Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  “No,” Sam said, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders and leading him to a chair. “Nobody stole them. Somebody took them down deliberately.”

  “That’s right!” Lloyd said, as if the entire situation had suddenly become clear. “Because the posters for all the other candidates are still up. Who would do such a thing?”

  “Jimmy Ray Mooney,” I answered, as sure as I could be.

  “No,” Sam said, shaking his head, “not Jimmy Ray. He knows better than to get into that kind of trouble. But it had to be some of his supporters—thinking they were being helpful. Or it was somebody who really dislikes me.”

  “I can’t believe that,” I said.

  Lloyd straightened his shoulders. “There’s only one thing to do—put ’em all back up again. We still have a lot left over, so anytime you want to, Mr. Sam, I’ll help, or I’ll go by myself and do it. I know the exact places we put them the first time, so it won’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you, Lloyd,” Sam said. “I’ll take you up on that, but not by yourself. I’ll go with you and maybe we can find some more help, as well.”

  “I bet Rodney’ll help again,” Lloyd said, eager to organize another poster-hanging outing.

  Hm-m, I thought, given Rodney’s sudden loss of interest in Trixie and the sudden appearance of NO TRESPASSING signs on his chosen property, I somehow doubted he’d be eager to volunteer again.

  —

  After assuring Lloyd that such dirty electioneering tactics were both illegal and deplorable, but not entirely unexpected, Sam sent him home with the promise of another outing on Saturday. “We’ll get ’em back up,” Sam assured him, “and it might all turn out for the best. It could be just the thing to get our volunteers fired up.”

  When the boy left for his mother’s house, I sank down on the leather sofa and leaned my head back. “Oh, me, Sam,” I said, “who could’ve done such a thing? It feels so personal, so deliberate and malicious. I hate thinking that anybody could dislike us so much.”

  Sam sat down beside me and took my hand. “You can’t take it personally, Julia. It would’ve been the posters of whoever was running against Jimmy Ray. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, let him know what’s happened, and he’ll give his volunteers a dressing down.”

  “I don’t think that’s enough—they could do it again. I think you ought to tell the sheriff.”

  “I will, and the newspaper, too. A little publicity will do wonders to keep it from happening again. Everybody will think just what you thought—that it was Jimmy Ray’s doing, or at least with his approval. Jimmy Ray will know that, so he’ll do what he can to put a stop to it.”

  “Well, the whole thing has given me a moderate to severe headache.” I rubbed my head to ease the pain, then scratched my shin to ease an itch. “I know it’s early, but I’m going to bed.”

  Sam stood, then held out his hand to me. “I’m right behind you.”

  —

  Walking along the sidewalk on my way to Hazel Marie’s house the next morning, I tried to put the missing posters out of my mind. Sam was taking it so well—not happy about it, of course, but accepting it as part of local politics—but I was still angry for his sake. He’d been singled out and deliberately targeted. Well, I mean his posters had been, and though I wished no harm to anybody else, I’d have felt better if the posters of a few other candidates had suffered the same fate.

  As I stepped up onto the walk leading to the front porch of Sam’s beautiful old house, which the Pickens family now called home, I steeled myself to deal with Trixie again. Hazel Marie had called while Sam and I were having breakfast, asking me to come over to see how the makeover was progressing.

  When I rang the doorbell, Trixie opened the door. She stepped back, giving me room to enter. “Good morning, Miss Julia,” she said, her eyes slightly glazed as if she were studying a script. Then, with a practiced smile, she went on. “Please come in. It’s so nice to see you.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see you, too, Trixie, and to see you looking so well.” And she did. No miraculous makeover, of course, but an improvement nonetheless. Her hair had been expertly cut much shorter and in layers, removing the brassy pink-dyed ends. Hazel Marie had undoubtedly gotten Trixie to Velma, and done it without Trixie throwing a fit—a miracle in itself.

  Trixie’s face was lightly made up—perfectly appropriate for daytime, especially since the bronze eye shadow she’d been so partial to had been left off. A little gloss on her lips and a soft glow on her cheeks were evidence of Hazel Marie’s deft hand with cosmetic brushes.

  Most impressive, though, was the fact that she’d looked in my direction as she’d spoken—not directly at me, yet what a difference even that made! Well, the barely noticeable fine line of eyeliner around her eyes made a difference, too—maybe the most difference, for now her eyes were no longer lurking deep in her head, nor were they hidden beneath lowered lids. I must admit that at one time, I had assumed that the presence of black lines around a pair of eyes were an indication that the woman who’d drawn them was slightly on the fast side. My judgmental attitude, however, had slowly evolved over the years—perhaps I had become inured by the enhanced eyes of both Hazel Marie and Etta Mae.

  Following Trixie into the living room, I noted that the few days under instruction had not done much for Trixie’s figure. Bless her heart, she was born short and stocky, and remained that way. Still, the tailored Bermuda shorts and soft linen blouse—tucked into the waist—that she wore streamlined the bulky muscles underneath. But it was her erect posture and practiced carriage that did the most to disguise her unfortunate frame.

  “Hazel Marie,” Trixie said, speaking clearly but as if from memory, “Miss Julia has come to call.”

  Hazel Marie jumped up from the sofa and hurried over to clasp me in her arms. She couldn’t help it, she just had to fling herself on anyone she cared for, so I had about become resigned to enduring a hug whenever we met.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Hazel Marie cried, and I knew she meant it—she always did. And as always, Hazel Marie was neatly dressed and carefully made up—an ideal model for Trixie to emulate. “What do you think of Trixie?” Hazel Marie asked. “Isn’t she lovely? Velma did such a good job on her hair, and Trixie has just about mastered a curling iron. Sit down, Miss Julia, sit down. The little girls are napping, and James is fixing us some lemonade. We can have a nice visit.”

  As we seated ourselves, I noticed Trixie run her hand under her bottom as if she were smoothing a skirt before sitting. I mentally nodded, approving also of Trixie’s straight back as she sat, ignoring the soft cushion at the back of her chair. She crossed her ankles, turned her body to the side, and rested her hands in her lap—a perfect and attractive pose, perfected no doubt by balancing a book on her head. I wondered how long she would hold it.

  “Well, I must say, Hazel Marie,” I began, “that the two of you have really been working. Trixie, you are looking exceptionally well, and I can see that self-confident glow which we always have when we know we’re looking our best. That makes striving to look our best worth the effort. I hope you never listen to those who push you to look natural—that’s what we look like when we first get up in the morning. Just keep on doing whatever you’re doing, because you are lovely. Just remember,” I couldn’t help but add, “that pretty is as pretty does.”

  Trixie blushed, ducked her head, and murmured, “Thank you.” Not quite in the mumbling way she used to respond, yet quite appropriately for a compliment.

  “Here we go, ladies,” Granny Wiggins called out as she carried in a tray loaded with glasses, a pitcher of lemonade, and a plate of cookies. “James has got his hands in a mess of collard greens, so he give me this job. Mrs. Murdoch, how’s the world treatin’ you? Real nice to see you again.” Granny set the tray on the coffee table, then peered closely at me. “You’re lookin’ a mite peaked. You’re not sick, are you?�
�

  Don’t you just hate it when people draw attention to your looks? I couldn’t help it if I had a lot on my mind, worrying me half to death day and night.

  “No,” I said, as serenely as I could manage, “I’m not ill. But you’re looking well, Mrs. Wiggins.”

  Granny Wiggins was Etta Mae’s grandmother, a widow lady who lived on a no-longer-working farm out in the country. During Hazel Marie’s weeks of distress when her twins were teething and James was laid up and she was run ragged trying to care for them all, Granny had come to help and stayed. I had fretted that she was too old, too thin, and too weak to be much use, but Granny could outwork us all. In a housedress that looked recycled from a flour sack, a practical apron, stockings that were rolled down her pencil-thin legs to her high-top tennis shoes, she flitted around the house, dusting, vacuuming, crooning to the babies, and endearing herself to both Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens. In fact, Mr. Pickens had occasionally teased Hazel Marie by saying that he had a mind to trade her in for Granny Wiggins. Granny Wiggins could do it all with—as she said—one hand tied behind her back.

  “Sit down, Granny,” Hazel Marie said as she reached for the pitcher. “Have some lemonade with us.”

  “Well, I got lots to do,” Granny said, her hands on her hips. “Them bathrooms upstairs need a good scrubbin’, but I reckon I can set for a minute.” And so she did, accepted a glass from Hazel Marie, then commenced to give us her assessment of whatever entered her head.

  “Well, I tell you,” Granny began, “I been watchin’ Little Miss Trixie get all gussied up, and, honey, you’re lookin’ good, no two ways about it. But let ole Granny tell you what’ll really do the trick if it’s a man you’re a-lookin’ for. Learn to cook, and I don’t mean all this fancy stuff that’ll give you heartburn and dyspepsy. You jus’ ask the man you got your eye on over for supper, an’ give ’em fried chicken from a young and tender pullet you raised yourself. Give him beans and corn and ’maters and cukes and whatever else you got outta your own garden, and he won’t care what you look like. Top it off with a caramel cake you made from scratch, and all he’ll say is, ‘What time’s supper tomorrow?’”

  Granny nodded her head sharply, as if she’d just given the last word on the subject. But she had a few more. “Now that’s for summertime cookin’. If it’s winter, just go out and get a fat hen that’s too old and tough for fryin’, and you just boil her down, and drop some dumplin’s in it, and, honey, I tell you, he’ll be a-knockin’ on your door ever’ night.”

  She stopped, took a long swallow of lemonade, then went on. “’Course it don’t hurt none to look as pretty as you can when you’re dippin’ all that up for him. But it’s the cookin’ that’ll get ’em ever’time. An’ I oughta know. I kept a husband for fifty-some-odd years, an’ been a widder ever since ’cause I don’t want another’n. I already turned down three offers, an’ they sure didn’t come sniffin’ around on the basis of my looks.” She stood up, put her empty glass on the tray, and began to take her leave. “Well, this ain’t gettin’ it done. Whoops!” she said, whirling around as the telephone rang. “Y’all just keep on a-settin’, I’ll get it. You ladies have a nice visit now, an’, Miss Trixie, you want any more man-gettin’ advice, you just come to me.”

  We were left staring at one another, not knowing whether to laugh or to take her advice seriously.

  “Well,” I said, “that was interesting, but, Trixie, I don’t think you need worry about keeping chickens and working a garden. You just keep doing what Hazel Marie tells you, and you’ll be fine.”

  Trixie had, by this time, lost her model’s pose and was now slumped back in the chair. “I guess,” she mumbled. “ ’Cept I like raisin’ chickens, but Rodney don’t. He don’t even like chicken, period. He says he could go the rest of his life without ever seein’ another pulley bone.”

  Chapter 35

  Fairly content that Trixie was following instructions when she remembered them and giving Hazel Marie no trouble, I walked home, turning my mind to other problems such as Sam’s senate campaign and Rodney’s campaign for my property.

  As for Rodney, I decided, he could just knock himself out running around in my woods, metal detecting and tying orange plastic strips on stakes, and whatever else he was doing—it would do him no good. Well, actually it might do him some good in another way. Maybe he’d get so tired of dealing with briars, chiggers, redbugs, and snakes that he give up his dream of building a mortuary and turn his mind to something else—maybe a hot yoga business. I had a building I’d be happy to rent to him.

  When Hazel Marie had walked me to the door, she’d whispered that Trixie had not heard from Rodney, but that she was still convinced she’d win him back.

  “How’s she going to do that?” I’d said, whispering, too.

  “I don’t know,” Hazel Marie said with a frown, “but she seems to have some idea up her sleeve. She’s, well, just real confident that she can bring him around.”

  I thought about that as I walked, wondering what in the world Trixie could have in mind. It was a settled fact that, in spite of Hazel Marie’s ministrations, the girl would never be what one would call a raving beauty. Markedly and impressively improved, I was happy to concede, but never strikingly beautiful. More’s the pity, but how many of us actually are? We all have to work with what we’re given and try to make the best of it.

  And then there was Sam. I had a bad feeling about his chances for winning the senate race, and the thought of him being disappointed hurt me deep inside. I had gone with him to a few dinners and rallies, but the crowds had been sparse. The small numbers hadn’t seemed to discourage him, though. He kept assuring me that the word was getting around and that things were looking up.

  “All of a sudden,” he’d said with a pleased smile, “we’ve had an influx of donations—a couple of big ones, too. That means people want to get in on the winning side.”

  “Who were the big donors?” I asked, wondering if my bundling efforts were paying off after all.

  “Right now, I just look at the bottom line.” Sam glanced at me, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t want to be influenced by knowing how much or how little anybody’s contributed. And I’ll tell you, it’s come in at just the right time—we were scraping the bottom of our campaign barrel. So now we’ll be able to flood the local airwaves with radio and television ads. I think we’re going to see an uptick in the polls, too.”

  Sam was also enthusiastically planning an all-out effort on the Fourth of July when people would be out celebrating. The holiday was fast approaching, and the day would be filled with barbecues, hot dogs, watermelon cuttings, bluegrass bands, a little beach music, parades, and speeches from one end of the district to the other, lasting long into a fireworks-filled night. He was looking forward to it and I was trying to.

  “You don’t have to go to everything, honey,” Sam had said, considerate as always. “It’s going to be a long day, and Millard has a bunch of volunteers eager to make every stop. We’re going to load up a van and start with a parade that morning in Polk City, then on to the next event and on and on for the rest of the day.”

  Just the mention of riding around all day in a van decided me. “Thank you, Sam. I’d like to see the fireworks out at the park that evening. I’ll meet you there.”

  —

  When I got home from my visit with Hazel Marie and Trixie, I went in the kitchen door as we were wont to do and found Lillian waiting for me. I didn’t get two steps through the door before she was right up next to me, whispering.

  “You got some more comp’ny,” she said. “I tole him I didn’t know when you be back, but he said he don’t mind waitin’ in the parlor, and that’s what he been doin’.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Miss Trixie’s young man. That Rodney, what buries folks. I tell you, Miss Julia, I’m glad you home. I don’t like bein’ here by myself when he come callin’. No tel
lin’ what he have in mind.”

  “Oh, I know what he has in mind, and it’s about time he declared himself. Don’t worry, Lillian, he’ll be doing no burying around here or anywhere else, if I have anything to say about it.”

  As I marched into the living room, Rodney sprang from Sam’s chair as soon as I appeared and greeted me with a broad smile.

  “Miss Julia,” he said, taking a liberty that I wasn’t sure he’d been granted, “so nice to see you again. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this, but, like I always say, when something’s on your mind, better to go on and get it off than to let it simmer.”

  “Have a seat, Rodney,” I said, having one myself as I decided to discompose him by letting whatever was on his mind simmer a little longer. “Trixie isn’t here, I’m sorry to say, but I’m surprised you’ve come calling on her. I hear that the two of you have parted ways.”

  “Well, uh, no, I came to . . .”

  “I think—if it matters what I think—that you were wise to slow things down a little. Trixie is still young in many ways and has a lot to learn. A sophisticated young man like you quite turned her head.”

  He preened just a little. “Yes, I did my best to help, but found that we had little in common—chickens, for one thing. In fact, though, when I suggested that we see other people, it was really for her own good.”

  “It’s certainly proving to be,” I agreed. “She’s like a different young woman.”

  “Oh?” he said, betraying some dismay that Trixie might actually be better off without him.