Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

  “Well,” Hazel Marie said, a bit wryly, “I think I’ll wait and see how tomorrow night goes before looking for any thanks.”

  I laughed. “Good idea. But, listen, if Trixie needs a new dress, use my credit card.”

  After hanging up, I turned around to see Sam standing in the doorway. “Did you hear all that?” I asked. “Rodney’s taking Trixie out again.”

  Sam’s eyebrows went up, then he smiled. “That’s a pretty fast about-face, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is, and I’m wondering why.”

  Chapter 37

  I didn’t have long to wonder. Barely forty-eight hours later, Trixie came to see me. She showed up Sunday afternoon, after her date with Rodney the evening before. Our morning had been spent at church, from which Trixie had been noticeably absent, and after lunch Sam had left for some vote mongering, taking Mr. Pickens and Lloyd with him.

  Looking forward to a leisurely afternoon, I’d started on the newspaper in the library, having slipped off my shoes to rest my feet on an ottoman. I’d deliberately stayed away from Hazel Marie’s the day before, knowing that the preparations for Trixie’s date would be hectic, and that she’d need all the last-minute instructions in etiquette and deportment that she could get. But Hazel Marie had called, almost every hour on the hour, to let me know how the day was progressing.

  “We got her a dress,” she reported, barely an hour after the shops had opened. “It’s just elegant and looks so good on her. She didn’t really want black, until she saw it on. And when I told her I’d let her wear my pearls—the ones you gave me—why, she was as happy as she could be.”

  I mentally moaned at the thought of those beautiful pearls in Trixie’s care, but refrained from saying anything.

  Then in the early afternoon, Hazel Marie called again. “I tried to get Trixie to take a nap, but she’s too excited to sleep or eat or anything. Now she’s practicing how to walk in her new shoes. Really high heels, but they’re all that way now.”

  And not an hour later, another report. “Trixie just threw up. You reckon she’s getting sick?”

  “Just excitement, Hazel Marie,” I assured her. “But you better get her to eat a little something. She shouldn’t leave on an empty stomach—she’ll be ravenous at dinner. Just imagine that.”

  And on and on it went all afternoon, until finally Hazel Marie called a little after six. “Well, they’re off, and Trixie did look nice. I think Rodney was impressed when she came downstairs, although I had a hard time getting her to wait till he got in the house. J.D. talked with him a few minutes.” Hazel Marie stopped and laughed a little. “I think Rodney was happy to get Trixie and leave. You know how J.D. can be—I think he was practicing for when our girls begin to date.”

  I’d heard nothing more after that, not even on the morning after. Assuming that Trixie had slept late after her big night, I expected to get a complete report sometime that afternoon.

  But I hadn’t expected Trixie to suddenly show up in my house. She’d come in the kitchen door, walked through the house, and appeared in the library before I knew she was there. No knocking, no doorbell ringing, no phone call—she was just there. I was startled, because we usually kept the doors locked when someone was in the house alone, and I almost reprimanded her. Still, Lloyd came and went at will, and Trixie probably felt she had the run of the place as well.

  “Why, Trixie,” I said, putting aside the paper. “I’m glad to see you. Come tell me all about last night. Did you have a good time?”

  “Real good,” she said, flopping down in the wing chair opposite mine. Then, as if suddenly remembering a lesson, she sat up, put her knees together, and primly said, “It was a delightful evening, and Rodney enjoyed it just as much as me. I mean, as I did. He told me he did, and that he’d probably jumped the gun a little when he said we ought to see other people. He really missed me, so I guess we’re back together.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” What else could I say? I didn’t trust Rodney or his intentions toward her, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  “Yeah,” she said, her gaze wandering around the room as if her mind was somewhere else. “That place we went to was real fancy, but I could do without all that hovering the waiter did. That’s what Rodney called it, hovering. Made me nervous. I don’t like somebody watching me eat, and we couldn’t take a drink of water without him coming to pour us some more.”

  “Well, that’s the way those places are. At least you never have to flag down a waiter to get served.”

  “I guess.” She nodded. “But Rodney and me decided we didn’t much like it. Food was good, though. Miss Julia,” she went on, her eyes briefly meeting mine, then darting away, “I got something to ask you. You know that property Rodney wants for his mortuary complex?”

  Mortuary complex? That was a new one, but I nodded. “Yes, I’ve been hearing a lot about it lately.”

  “Well, he’s having it surveyed Wednesday—that’s the day after the Fourth of July, I guess you know. He wanted to have it done sooner than that, like tomorrow, but they wouldn’t do it. He said you gave him permission.”

  “I did,” I agreed, “although I don’t know why he’s going to the expense. The property is not suitable for what he wants and I wouldn’t sell it if it was.”

  “That’s what he said. But it started me thinking, and I feel like you do. I mean, I wouldn’t sell it either, if I didn’t want to. Rodney says you probably want to keep it as part of your estate—you know, to pass on to whoever’s in your will.”

  I looked at her in surprise. People don’t normally bring up such personal matters as one’s beneficiaries or, indeed, to remind one of the attendant matter of preparation for one’s death.

  “So it got me to thinking,” Trixie went on, “and I know you don’t have any kids and your sisters don’t, either, so Meemaw has to be your next of kin. And because you don’t even know my mama, and Meemaw says she don’t deserve anything anyway, I figure I’m in there somewhere and it might all come to me, ’specially since I know you don’t think much of Meemaw. So what I want to know is why don’t you go ahead and give me that land now instead of me having to wait till you die, when I’ll inherit it anyway?”

  If I’d ever been stunned before, it was nothing like I felt at that moment. I stared at her, simply speechless at her presumption, her boldness, and her unmitigated gall in assuming that she was in my will, much less my primary beneficiary.

  Finally I was able to open my mouth. “Did Rodney put you up to this?”

  “Nuh-uh,” she said with a shake of her head, but it was a weak nuh-uh. “I thought of it all by myself. See, because I’d do just what you’re doing and hold on to it. I wouldn’t sell it for anything. That way, see, I’d go in with Rodney and be his partner, and we’d get married and we’d own the whole complex together. He wouldn’t ever think we ought to see other people then.”

  If marriage vows wouldn’t hold on to a man—I wanted to say, as Wesley Lloyd Springer passed through my mind—how did she expect a chunk of land to keep him in line? But that was neither here nor there at the present time.

  “Well, Trixie,” I said calmly, even as I marveled at my own restraint, “it seems that Hazel Marie hasn’t gotten to the point of explaining to you that there are certain subjects that one does not bring up or mention in passing, or even vaguely refer to. A person’s will is at the top of the list. And,” I said, gathering steam, “let me just set you straight about kinship and lines of inheritance. It does not necessarily follow that just because someone is related to someone, that that someone is in line for a windfall. And furthermore, I seriously doubt that your Meemaw and I are any kin at all, and if we are, it is of the most tenuous nature and certainly not one you can count on.”

  She was looking at me, wide-eyed, during this, and I began to doubt that half of what I said had gotten through to her.

  “Well, but,” she fi
nally said, “you don’t have nobody else to leave it to. I mean, you never had no kids or nieces or nephews or anything. I’m almost the next of kin, and the most important thing is family—Meemaw says so. That’s the way she was raised, and you were, too. So if you was to give me that land, I wouldn’t ask for anything else. You could do whatever else you wanted to with whatever else you’ve got.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, but she didn’t hear the sarcasm that I hadn’t been able to control.

  “Yeah, well, Rodney said that you’re just the type to leave everything to the church or to a bunch of cats like some old ladies do. But you don’t have any cats, and we need that land more’n the church does. The one you go to’s got money gone to bed anyway—I could tell the first time I walked in the door.”

  So Rodney had discussed the dispensation of my estate with her. Why was I not surprised?

  “Let me put your mind at ease,” I said, getting to my feet because I’d about reached the end of my tether. “My will and my intentions for what the Lord has blessed me with are not your concern, Trixie. And I will also tell you this: family, especially far-flung family, the members of which might have no ties whatsoever to each other, is not all it’s cracked up to be. There just might be people of absolutely no blood kin who are closer and more precious than anyone with a presumed family connection. In other words, there are families, and then there are families. So my advice to you is to look to your Meemaw for any inheritance coming to you, because the fact of the matter is: I’m neither ready to die nor am I ready to begin dispensing my assets, and I won’t be for some time to come. In fact,” I went on, as I fumed at Rodney’s categorization of me, “I just might begin taking in a few cats.”

  She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, then her face turned red as it scrunched up and a few tears squeezed out. Putting her hands over her face, she hopped up and headed for the door. When she got there, she turned back and cried, “I could have everything I ever wanted if I had that land, but you’re just too selfish to let me have it!”

  And with that, she ran out, slamming the back door as she went.

  Chapter 38

  They Lord, I thought, flopping down on a chair. Me, selfish? She’d called me selfish? When I’d fed her and dressed her and took her in when her own grandmother had turned her out?

  To be unappreciated was the most hurtful thing, and I thought of a dozen ways with which I could’ve defended myself. Why, think of all the nonprofits I helped support around town, or the church which owed its new furnace to Sam and me, as well as the anonymous gifts I’d made to individuals who were in dire need or else were just those I wanted to help. And I won’t even bring up the tithe because that’s my reasonable sacrifice, but my over-and-above giving is worth a mention.

  And of course if you want to step back and consider what I’d done for Wesley Lloyd’s mistress and son, that could be thought of as going way beyond what any sane woman would’ve done. But, shaking my head, I refused to consider them—doing something for those you love and deeply care for probably shouldn’t count when it came to qualifying as unselfish. It probably only counts when you do something you don’t particularly want to do, which was the way I’d felt at first but changed my mind later on.

  Finally, I lifted my head and began to think about who I’d listed in my will to benefit by my death. Should I have included Elsie and Trixie? They might indeed be of some distant kin to me, but was that enough to assure them of a mention? Not, I told myself, by any means. A will, it seemed to me, was the most personal of any document and, family notwithstanding, a place in which one could do as one wished and not have to suffer the consequences—one would be dead and buried by the time anybody got disappointed.

  Sam, of course, was featured in my will, but only with a token because we’d discussed the matter and he’d told me he had plenty to last him a lifetime. Besides, he’d made it plain that he didn’t want to benefit from Wesley Lloyd’s money. I, myself, hadn’t minded spending it because, by putting up with Wesley Lloyd for forty years, I figured I’d earned every penny, but I could see why Sam would just as soon it pass him by.

  Then there was Lillian, who would never have to cook another meal or scrub another pot if she didn’t want to. She’d be able to queen it at the A.M.E. Zion Church if she had a mind to and educate Latisha, too. And Hazel Marie, of course. It pleased me to think of how surprised she’d be—she’d probably cry. Wouldn’t you love to be around when people learned just how much they’d meant to you? Hazel Marie had certainly been well cared for by the income from Lloyd’s inheritance, but that would last only until he reached maturity. I knew that he would continue to look after his mother, but how much better it would be if she had assets of her own. Mr. Pickens flashed through my mind at that point, and I didn’t know how he’d take to his wife suddenly having a few investments in her name—he’d been leery enough about marrying a woman with a wealthy child. Well, I decided, he could just learn to live with it—I wanted Hazel Marie to be one of my beneficiaries.

  And there was the First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville. I couldn’t leave that out—that just wasn’t done by a churchgoing woman—although I’d carefully specified what the money was to be used for. No need giving Pastor Ledbetter a free hand, which he already used too frequently to suit me, anyway. And there were a few more itemized charities that had a mention—Lillian’s church, for instance, would come in for some unexpected benefits, not only for her sake, but because I was partial to the Reverend Abernathy, who’d once done me a kindness.

  Oh, and Etta Mae, I hadn’t overlooked her, and I hoped that having a nice income-producing property would give her peace of mind even if she never married again.

  And just in the past year, I’d had Binkie tack on a codicil that included the Pickens twins and, much against Binkie’s protestations—which I ignored—Little Gracie, Binkie and Coleman’s daughter.

  What was left—which would be plenty—would go to Lloyd, the precious child I’d never had and never thought I wanted, but who more than satisfactorily filled an empty place in my life. Besides, it had all come by way of his father in the first place, although I’d used my half with a great deal of pleasure and very little depletion of capital and even less thought of whence it came.

  But Elsie and Trixie? No, ma’am. I’d get a whole house full of cats first.

  —

  I dozed off and on for an hour or so, waking now and then to think again of Trixie’s demand, then getting irate all over again. Rodney had put her up to asking for that property, I was sure of it. But how could anyone, even Trixie, not know any better than to just walk in and ask—and expect—to be given something of value? It was beyond me, but still I hated to be thought selfish.

  And to think that I would have to sit at the table with her on the morrow and be graciously sociable, even as I knew what she thought of me. Well, I could do that. I’d had years of practice under worse circumstances than these.

  Yet I wished for Sam. I couldn’t wait to tell him of Trixie’s utter gall in asking and of her unfairness in calling me selfish.

  I guess I wanted reassurance that I was a thoughtful, considerate, and unsparing Christian woman who was going to hold on to that property, tooth and nail, till Doomsday. Or until Etta Mae decided to move.

  When the front doorbell rang, my first thought was that it was Rodney come to add his plea to Trixie’s. I stomped to the door, determined to put an end to it. It wasn’t Rodney.

  “Well, Thurlow,” I said, surprised to find him standing on my front porch. “Sam’s off politicking, but he should be back soon. Do you want him to call you when he gets in?”

  “No, I’ve come to see you, and it’s just as well that Murdoch’s not here. We got a business matter to discuss, you and me.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, suspecting as I did that he was another of Rodney’s agents, but I held the door open a
nd stepped back. “Come in then, although I don’t ordinarily discuss business on a Sunday.”

  I led him into the living room, motioned him to a chair, and took one myself. “Well, let’s hear it,” I said, in no mood to be harassed about that property again. I didn’t offer any refreshments.

  Thurlow sat, crossed one leg over the other, and picked at the place a crease would’ve been on the knee of his pants, if they’d ever seen an iron. “I guess you figured out by now,” he began, frowning at me, “that I’m going in with the Pace boy to turn that area out on Springer Road into a first-class mortuary and cemetery complex. And I guess you’ve been wondering what all we’re going to do.”

  “No,” I said serenely, “not at all. In fact, I haven’t given any of it much thought.”

  “Then it’s time you did. We’ve made you a good offer and there’s no reason in the world for you to hold on to that land. It’s not like you’re using it for anything.”

  “Well, there’s the Hillandale Trailer Park . . .”

  Thurlow snorted and waved his hand as if the home of a dozen people was of no account. “That can be moved. In fact, I’ve got a nice hillside I’ll throw in to boot. Move ’em there.”

  I thought of Etta Mae, and I thought of how a huge flatbed truck with a sign across the front and back fenders reading WIDE LOAD would have to be backed into the park and up against her single-wide, which would then have to be unhooked from water, electricity, and sewer lines, and how it would have to be craned up onto the truck bed, then hauled down the highway in a convoy with a car with flashing lights in front and one in back to warn other drivers. And then be dumped onto a hillside in the back of beyond somewhere—no telling where—and rehooked to the necessary utilities. And that’s only if there was a sewer line out there. They might have to put in a septic tank. Twelve times that would have to be done, to the tune of an untold amount of money that the residents, and certainly Etta Mae, didn’t have.