, and I’m asking you to send me back to the North Carolina senate so I can continue to support education for my grandchildren and all the children in the district. Children are our future, and I know you want the best for yours as I do for mine. No one will support education like I will.” Then the camera moved to the faces of his smiling grandchildren, and as the scene faded away, a voice-over said, “A vote for Jimmy Ray is a vote for our children.”
I threw down my pen, just so aggrieved I didn’t know what to do. The nerve of the man! I knew for a fact that Jimmy Ray had voted to cut the number of teachers’ assistants and had also been quoted as saying, “We don’t need to be spending money on art classes. Kids can watch public television and get all the culture they need.” Now here he was advertising himself as the great supporter of education, and doing it as if no one else would.
It was hard to go back to copying addresses after that, my mind was so full of responses I wanted to throw at the Mooney campaign. What did Jimmy Ray know about education, anyway? He didn’t have any himself, being a high school graduate back when it took only eleven grades to be one. And since then he’d lived off taxpayers in one local bureaucratic job after another.
Well, I thought with a sigh, maybe he realizes his lack and wants better for his grandchildren. Of course, he hadn’t done so well by his daughter. Jimmie Mae had left school early because back then they didn’t allow girls in the family way to graduate.
Still, I thought, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, as I leaned my head on my hand, it’s commendable to want the best for children, and I tried to come to terms with that. But behind Jimmy Ray’s ad was the implication that he could better provide for the educational needs of our children than Sam could. And I didn’t like that one bit.
Finally, I realized that the ad could’ve been worse. In fact, as these things go, it hadn’t been so bad. Half the people who saw it wouldn’t even know who he was running against. And everybody who was running for any office—local, state, or federal—ran on an education platform. Jimmy Ray was doing no more nor less than every other candidate, and with that, I decided that it wouldn’t hurt Sam’s chances at all and I went back to copying addresses.
About noon I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich, switching on the set there to keep up with Jimmy Ray’s ad campaign. Just as I opened the refrigerator, a new ad came on. There he was, dressed in a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, leaning casually against a white fence with a horse pasture in the background. Beside him on the fence was a large sign reading: JIMMY RAY, YOUR MAN FOR THE NC SENATE. Jimmy Ray looked straight into the camera and, in a sonorous voice, said, “A vote for Jimmy Ray is a vote for experience. I’ve served three terms in the North Carolina senate, while my opponent has served none. All he’s done is retire from practicing law and go fishin’. There’s already too many lawyers in the Assembly now, so let’s let him stick to his fishin’ while the rest of us get the things done that need to be done.” Stirring music swelled around him as he smiled and said, “I’m Senator Jimmy Ray Mooney, and I paid for this message.”
I couldn’t believe it! That was a direct slap at Sam, and it made me so mad I couldn’t see straight. I grabbed a pad and pen and wrote down as much as I could remember so Sam would know the low blows that were coming his way. Actually, I hadn’t needed to do that, because the ad ran three more times during the afternoon, and by that time every word said was stuck in my memory.
I forced myself to eat the sandwich I’d made but I hardly tasted it, so fired up that I could do nothing but think of ways to counter Jimmy Ray’s negative advertising. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted Sam to win—if for no other reason than to keep Jimmy Ray out of that seat.
I’d started out the morning realizing that Sam wanted to win much more than I’d thought, so on that basis alone, I’d wanted him to win, too—although with much less enthusiasm. Now, though, after Jimmy Ray’s personal attack ad, I really wanted him to win. No longer could I be content to leave the outcome up to the Lord, I had to set myself to petitioning Him without ceasing. And maybe doing a few other things, as well.
I knew, of course, that Jimmy Ray, and Jimmie Mae, too, would be praying just as hard for Sam to lose. So in the long run, it would still be the Lord’s will that would be done, but at least He was going to know whose side I was on.
Chapter 24
The thing to do was to stop sitting around mooning over stock-taking, which never resulted in my doing anything anyway, and take myself in hand and get something done. Sam needed some fire in his campaign, and he was too much of a gentleman to do any active stoking. That’s where I could come in, because when pushed far enough, even a lady, especially a lady of age with years of correct deportment behind her, could get away with a few unladylike words and actions. About the only good thing I could say about old age was that you were allowed much more leeway to say and do whatever you wanted. And I intended to take advantage of it on behalf of such a good cause. If it took a complete makeover of my normally retiring personality, why then, so be it. I was going to become politically active!
The first thing I’d do—as soon as Sam got home—would be to make another monetary contribution to his campaign. To do so had not occurred to me before this, because Sam and I had designated a certain amount when he first announced for the seat. So I had assumed that if he’d needed more, he would’ve asked for more. But, I told myself, needing campaign funds wasn’t the point. The point was that I demonstrate my commitment by making a voluntary contribution.
So that was the first thing. The next thing was to become one of those modern solicitors who baled, bundled, bagged, or somehow collected funds for political purposes so that Sam could match Jimmy Ray ad for ad. Money talks, especially on television, and I was going to see that Sam became a political star. I visualized an ad that featured Sam in his boat out on a lake, his old hat on his head while he holds a fishing rod. He could say something like
, “Fishing settles a man, puts things in perspective, and sharpens the mind. I’m recommending it to someone who’s been in the North Carolina senate for several terms—a restful vacation would be good for him. And for us.”
Well, maybe not. But Sam could think of something better to say, something not quite so subtle.
So far, I had been reticent to speak of Sam’s campaign to friends for fear that they’d think me forward. If I’d even mentioned it, I knew that LuAnne Conover, for one, would immediately accuse me of putting on airs, and there was always the possibility that some of them were so unenlightened that they planned to vote for Jimmy Ray. So I’d kept Sam’s involvement quiet, not wanting to embarrass anyone by putting them on the spot.
But I could now see that there was no reason in the world why I shouldn’t suggest, ask, cajole, and beg contributions from everyone I knew. There comes a time when reticence is not only unnecessary but ill-advised, and that time had come. Sam needed every vote he could get, and it’s a settled fact that where your money is, there also is your vote. So I would go after the money.
To that end, I began to plan my own campaign, then remembered that I had to go to the store and prepare supper for a truckload of ragtag volunteers. If Sam hadn’t been worn to a frazzle by Rodney and Latisha trying to out-talk each other, I’d be surprised, so I needed to have food on the table.
—
I was surprised, for by the time they all came in, Sam, far from being worn to a nub, seemed to be rejuvenated. “We must’ve nailed up five hundred posters, Julia,” he told me, happily exaggerating. “And when we parked out at the mall, we couldn’t give away yard signs fast enough. You should’ve seen Latisha handing them out right and left. That little girl is a worker.”
There was a din of talking and laughing as they gathered around the kitchen table, fixing their hot dogs from the array that I’d laid out. Even Trixie joined in occasionally, which was enough to make me think that there were possibly more makeovers going on than my own. Maybe she was coming out of her shell, although Rodney didn’t seem to notice. He was, however, noticeably attentive to Sam, listening respectfully when he spoke, making sure Sam’s glass stayed full of tea, and sliding a few words now and then into the conversation about the wisdom of being prepared for the inevitable.
