Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  It was a relief when Sam took Latisha home, when Lloyd helped me straighten the kitchen then went upstairs to bed, when Trixie huffed off to her room because Rodney, pleading fatigue, said he had to check on the funeral scheduled for the following day and took himself off without her.

  As Sam and I prepared for bed, I handed him a sizable check made out to the Sam Murdoch Campaign Fund.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s a tangible indication of where my heart is.”

  “Julia,” he said, laughing, “I know where your heart is. And the two of us set up a fund when I announced, so you don’t need to contribute any more.”

  “Why? Is there a limit?”

  “No, not for a spouse.”

  “Well, then take it, because I want to give it.”

  “In that case, thank you,” Sam said, accepting the check. “But I’d rather get small contributions from a lot of voters than big ones from a few.”

  “But you wouldn’t mind if a few big ones came in, would you?”

  “Not one bit,” he said. We both laughed, then went to bed. Instead of going to sleep, though, Sam still wanted to talk. He asked me about Jimmy Ray’s ads—something I’d planned to discuss the next day when he was rested. Nothing would do, though, but that I recite every word and describe every visual of his opponent’s ad campaign.

  “So, Sam,” I wound up, “you have to get on television, too. I hope you know some capable people who can put together attractive and informative ads. You’re so much more photogenic than Jimmy Ray that people will vote for you on that basis alone.”

  Far from upset over being upstaged by Jimmy Ray, Sam laughed and hugged me, assuring me that his ads would be things of wonder and for me not to give Mooney another thought.

  Easy to say, but hard to do. Jimmy Ray was far ahead of Sam in getting his name out over the airwaves, and as far as I knew, far ahead of him in committed voters. I didn’t mention my fears or my intention of increasing the size of his campaign chest—just listened to him as he spoke warmly of Rodney, who had eagerly pointed out tackable places for Sam’s posters and who had apparently done most of the day’s work.

  “I’m impressed with that young man, Julia,” Sam said. “And so is Trixie, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I couldn’t decide on his feelings for her—he was solicitous of her, but not overtly affectionate. Which is too bad, because he’s just what her grandmother ordered.”

  “Yes, well, be careful, Sam. There’s no need to buy burial insurance just because you like the salesman.”

  He laughed again. “He didn’t let me forget that sooner or later you and I would have need of it.”

  “So will everybody else, but count me out. I’ll take care of my own funeral.”

  We finally went to sleep, but my own plans for vote getting continued to run through my head.

  —

  Sunday morning dawned hot and still, the sky as clear as a bell. When I came downstairs, I found Lloyd dressed and ready for church, announcing that he would have lunch at his mother’s house afterward. Trixie, too, was already in the kitchen, eating cold cereal, but in no way prepared for a church service. She was wearing either another workout outfit or the same one she’d worn the day before.

  Before I could say anything, she gave me a squinched-eyed stare and said, “I have to work this morning. Not everybody goes to church, you know. A lot of people only have Sunday mornings to exercise.”

  I just nodded, because what do you say to that? I wanted her working, so I could hardly object to the hours assigned to her. But, my goodness, spandex, or whatever it was, did not lend itself to Trixie’s frame, especially on a day normally devoted to one’s best.

  Which reminded me that I should talk more with Hazel Marie about Trixie’s makeover. She had started out enthusiastically with Hazel Marie, but then had seemed to ignore any suggestions for betterment and had gone her own headstrong way. Now that she was seeing a young man, though, she might be more amenable to taking advice.

  So it was only Sam, Lloyd, and me sitting after Sunday school in our regular pew for the service. I declare, I can’t tell you what Pastor Ledbetter preached on—my mind was too busy making plans and rehearsing what I should say to each person I planned to approach. I had almost made my pitch to the members of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, since most of my friends were there and I could’ve reached them all in one fell swoop. At the last minute, though, I’d thought better of it—some would’ve been offended if I’d brought up politics either before or after the lesson, and if the shoe had been on the other foot I would’ve been, too. Besides, the lesson had been on giving to the poor, and Sam hardly qualified.

  —

  When the service was over and Lloyd had scampered off to his mother’s, Sam suggested that we go out for lunch. That suited me, so we joined the long line of churchgoers at the S&W cafeteria, speaking to people we knew and slowly shuffling along to the serving tables. It had once occurred to me to suggest to Pastor Ledbetter that he shorten the Sunday morning service by about ten minutes, so we could get to the cafeteria before the Baptist and Methodist churches let out. He’d just stared at me a few seconds, then said, “It’d work just as well if I lengthened the service by ten minutes. That way, the line would be cleared out by the time you got there.” I’d stared back and said, “Given the choice, let’s keep it the way it is.”

  On our way home after a nice Sunday dinner, Sam drove by the erstwhile gas station at the end of Main Street where Susan Odell had her fitness center. FIT, ABLE, & HEALTHY, which sounded like a law firm, was printed on a large banner strung across the front of the station. Long-emptied gas pumps testified to the station’s former purpose, but several cars parked along the edge of the paved lot confirmed Trixie’s expectation of Sunday morning exercisers.

  But the overall appearance was not what took my attention, for out in the lot were the exercisers themselves—young women in the same skimpy attire as Trixie—and you wouldn’t believe what they were doing. Several of them—including Trixie, wet with sweat—were squatting down, knees aspraddle to get enough leverage to lift upright, then push over these monstrous tractor tires. The tires stood upright for a second then fell over with a crash, after which the women squatted and struggled to lift them upright again. Others, all in a line, pranced around the lot carrying in both hands some kind of heavy weight while they skipped along, highly conscious of being the center of attention to every passing car.

  “They Lord,” I said to Sam, “have you ever seen such a spectacle?” I couldn’t for the life of me see why young women would want to parade around in public exerting themselves in such an outlandish fashion. The whole scene reminded me of Latisha wanting to ride in the bed of the pickup just so she could be seen.

  Sam chuckled as he drove on past. “Let’s just hope Trixie enjoys it enough to stick with it.”

  I nodded agreement. “That’s on my prayer list.”

  Chapter 25

  Later that afternoon, Trixie came home, quickly showered, dressed, and parked herself by the front window to watch for Rodney’s arrival.

  “Trixie,” I ventured, careful to keep the least hint of criticism out of my voice, “it might be better to wait upstairs and let us call you when Rodney gets here.”

  She frowned, cutting her eyes at me, then turned back to the window. “Why?”

  “Well, it doesn’t do to appear too eager. Young men expect to wait, and waiting increases the suspense of getting to see you again. And, well, I don’t know. It’s just always been the way things are done.”

  She mulled that over, then said, “How long?”

  “Oh, just a minute or two. I’ll answer the door and invite him in, then usher him into the living room where he can visit with Sam while I run up and get you. And see,” I went on, “that way you can come down the stairs and appear suddenly in the doorway. Rodney
will immediately get to his feet and give you a big smile.”

  Trixie frowned again, thinking about it, then said, “Okay.” And up the stairs she went.

  And it happened just that way, although as soon as Rodney rang the doorbell I glanced upstairs to see Trixie’s bedroom door already open—her way of getting ready to dash down the stairs as soon as she was called.

  I delayed calling her for a few minutes, because as soon as Rodney was seated, he began talking to Sam. Explaining his sedate dress—a dark gray suit with a light gray tie—Rodney made sure that we knew he’d just conducted a funeral. He was a somber picture of a mortician, but that didn’t curb his enthusiasm for discussing his newest venture with Sam.

  “I’m thinking,” Rodney said, as he leaned forward in his chair, intent on gaining Sam’s interest, “that Abbot County could use another funeral home, located maybe out toward Delmont. McCrory’s gets all their business now and I tell you it’s booming—the demographic out that way tends toward the elderly. So I’m thinking of organizing a consortium of investors to purchase some land out there and putting up a nice Colonial-type house that looks nothing like a funeral home. We wouldn’t want any kind of commercial or modern-looking building. The bereaved feel better in a homey, family kind of setting.”

  Sam just nodded, but Rodney needed no further encouragement. “Yes, I’d like enough land to have a scattering garden with a few appropriate statues and benches for the bereaved to rest on while they commune with their departed. And with enough land, we could have our own cemetery—with perpetual care offered, of course. I’ve been looking around and I’ve found the perfect place out on Springer Road. It’s level and I think it’s big enough. I guess you know you have to have not less than thirty acres to get a license from the state cemetery commission. And they’re firm about that.” Rodney grimaced at the picky requirements of government bureaucracy. “Anyway, it’s close to the highway for easy access, and we wouldn’t have to tear down anything—just move out some mobile homes and we’d be in business.”

  Sam’s eyes slid toward me, and I knew he was about to laugh. I jumped up and said, “Excuse me. I’ll get Trixie.”

  She was waiting at the top of the stairs and as soon as she saw me in the hall, down she came. “You look very nice,” I whispered, only half truthfully. “There’s no need to sit and visit any longer. You and Rodney can go right on with your plans.”

  And so they did, but as I returned from seeing them off and Sam had retaken his chair, I was fuming.

  “You know what he was talking about, don’t you?” I demanded. “He had to be talking about the Hillandale Trailer Park—my trailer park where Etta Mae and a dozen other people live!”

  Sam grinned. “I know, but I don’t think he did.”

  “I’m not so sure. He’s probably been to the county clerk’s office and looked up the owner, the taxes I’ve paid, and everything else about it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think he was trying to get me interested in investing in his project, and just threw out that land as an enticement.”

  “Well, he can just throw it back in. I’m not selling, so if you do get involved you can nip that in the bud. I wouldn’t any more evict Etta Mae than I would fly. And you know how I feel about flying.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, still amused. “I’m not getting involved in anything. I have enough on my plate as it is.”

  “I know,” I said, sitting down and calming myself, “but Rodney has certainly latched on to you, and he’s likely to pester you to death about investing in his project.”

  “Well, let him pester. It just rolls on past me. Besides, the senate race is all I can handle.”

  “But, Sam,” I said, “have you noticed that he seems more interested in you than in Trixie? You don’t suppose he’s calling on her just to get to you, do you?”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Although,” Sam went on in a musing way, “I can’t help but wonder what he sees in her—they don’t appear to have much in common.”

  “My sentiments exactly. They’re as mismatched as, well, as I thought you and I were.”

  Sam’s eyes twinkled as a smile spread across his face. “Just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

  —

  About nine-thirty that evening, while Sam and I sat in the library, the television set almost muted as he read and I worked on a needlepoint piece, we heard the front door open. Rodney had brought Trixie home, then lingered in the hall while they whispered for a few minutes. I stuck my needle into the canvas and waited, assuming that Rodney would soon come in and pick up where he’d left off with Sam.

  Instead, only Trixie appeared, surprising me, as she usually went straight upstairs, never bothering to speak or to wish us a good night.

  “Come in, Trixie,” Sam said, putting aside his book. “Did you have a good time?”

  She half sidled into the room, giving me a brief glance, but obviously intent on Sam.

  “Rodney said I ought to be looking for more opportunities,” she said, easing onto a chair beside Sam. “He said to talk it over with you.”

  “I’ll be glad to help if I can, Trixie. What do you have in mind?”

  The better question is what does Rodney have in mind? I thought and took another stitch.

  “Well,” Trixie said, squirming in her chair, “Rodney thinks the fitness business is gonna run its course pretty soon if something’s not done to perk it up. So he thinks I ought to think about opening a hot yoga room somewhere—kinda as a sideline. I could keep working for Susan Odell and get some of her customers.”

  “Hot yoga?” Sam asked, his eyebrows practically up to his hairline.

  “Yeah, what it is, see, is a place where you do regular yoga, but you turn the heat up high. That way you sweat out all the poisons, and it leaves you clean in mind and body.”

  And limp as a dishrag, I thought.

  “I guess that’s something new,” Sam said. “What would you need—a rented place with a good heating system?”

  “I guess, and some yoga mats. Maybe a water fountain and a drinks machine—you’re supposed to keep the heat up real high.”

  “How high?”

  “I don’t know,” Trixie said, shrugging. “Eighty or ninety degrees, I guess. Maybe more. I’d have to find out.”

  It was ninety-two degrees this very day. Trixie could’ve yogaed to her heart’s content in the backyard.

  “Well, here’s the thing, Trixie,” Sam said, seemingly giving her business plan serious consideration. “What’s your background in yoga? Do you know it well enough to teach it?”

  “Uh-uh, I never done it before.”

  “Oh,” Sam said, his eyebrows on their way up again. “Well, I think you have to have a lot of experience before you can offer instruction to other people. Don’t you think?”

  “I guess.” She lowered her head, then said, “Rodney thinks I could learn real quick, but I don’t know as I want to.”

  “Well, my advice, if you want it, is not to go into a business until you know it backward and forward. And you have to really want to make it work. I think, if I were you, I’d find something I wanted to do, train myself in it, and then open up for business.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “But, Trixie,” Sam went on, “I’m glad you’re thinking of your future and what you’d like to do. Is there anything you’re really interested in?”

  Her head came up and, if I wasn’t mistaken, her eyes began to shine. “Yeah, I been thinking about it and I want to be a cosmetician or a beautician or whatever you call ’em and work with Rodney. He says it’s a wide-open field, ’cause not many beauticians want to work on dead people. But I could do it. It wouldn’t bother me at all, and Rodney would be there to keep me comp’ny, so even if I had to do it at night I wouldn’t be afraid.”

  They Lord, I thought, jabbing my needle into the
canvas.

  Sam, ever considerate of her feelings, said kindly, “I think you have to have a license to be a cosmetician, Trixie. Which means going to beauty school. Are you willing to do that?”

  “You got one around here? I don’t want to go off somewhere.”

  “There might be one. We could find out if you’re really interested.”

  “Oh, I am, and I could have business cards with my name on ’em, something like Beautician for the Bereaved or something. And I could pass ’em out at funerals. You know, so people in the right frame of mind would have ’em for future reference. Rodney says you have to advertise yourself.”

  “Well,” Sam said, clearing his throat, “the first thing to do is look into getting yourself trained. Why don’t you check the yellow pages for beauty schools, then go from there.”

  “Okay,” she said and hopped up from her chair. “But Rodney already said I could have a job at his funeral home when he gets it. I oughta be trained by the time he opens for business, and if I’m not, he could show me how to do it.” She stood for a few seconds, apparently thinking it over while one hand scratched her other arm. “And if I’m not too good at it at first, it won’t matter. It’s not like a dead person would be a return customer anyway.”

  And off she went to bed, while Sam and I just sat and looked at each other, too stunned to say a word.

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, as soon as Sam was off to plan his ad campaign and Lloyd, who’d spent the night at his mother’s, had called to say he was meeting friends at the tennis courts, I picked up the phone to start my own campaign.