by Ann B. Ross
The phone persisted, and as I started toward it, Lillian said, “No’m, I do better to stay busy. I’m gonna start upstairs.” And off she went as I picked up the phone and answered it.
Hazel Marie said, “Miss Julia, you won’t believe what happened.”
Oh, my, I thought, picturing Trixie on a tear after I’d turned her petition down. She could’ve ranted and raved, moaned and cried half the night, keeping everybody including the babies up for hours. The girl knew no bounds when she was thwarted. I thought again of trying to track the travels of Elsie and Troy so I could ship her back to them. That’s what Mr. Pickens was good at—tracking down fugitives. Maybe I could hire him to find them.
“Oh, Hazel Marie,” I responded, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve warned you, but I was so upset. Then when Sam came home and I told him about it, and about Thurlow, too, he was so angry that it was all I could do to calm him. I hope she hasn’t turned your whole house upside down.”
“No, no, not really. I mean, I thought she was going to because she came running in from your house, slammed the door, and went straight to her room. Oh, and slammed that door, too. I went back there to see what was wrong, and she yelled at me, screamed at me, actually. Told me that nobody cared about her, and that I was just being a hypocrite for pretending to like her.” Hazel Marie paused as if hearing those words again. “I tell you, Miss Julia, I was stunned at that because I don’t think I’m a hypocrite. Do you?”
“Of course not. There’s not a hypocritical bone in your body. But that’s on a par with her calling me selfish—both so far from the truth that we shouldn’t let it bother us.” I paused to let her agree with me, but she didn’t say anything. “So what happened then? How is she this morning?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the transformation,” Hazel Marie said. “But what happened was that J.D. heard her scream at me, and he was up and out of that chair and walking down the hall before I knew it. He told Trixie to get off the bed and go into the living room and stay there. Then he told me he’d be up in a few minutes to help put the babies to bed. You know how he can be, just so sweet that you want to do whatever he wants.”
Well, I did know how he could be, and it wasn’t always as sweet as Hazel Marie seemed to think it was.
“So what did he do?” I asked. “Just let her sit in the living room?”
“No, he went in and talked to her. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was, well, it did the trick. She came upstairs and apologized to me. And, Miss Julia, I think she really meant it. Told me how much she appreciated my help and that I’d been nicer to her than anyone ever had been before, and said how sorry she was for being so obnoxious.”
“She said that? Obnoxious?”
“She sure did. I’m sure she got it from J.D.—it’s one of his favorite words when things don’t go his way.” She giggled. “He’s so funny. But, anyway, I tried to get him to tell me what all he’d said to her, but he said he’d just talked to her, and he was pretty sure nothing like that would happen again. And, Miss Julia, it hasn’t. She came to breakfast on time, dressed and made up and everything. And she was just as pleasant and friendly as she could be—even to the little girls. I mean, she was so different that I don’t know which one is the real Trixie—yesterday afternoon’s one or this morning’s one.”
“Well, I declare,” I said with some wonder. “I’d love to know what he said that turned things around so much and so quickly. I’ve seen her, Hazel Marie, when she was crying and screaming and so unhappy, and it’s not a pretty sight. I think you should push Mr. Pickens to tell you his secret. We might need it again.”
“You might, at least,” Hazel Marie said, “because she wants to talk to you. She wanted to come see you this morning, but I told her you’d probably be too busy.”
“Well, thank goodness. I don’t think I could stand another round like we had yesterday. Did she tell you what happened?”
“No, and I never got a chance to ask. And after she had such a turnaround, I didn’t want to risk undoing it.”
So I told Hazel Marie what Trixie had assumed she’d get just by asking and about the ceiling she’d hit when she didn’t.
Hazel Marie was appalled. “I never heard of anybody doing such a thing—even thinking such a thing. I tell you, Miss Julia, now that I know how far out of bounds she was to you, the change in her this morning is even more remarkable. We need to find out what J.D. said.”
“We sure do,” I agreed, thinking that with Trixie, we needed all the help we could get. “Hazel Marie, anybody who can get through to Trixie in one of her tantrums is worth his weight in gold. See if he’ll stick around for the luncheon.”
Chapter 41
As I dressed in a pastel voile with pearl buttons, slipped on my white Ferragamos, considered then discarded a hat and gloves, I realized that my movements were getting slower as the luncheon hour neared. I couldn’t help it. I dreaded seeing Trixie and being in her company for a solid hour or more, expecting at any moment an outburst of temper that would be the talk of the town for months to come. I could just hear LuAnne saying a year from now, “Remember that luncheon for Julia’s niece or whatever she was? Honey, let me tell you what happened.” Then going on to relate specifics that would keep the incident alive even among people who didn’t know Trixie from Adam.
I realized that Trixie may indeed have had a remarkable change of attitude where Hazel Marie was concerned, complete with apologies and getting out of bed at a decent hour in response to Mr. Pickens’s oratorical skills, but where did that leave me? Hazel Marie had denied her nothing, but I had. Who knew what anger and bitterness she harbored toward me for thwarting her pursuit of Rodney?
But what did I care? you may well ask. I cared because no one likes to witness a loss of control to the extent that Trixie could lose it. Such a scene can be frightening to onlookers and mortally embarrassing to assumed relatives, especially in a social gathering of ladies, all on their best behavior but eager to have something to talk about.
Sam had warned me before leaving that morning that he would put up with no more rudeness from Trixie. “If she cuts up again, Julia, I want you to come home and call me. I’ll have her on a bus to somewhere before the day is out.”
I stood before the mirror for some last-minute fiddling with my hair, then decided that it was in as good a shape as it was going to get. There was nothing to do but go on and face the music and hope that Mr. Pickens stayed close.
—
I drove the four blocks to Hazel Marie’s house, figuring it was too hot to walk without turning into a wrinkled frump by the time I got there. Besides, I wanted the means of a quick getaway if one became needed.
Being the last guest to arrive, I knew I’d timed it just right. Everybody was in Hazel Marie’s living room, talking and laughing together as James passed a tray of iced lime punch in Waterford stemmed glasses, so I was able to slide in without causing a ripple. Standing in the doorway of the living room for a second before taking a seat beside Mildred, I glanced around the room looking for Trixie, then jumped out of my skin as she appeared at my side.
“Miss Julia,” she said softly—no one could’ve heard her but me. “I’m sorry for the way I acted yesterday. I hope you’ll excuse my behavior.”
My word, Mr. Pickens has wrought a miracle!
“Why, of course I will,” I said, because what else does one do? “Come over here for a minute.” And I led her deeper into the hall where we wouldn’t be overheard. “Thank you, Trixie. It’s very commendable of you to apologize, as we all should do when we regret something we’ve said or done.”
“I hope you won’t hold it against me,” Trixie said, and I knew she’d been dreading our meeting as much as I had. “I mean, I guess I was out of line, but Rodney . . . well,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet, “he wants that land so bad, and I thought that if I could get it for him, he’d be so ha
ppy. But now,” she said as she looked directly up at me, “I don’t give a flying flip if he ever gets it. They’s more fish in the sea than him, anyway, and I don’t know why I let him get me all wrapped up in a ole funeral parlor full of dead folks.”
I blinked at the flying flip, which almost left me speechless. “Well,” I finally managed, “well, Trixie, you amaze me. But I’m delighted that you’re seeing things with a clearer eye now.”
She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and murmured, “I sure am.”
Hazel Marie walked into the hall, saw us, and cheerily said, “Come on, you two. Lunch is served.”
I followed her to the dining room with a lighter heart than I’d had since Trixie had called me selfish. Things were looking up, and I was looking forward to a relaxed and friendly meal.
Until I saw what Hazel Marie had asked James to prepare—quiche. I inwardly winced, wondering what Trixie would have to say about such a strange—to her—serving. But one could hope that she would eat the lovely salad on the plate and the blueberry muffins in a napkin-covered basket and keep her comments to herself about the quiche.
Since James already had the filled plates on the table, Hazel Marie quickly placed us as she wanted us. She put Trixie as the guest of honor at the head of the table, herself at her usual place at the foot, Etta Mae on Trixie’s right, and Mildred on her left. I was seated at Hazel Marie’s right and LuAnne on her left.
“Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, “would you return thanks for us?”
I have never liked praying in public, always being reminded of those who love to pray standing at the corners of the streets so they can be seen, but I had long ago committed to memory an appropriate blessing for just such occasions when I was called upon.
I bowed my head, murmured, “Let us pray,” as Pastor Ledbetter always did when he announced his intent to pray whether anybody else wanted to or not, then spoke from memory, along with a few unspoken thoughts: “We thank thee, O Lord, for friends and family, and for all your blessings (Sam, Lloyd, Lillian, and so on). We pray for those among us with special concerns today (please don’t let Trixie throw a fit), and we thank thee for this food (even though it’s quiche) and for the hands that prepared it (thank goodness it was James’s and not Hazel Marie’s), and we ask you to bless it to the nourishment of our bodies, and us to your service. In Jesus’s name we pray, amen.”
A chorus of murmured amens accompanied mine, and Hazel Marie started the small silver dish of sliced lemon for the iced tea, then the basket of muffins and the butter dish.
As spoons tinkled in glasses and forks clinked against plates, Etta Mae asked, “Hazel Marie, where are those darling babies?”
Hazel Marie lit up as she always did when her twins were mentioned. “One’s asleep and the other one’s being rocked by your Granny. Etta Mae, I don’t know what I would do without her. She is a wonder. I asked her to join us for lunch, but she said she’d as soon eat by herself as at a party.”
“She’s a pistol, all right,” Etta Mae said, grinning. Then to Trixie, “I love that color on you. It’s so becoming.”
I could’ve hugged Etta Mae for noticing Trixie’s mint-green dress that toned down her complexion, and for publicly commenting on it. That was the sort of unsolicited compliment that Trixie needed to give her confidence.
Trixie blushed. “Hazel Marie picked it out for me.”
“Miss Wiggins,” Mildred said, “Etta Mae, if I may. I understand you’re a nurse. Do you work at the hospital?”
“No’m, I’m a licensed practical. I see shut-ins, make home visits, and, well, like that.”
“I may be calling on you then,” Mildred said. “Ladies, I know this isn’t exactly suitable at the table, but I’m having a colonoscopy next week, and I’m scared to death.”
“Oh, Mildred,” LuAnne piped up. “Don’t be such a sissy. There’s nothing to it. You’ll be sound asleep and won’t know a thing about it. I’ve already had mine, and the worst thing is that stuff you have to drink beforehand. But I’ll tell you this,” she said, raising her fork for emphasis, “everyone here ought to have one, too.”
Only Mildred, I thought, could get away with bringing up such a subject, and only LuAnne would launch into details of the subject. I hoped that both of them would soon get off of it.
“Julia,” LuAnne demanded, “have you had one?”
“I don’t believe I have,” I said demurely, wanting to deflect the conversation.
“Well, believe me, you’d know it if you had.” And everybody laughed.
Except Trixie, who glanced around, but who apparently didn’t get the humor. I didn’t much, either, but I was glad to see that she was eating the quiche—though with small, careful bites from her fork, but doing so without turning up her nose and asking for Doritos.
LuAnne suddenly said, “Did y’all hear about the two high school teachers?”
Everybody turned to her with eager looks on their faces. Except Trixie, who seemed intent on the blueberry muffin she held. She couldn’t seem to decide whether to eat it or not, but she broke it in two, put one half on her butter plate, and held the other. She studied it for so long that I wondered if she’d found something besides blueberries in it. She finally began to nibble at it, then, finding it tasty, she ate it all. I declare, though, between visualizing Mildred’s colonoscopy and expecting an explosion from Trixie any minute, I can’t say that I was enjoying my lunch.
“Which ones?” Hazel Marie asked, drawing my attention back to LuAnne’s question.
“Coaches, both of them. See,” LuAnne said, scooting up in her chair. “They were at the school—I mean, I know it’s summer and they’re supposed to be off, but a lot of them have things to do there. Anyway, I guess they thought nobody would be around, but the janitor walked in on them in the girls’ locker room! And both of them are married, and the woman teaches sex education, would you believe! Although they call it something else now—health and hygiene, or something—but she teaches it to students. Anyway, I heard they’ve been reassigned to different schools, but I think they ought to be fired. I mean, right in the school where anybody could’ve walked in on them! Have you ever heard of anything so appalling?”
Well, yes, a number of us had, and hair-raising tales of misconduct on school grounds going back fifty years or more were raised for our delectation. I thought that surely Trixie would be entertained, as some of the stories were quite humorous, so I kept glancing at her. She may or may not have heard a word that was said—she sat at the head of the table, eating small amounts of quiche now and then, occasionally turning her head in the direction of whomever was speaking, but her face was suffused with a peaceful glow as an occasional smile flitted across her mouth. She had the sort of inward look that comes over an infant’s face when it smiles at the turbulence of intestinal gas.
I held my breath, hoping that her composure would hold at least until we finished eating. The wonder of it was, though, that whatever Mr. Pickens had said to her had elicited an apology to me and a strident denunciation of Rodney.
I determined to find out what it had been, for I knew a few other people who could use just such a wonder-evoking transformation, even if it proved in Trixie’s case only a temporary aberration.
Chapter 42
I got home about midafternoon to a quiet, orderly house and sat down at the kitchen table to read a note from Lillian. Apparently Mrs. Abernathy’s condition had worsened, so Lillian had gone to help out. Frid chicken & potatoe salat in frigidair, she’d written, and I smiled at her thoughtfulness—she knew I was no hand in a kitchen.
In fact, by this time I was worn to a frazzle from the stress of waiting for Trixie to throw a public fit, thereby embarrassing Hazel Marie and proving all her efforts in vain. To say nothing of how such a spectacle would’ve reflected on me, or what Mr. Pickens would do if he had to speak to Trixie again, or how angry Sam would be i
f he had to trundle her off on a southbound bus. It was all too much to consider dealing with, so it was with great relief that I had come home without such a story to tell and without having to worry with supper.
Trixie had behaved herself admirably. Well, not exactly admirably unless you knew her background, because she had not been what you would call companionably sociable. She never initiated or continued a conversation, merely responding briefly when someone addressed her. And all the while she’d had that unreadable look on her face, especially when she was left to her own thoughts as the conversation veered away from her, which it frequently did, as her “Yes, ma’ams” and “No, ma’ams” did not encourage further efforts to converse.
I tell you, as relieved as I was that Trixie had behaved herself for two full hours, I was also befuddled as to what ailed her. I mean, Hazel Marie had done wonders with her, no doubt about that, but that glassy-eyed, faraway look on Trixie’s face boded trouble in the making. Was she getting sick, and if so, would all the guests come down with the same thing? Was she so upset with Rodney that she’d been making plans to wreak vengeance on him, even as James served meringue shells topped with fruit?
I heard the screech of bicycle tires on the driveway as Lloyd came to a stop outside the kitchen door. Then he banged through the door and smiled when he saw me.
“I didn’t know if it was safe to go home or not,” he said, grinning. “But I dropped by, and all the ladies were gone.”
“Yes, the luncheon is over and it was lovely,” I said, saying the expected thing without referring to the tension I’d undergone during it. “Did you see Trixie? What was she doing?” I asked, wondering if she and Hazel Marie were assessing the luncheon—what had gone right, what had gone wrong, and who had said what. Sometimes the debriefing was more enjoyable than the party itself.
