Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

by Ann B. Ross

About eight, I went downstairs, dreading every step, to face Lillian. Latisha was already there, having had her breakfast and, from the look on her face, a good talking-to.

  “Lillian,” I said as soon as I stepped into the sunny kitchen, “I can explain, but first, how is Mrs. Abernathy?”

  Lillian turned to me with a big smile. “She so much better, thank the Lord. Miss Julia, I tell you the truth, we all thought she was passin’, but the Lord, He hear our prayers, an’ He answer ’em jus’ the way we ast Him to.”

  “I am so glad. Did you get any sleep?”

  “I doze off an’ on, so I’m all right.” Lillian cracked an egg on the edge of a skillet, cut her eyes at me, and said, “Latisha tole me what y’all done last night. I guess she need a switchin’ for gettin’ firecrackers from ole Nub, but, I declare, she don’t know no better, an’ he don’t either. I don’t know what I ought to do.”

  “Nothing,” I said, “don’t do anything. Sam’s going to talk to the sheriff about Nub, and, Lillian, I had no idea that Latisha had a sackful of fireworks, but they couldn’t have been put to a better use. I just want you to know that she was never in any danger—I wouldn’t have had that child hurt for anything. And we only went out there to see what Rodney was doing—nothing else, just to sneak in and sneak out. It was only when we got there that Latisha called our attention to what she had, and I thought it was better to go ahead and use them in a good cause than to let her keep them.” I stopped, wondering how much more to say. “I should’ve called you, but with Mrs. Abernathy so sick . . .” I trailed off and quit.

  “I don’t never worry ’bout Latisha when she with you,” Lillian said, making me feel both better and worse. Then she laughed. “Sometimes I reckon I ought to, though. Set on down, this egg be done.”

  —

  Just as I sat at the table, the phone rang. Hurrying to answer it before Lillian fussed about a cold breakfast, I heard Etta Mae on the line.

  “Miss Julia? I’m out in the country on my cell, so I might lose you. I have to hurry and tell you that I passed that place on my way to work—you know the one I mean, don’t you? The place where we were last night?”

  “Yes, I know. Out there on—”

  “Don’t say it,” she said. “No telling who’s listening. Anyway, there was a whole bunch of cars on the side of the road and men wandering around above the ditch. And I mean, a couple of cop cars and some other cars, and a wrecker.” She giggled. “Guess what they need that for.”

  We chatted a few minutes longer while I told her that Sam would’ve been one of the men, and that he knew exactly who and what we’d seen and exactly where Rodney’s tools were, in case he needed corroborative evidence.

  “As far as you and I—and Latisha, of course—are concerned,” I assured her, “we’re out of it. What Rodney did is as plain as day, and even more so after that downpour last night, so they won’t need any eyewitness testimony. And, Etta Mae . . . Etta Mae? Well,” I said, replacing the phone, “I’ve lost her.”

  —

  About midmorning, Sam came in looking pleased and slightly sunburned. “An interesting morning, Julia,” he said. “You would’ve enjoyed it.” He sat at the table as Lillian brought over a cup of coffee.

  “What happened?” I asked, eager to hear it all. “Tell us everything.”

  “Well, I got there first, as I intended,” he said. “Then somebody in what looked like one of McCrory’s Lincolns dropped Rodney off. To say he was taken aback to see me is an understatement. He hemmed and hawed, trying to explain why his car was parked in the bushes. He told me he’d been out there the day before looking around so he could point things out to the surveyors, and that his car wouldn’t start when he was ready to leave.” Sam looked up at Lillian and me. “Why don’t you two sit down? This is a long story.” We did and he continued. “Anyway, he was fit to be tied when his car really wouldn’t start. Not only did it have a flat tire, it was mired in mud from rainwater runoff. Took about an hour to get a tow truck to come pull it out. And, let me tell you, he was one anxious young man. He couldn’t stand still, kept snapping his fingers and jiggling around, saying, ‘I got to go. I’m late, got to get to work,’ and so on. No way around it—he wanted to be gone before the surveyors came.

  “But he didn’t make it. Two surveyors showed up, and as soon as they crossed the ditch, one of them looked around, saw the footprints and trampled weeds, as well as the mud puddle where the stake had been, and said, ‘Uh-oh. Looks like we got us a land thief.’ I thought Rodney would faint, but he pulled himself together and got real interested in who could’ve possibly moved a stake. He even went so far as to discover the new location—just happened to stumble across it.” Sam stopped, shook his head, and laughed.

  “Well, finally the wrecker got there, and Rodney got busy directing the driver on how to do his job until, that is, Coleman pulled up in his patrol car and another came in behind him. Rodney was beside himself by that time, talking a mile a minute, saying he couldn’t imagine who could’ve done it, and that he’d been there the day before and somebody had shot at him, and he wanted to report the incident. Well, Coleman perked up at that, asked him all kinds of questions he couldn’t answer. Rodney said, ‘They shot at me a dozen times, and I’m not ashamed to say I ran for my life. I mean, there must’ve been five or six of them, and I knew I couldn’t take ’em all on.’

  “During all this I just stood back and let the surveyors point out the evidence to Coleman. He was taking notes and snapping pictures while Rodney was about to talk himself into real trouble. I finally drew him aside and told him he’d said enough, and that as long as the deputies didn’t find any tools with fingerprints on them, they wouldn’t know who the guilty party was. He turned white as a sheet and said he hadn’t seen any tools and didn’t know where they could be. ‘I don’t doubt that,’ I said, ‘but whoever shot at you probably has them or knows where they are. My advice to you is to cancel the survey and get out of Dodge.’ Well,” Sam said, laughing again, “I put it a little differently than that. But he thanked me and said if he’d known there were crazy people roaming around with guns in that part of the county, he never would’ve considered your property. By that time, they’d pulled his car out, so Rodney gave his card to Coleman, crawled in with the truck driver, and off they went, towing the Escalade behind them.”

  Lillian and I laughed, and I must say that I did it with a great deal of relief.

  “Oh, by the way, Julia,” Sam went on. “Do you know what surveyors call the iron stakes they use as markers?” I shook my head and he told me. “They call them monuments.”

  “Really? Well. I declare. Then since Rodney’s given up on his cemetery, we’ll have something to remember him by.”

  —

  You would think that with Rodney getting his comeuppance and Sam making sure my property was no longer desirable that, for one day, we’d had our fill of unexpected events. For one thing, I’d begun feeling a nagging guilt for leaving Trixie so long with Hazel Marie. The Pickens family didn’t need a permanent houseguest, so it was time for me to take up the burden of that prickly girl again. The time came sooner than I expected, for the day wasn’t over by a long shot. I knew it when the mailman came.

  Along with the bills, a letter from Elsie was in the pile I drew from the mailbox on the front porch. I stood looking at it, hoping that it would be what I’d longed for, but realizing that, without a return address, it was unlikely to be. I sat in a wicker chair on the porch, tore open the envelope, and read:

  Dear Julia,

  You probably don’t wont to hear this, but I need for Trixie to come home.

  A smile spread across my face and I had an urge to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Although to be truthful, with Trixie at Hazel Marie’s, she had been little trouble to me. The same could not be said for her former gentleman friend to whom she’d introduced us. I kept reading.

  Well,
home to us but not to her since she don’t know where we are. So you can tell her this is where we are Ocean View RV Park #213 Whisper Lane Daytona, Fla I don’t know the zip. We’re just renting so dont think we can’t afford a house but Troy took a parttime job at a gater farm and got bit. On the leg and it swoll up something awful and he went to the hospital and the doctor says he has to stay off of it, so I need help taking care of him. Troy don’t like to be tied to his bed, so he is ill as a hornet all the time. I’m tired of being up and down all night long every night of the week waiting on him hand and foot.

  Poor Trixie, I thought, to have to leave the gracious home she was in and go to a cramped RV, whatever that was, and care for an ill-tempered patient who would likely undo everything Hazel Marie and I had done. I felt a stab of sympathy.

  You’ll just have to do without her and so will anybody else she’s taken up with. If she pitches a fit, tell her absence makes the heart grow fonder and so forth. She’s needed here, but tell her the Ocean View Park is close to the race track and they’s men young and old around all the time. Some of them even park their million dollar RVs right here in the park close to us. So let me know what bus she’ll be on and I will meet it.

  I know you hate to see her go—anybody would, but maybe she can come back at Xmas if Troy is on his feet by then. Hope you won’t miss her too much.

  Your cousin, Elsie Bingham

  My heart had grown lighter with each line, although there was not one word of thanks or a hint of gratitude in the letter. But she had added, like an afterthought, a phone number at the bottom. That was more than she’d done in her first letter, which meant that she was no longer hiding their whereabouts from Trixie or me.

  In spite of having received the news I’d been longing for, I had to admit to myself that I would regret being unable to witness Trixie’s full blossoming under Hazel Marie’s tutelage. I comforted myself, however, by noting the distinct possibility that Trixie had already reached her peak, and there’d be nothing more to witness.

  Chapter 50

  After calling Hazel Marie to ask if it would be convenient for me to visit, I started the four-block walk to her house, recalling the phone conversation as I went.

  “How is Trixie this morning?” I’d asked, wanting to be prepared for whatever mood she was in.

  “To tell the truth,” Hazel Marie said, “I’m a little worried about her. On the one hand, she gets up early, dresses nicely, puts on her makeup, and does her hair. And she’s pleasant enough to be around, although she acts kind of dreamy-like—like she’s off in her own world. But then she goes to the den and sits there by the hour watching Magnum, P.I., one DVD after the other. I think that’s a little strange, don’t you?”

  I certainly did, although Trixie had done stranger things than that, so perhaps we should be thankful for small blessings.

  I walked up onto the porch, where Hazel Marie met me at the door. “She’s still at it,” she whispered. “I told her you were coming, but she just nodded and kept on watching.”

  I followed Hazel Marie into the den, found Trixie glued to the television set where Magnum, P.I., was involved in a fistfight on a beach somewhere in Hawaii.

  “Trixie?” I said to get her attention. “A letter from your grandmother just came.”

  That got her attention. “From Meemaw? What does she want?”

  “She wants you to come home. Well, to Florida. Here it is,” I said, handing the letter to her. Frowning, she accepted it and slowly smoothed out the folds.

  While she read, I picked up the remote and turned down the sound. Hazel Marie and I stood watching, our eyes drawn inexorably toward Magnum, P.I.’s antics, as we waited for Trixie to finish absorbing the letter. With Rodney now out of the picture, I hoped the recall would please her. She hadn’t wanted to be sent away in the first place, and it was a settled fact that she’d been miserable in my care. The thought of leaving Hazel Marie, however, might dampen her eagerness to return to Meemaw and Pawpaw.

  At that realization, I was somewhat saddened by Elsie’s summons, for as much as Trixie had wanted to go home at first, I wondered if she’d be all that thrilled now.

  —

  Trixie held the letter long enough to have read it twice or three times over, but finally she handed it to Hazel Marie. Right in front of my eyes, Trixie’s face slowly turned a deep red, almost as if she were holding her breath. Then it crumpled up and a single tear ran down her cheek.

  “Oh, honey,” Hazel Marie said, going to her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t cry. We thought you’d be happy to go home—I mean to Florida.”

  “I am,” Trixie said, sniffing as she ran her hand under her nose. “I guess. Except Meemaw wanted me to find somebody and I have, but . . .” She trailed off, while I stared in surprise.

  “Oh, Trixie, you don’t mean Rodney, do you?” I’d thought that was over for good. If not, well, I didn’t want to think of the resulting complications.

  “No!” Trixie cried. “I wouldn’t have him on a silver platter. I’m talking about a real man, but now it’s too late. I have to do what Meemaw wants.”

  Well, no, she didn’t, but I was hesitant to encourage open rebellion. She could be with us forever.

  Hazel Marie said, “It’ll be all right, honey. She says you can come back at Christmas. Why don’t we plan for you to do that? Then we’ll both have something to look forward to.”

  Hazel Marie was undoubtedly the sweetest woman alive, but I had little patience with Trixie’s vacillations. First she’d wanted to go home and now she didn’t. Then she’d wanted Rodney and now she didn’t. And now she had her eye on somebody else, except, I realized, she hadn’t been anywhere to meet anyone. Of course, she hadn’t had to go anywhere to meet Rodney, so maybe she’d matched up again with an online stranger. Which I could live with as long as he had no interest in funeral parlors and cemeteries.

  Trixie wiped her face and stood up. “I guess I better go pack.”

  One of the babies screamed upstairs and the other one joined in a moment later. Hazel Marie jumped up and hurried off, saying Granny Wiggins needed help. That left Trixie and me alone.

  “I’ll call the bus station,” I told her, “and find out the bus schedule. But, really, Trixie, there’s no reason for you to hurry off. They’ve been getting along fine without you, so a few more days won’t hurt. You’ll have time to meet with your new beau and exchange addresses, and maybe make plans to see each other over Christmas.”

  “Won’t do no good,” she mumbled, then plopped back down in the leather chair she’d just gotten up from. She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.

  I’m not good in such situations, but I tried patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there.”

  It didn’t help, so I spoke firmly to her. “Trixie, you’re old enough to do whatever you want. You can either go to Florida or you can stay here. Well, not here, because you’ve been with Hazel Marie long enough, and it seems to me that she’s accomplished a marvelous makeover for you in that time. So if you decide to stay”—I stopped and steeled myself to finish—“you’re welcome to your room at my house until you find a job and an apartment.” That was the best I could do.

  She sniffed wetly and said, “Guess I’ll go on to Florida then.” Which almost hurt my feelings, but then she pushed back her hair, looked up at me, and said, “Wouldn’t do no good to stay. I know that. I’m not dumb. All the makeovers in the world won’t change a thing. He don’t even know I’m alive.”

  “But haven’t you talked to him?”

  She nodded. “We talked. Some.”

  “Then he’ll understand about sickness in your family, and, think of this, you can stay in touch by email and that Skype thing that Lloyd has. You’ll be as close that way as you are now, won’t you?” I was beginning to lose patience. Trixie was quick to fall for somebody, and just as quick to fall out
with somebody. It was hard to keep up with her.

  “Not hardly,” she said with a little more spirit. Then she looked at the television screen. Magnum, P.I., was now driving a convertible on a street somewhere in Hawaii. “Miss Julia? Do you think I could ask Hazel Marie for just one DVD? You know, to remember him by?”

  Stunned that she seemed actually to be in love with a figment of some screenwriter’s imagination, I stumbled out a reply. “I expect she’d be glad to give you one. They belong to Mr. Pickens, though.”

  “I know,” she murmured, turning to gaze at the silent but still active television hero. “He never watches them, but I do. If she’d give me one, I could watch him all the time.”

  I blinked in sudden understanding and almost gasped. That was exactly what she’d been doing. Hiding my dismay and mentally making plans a mile a minute, I said briskly, “Well, that’s nice, but you don’t have time to watch a show now. Why don’t you run on and start packing? There might be a bus heading south this afternoon. I’ll check the schedule and call Elsie to let her know when to meet you. Hazel Marie will have some shopping bags for your new clothes, or I might have a suitcase you can have. If you forget anything, I’ll send it to you. Run on. Trixie, hurry. We need to get you on your way home.”

  —

  On the evening of the following day, Sam and I returned from a walk around the neighborhood. We’d spent part of the time talking about his campaign schedule, which would get even busier as November neared.

  “How do you feel about the race now?” I said, picking a leaf from one of Mildred’s boxwoods as we passed. “Will we be going to Raleigh?”

  “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.” Sam smiled and squeezed my hand. “But it doesn’t really matter. I’m having such a good time campaigning that win or lose the election, I’ll win either way. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Julia.”

  “Not even for a boat trip down the Rhine?”

  We laughed, and he said, “Not even.”