Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle

by Ann B. Ross

  Hurrying into the living room, I picked up the phone to hear Mildred Allen’s voice.

  “Julia? Why haven’t you let me know about Hazel Marie? I had to hear it from Emma Sue, who heard it from Pastor Ledbetter, who heard it from LuAnne, who called him in case he wanted to make a pastoral visit to the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry, Mildred,” I said, easing into a chair for a long chat. “Things have been so hectic that I’ve not called anybody. I told LuAnne only because she called me. In fact, I was just getting ready to call you, but Hazel Marie will be coming home in a little while and we had to get her bed ready. Anyway,” I said, pulling my sweater a little closer, “how are you faring in this weather? I guess you heard that we had the babies here while the power was out.”

  “I heard all about it, but I want to know every little detail from you. So let’s hear it.”

  I told her, including all the details of that remarkable night and ending with the naming of the baby girls.

  “Well,” Mildred said, “I’m glad to hear how it really was because according to Emma Sue, it was you who delivered the babies.” She sniffed. “That didn’t sound right to me.”

  “It certainly wasn’t. All I did was warm blankets and pray a lot.”

  “I’m glad to get that straight,” Mildred said. “But while I have you, let me tell you that Emma Sue may be planning another baby shower for Hazel Marie. I thought you’d want to know, but don’t tell her I told you.”

  “Oh my,” I said, “I hope she won’t do that. One shower’s a gracious plenty, and LuAnne’s already done that. Besides, the babies need time to settle in, and I’m not sure Hazel Marie will be in a party mood until they do. Or the rest of us either.”

  “I’ll try to talk her out of it. But I want you to know that I am proud of you for not giving a shower yourself. Things have just gone to pot around here with so many people giving showers for family members. I know for a fact that the only reason Emma Sue hasn’t already done something is because she kept expecting you to do it.”

  “She ought to know better. Giving a shower for a family member just isn’t done. It’s the tackiest thing in the world to ask for gifts for one of your own.”

  “That is the truth. Anyway, she can’t do anything until some of this snow melts. But on to something else—I wanted to ask if you’ve heard anything more about that body they found.”

  “All I know,” I said, “is what was in the paper, which was next to nothing. To tell the truth, I’d about forgotten about it with all that’s going on here. What about you? Have you heard anything? ”

  “No, but I know who it was.”

  “You do? Who?”

  “Well, think about it, Julia. You read the paper. Who do we know who was into real estate, then went into investment counseling ? Remember we wondered at the time whether he knew what he was doing? And who was it who used to live here until he was sent to prison but not for as long as we thought he should’ve been?”

  I gasped. “You don’t mean . . .?”

  “I certainly do. It has to be Richard Stroud. He’s the only one who fits everything the paper said, and you know they have those early releases these days. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Richard wasn’t out roaming around as free as a bird.”

  “Oh my. I’d have to sit down if I weren’t already doing so. Mildred, do you really think it might be Richard? Oh poor Helen—I wonder if she knows.”

  “I’m just wondering if I should call her, but I want to think about it for a while. I don’t know whether she’d be considered next of kin, because she divorced him. Though, who knows? The divorce might not be final and you know how closemouthed she is. And if it’s not final, she’s still his kin. But listen, Julia, don’t tell either LuAnne or Emma Sue yet. We need to be sure before it’s spread all over town. In fact, don’t mention it to anybody, although I’m just as sure it’s Richard Stroud as I can be. I mean, who else could it be?”

  Hanging up the phone after we’d assured each other that we both had plenty of milk and bread and that our furnaces were working, I sat for a while gazing into the fire, thinking of first one distressing thing after another. Richard Stroud! Could it have been he? And if so, what had he been doing in Miss Petty’s toolshed? She wouldn’t have been someone he’d known in the ordinary course of events. For one thing, she was of a younger generation, maybe about Hazel Marie’s age. And before their passing, her parents had not been known for their social or community activities. In fact, I could recall her father only from seeing him occasionally in his hardware store, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever known her mother. Nor could I believe that the Strouds, the Allens, the Conovers, or any of my friends had been close to the Pettys. So how would Richard Stroud have come to know their daughter?

  It was the strangest set of circumstances I’d ever heard, and I couldn’t make head nor tails of it. I knew Helen, at least as well as anybody knew Helen. She was the most capable woman in town, always organized and on top of whatever had been entrusted to her care. And we’d entrusted a lot to her. She either was or had been president or chairwoman or leader of any group she was part of. She was a small woman, neatly and classically dressed, hair, face, and nails perfectly groomed, warm without being effusive, and confident without arrogance.

  Her home had reflected everything about her person, always neat, traditionally furnished, and well organized. I’d never seen it in disarray, probably because she and Richard had had no children. Though I expect if they had, their children would have been just as organzied as everything else about her.

  I admired Helen, but I couldn’t say I was close to her. I’m not sure anyone was, yet we all depended on her. As I sat thinking of Helen, a sense of shame swept over me. I’d done so little for her while she was going through such a trying time with Richard. The man had embezzled money—some of mine, in fact—and had gotten involved with an out-of-town developer’s scheme to demolish the old courthouse and build luxury condominums in its place. Richard had been arrested, tried, and convicted, but he got off, according to some, with a slap on the wrist. Two years, as I remembered, was what he’d gotten, with, of course, the requirement of recompensing those he’d defrauded—at ten cents on the dollar, from what I’d heard. And let me say right here that in spite of the pittance required of him, he had not gotten around to recompensing me.

  That was the reason I’d let my contact with Helen lapse. I knew she had been shamed and humiliated, and I had not wanted to add to her discomfort. And as I thought about it, I realized that I had not seen Helen in church for some time—an indication perhaps that she had other fish to fry.

  As I was reminded of Richard’s problems, a shudder ran through me at the thought of how the courts dealt with crimes involving money. They wouldn’t put up with theft, embezzlement, or fraud, usually handing down heavy sentences, but as I’ve said, there had been many who’d thought Richard had gotten off lightly and I admit I’d thought the same at the time. In my present circumstances, however, having recently thought about jail time myself, I didn’t find two years in prison all that light a sentence.

  Helen ended up having to sell her lovely house so Richard could repay his losses, although as I’ve said, my loss had not been among them. Unlike Mildred, I was fairly sure that Helen had divorced him and that it was final, but that was only an assumption based on the fact that whatever Helen started, she generally finished. She’d moved into a small, not-so-upscale condominium and tried to carry on with her head held high. I admired that, but I’d felt no need to close any gaps in our friendship.

  Now, however, I couldn’t help but feel a deep concern for her. If that body was Richard’s, would she be suffering silent recriminations or more shame and humiliation?

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: whatever—good or bad—a husband does, his wife will get the brunt of it. She’ll be credited or, more often, blamed for whatever he does. And from my experience, neither death nor divorce—unless accompanied by a move faraway and a com
pletely new set of acquaintances—will keep his misdeeds from besmirching her. I know what I’m talking about because I was whispered about and blamed, ridiculed and slurred for all of Wesley Lloyd Springer’s foibles, which had included everything from adultery to usury.

  But I no longer cared what Wesley Lloyd had done. To be honest, I’d benefited from his underhanded manipulations, which certainly turned the tables on him. And I had no interest in Richard Stroud’s sleight of hand with other people’s money. In fact, I’d already written off my loss at his hands.

  The truth was, I had more pressing money problems to deal with, the first of which was to set Sam onto the First National Bank of Abbotsville and teach it how to keep its accounts straight.

  Chapter 21

  It wasn’t until early afternoon that the contingent from the hospital arrived home, and right before they got there the power came on. What a relief it was to hear that generator chug down for the last time, filling the house with blessed silence.

  I held the door, watching as they trooped in—Lillian holding on to Hazel Marie, who was wearing another workout outfit, which, apparently, was all she could get into given the fact that she wore her normal clothes so tight; Mr. Pickens looking dazed and distracted as he gingerly carried one swaddled infant in his arms; and Etta Mae balancing the other on her shoulder with one hand while managing Hazel Marie’s makeup case with the other one.

  It was all I could do not to snatch that child from her, using both my hands. But we all followed them to the bedroom, eager to see the babies unwrapped and settled into their new home.

  I say we all followed them, but we were missing one. Sam had still not returned from his trip downtown to set the bank straight, and by this time I was convinced that he’d run into more problems than he’d expected. I decided, then and there, that if deputies showed up at my front door again, I was going to head out the back as fast as I could go.

  But so much was going on in the bedroom that I hardly had time to think about going on the run. Etta Mae got the babies unwrapped—both of them had looked like pink sausages in their blankets—and settled side by side in the crib. Mr. Pickens insisted that Hazel Marie get in the bed and rest while he flopped down in the upholstered rocking chair. He kept taking deep breaths and blowing them out, as if everything had suddenly hit home and he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  Lloyd and Latisha hung on the side of the crib, watching the babies as they slept, while Lillian told them not to breathe on them. Then she went to the kitchen and came back with a tall glass of milk, telling Hazel Marie, “You got to drink milk to make milk.”

  Apparently, that was the big problem, for Etta Mae asked Mr. Pickens to bring in the case of formula from the car. He quickly sprang up and headed out as if he’d been waiting to be told what to do. At the mention of formula, though, Hazel Marie’s face fell. Etta Mae quickly assured her that they would continue to work on getting her milk to come down and that the formula was just a stopgap solution, in case it was needed.

  I declare, all this talk of making milk and getting milk to come down and babies latching on just made me shiver. It was too much personal talk for me and, in my opinion, too close to home for any woman, whether she’d ever given birth or not. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to think about it.

  Finally, we tiptoed out and left Hazel Marie to rest, which as Etta Mae said, “She better get while she can. Those babies will start tuning up before long.”

  And was she ever right. It wasn’t long before first one started crying, and then the other, kicking and flailing about, getting louder and louder. Who would’ve thought that such tiny beings could make such a racket? As Lillian and Etta Mae changed them and put them to breast, I ushered Lloyd and Latisha into the living room.

  “You two find something to do,” I said. “But do it quietly, in case they get the babies asleep again.”

  Latisha looked up at me and in all seriousness said, “We oughta give ’em some of Great-Granny’s biscuits and gravy. That’d put ’em to sleep. It always do me.”

  Well, I want you to know that those babies cried all afternoon, finally giving up and falling asleep about suppertime. From pure exhaustion, if you ask me. And Hazel Marie was in the same state. She’d fiddled with first one baby and then the next, then both at the same time, while they cried and she cried, and none of them got satisfied. Even Etta Mae was worn to a frazzle, pushing her hair out of her face as she dropped into a chair at the table. Mr. Pickens had gone in and out of the bedroom, trying to be of help by encouraging Hazel Marie, but he was equally worn out. A constant din will do that to you.

  Lillian whispered to me as we took dishes to the table, “Them babies ’bout to starve, Miss Julia. That’s a hungry cry if I ever heard it, an’ Miss Hazel Marie might as well give up an’ fix them bottles.”

  I agreed with her because the crying was getting on my nerves, but more than that, I couldn’t stand the thought of anybody going hungry in my house. Sam finally came in, heard the noise, and pretended to turn around and go back out.

  “They having a hard time?” he asked.

  “Awful,” I said, taking his coat. “What did you find out?”

  “I’ll tell you later, but you’re all right, Julia. They know you didn’t write those checks.”

  I pursed my lips, thinking that he could’ve let me know I was off the hook somewhat earlier, and saved me from worrying all day long. But he looked as tired as the rest of us, and I knew he’d spent the day on my behalf, so I unpursed my mouth and gave him a smile of thanks.

  All evening those babies kept crying. They’d fall asleep occasionally when someone walked them or rocked them and then we’d get fifteen minutes or so of peace. Then they’d start in again.

  Lloyd went upstairs early, closing his door to try to study because we reckoned school would be open the next morning. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this,” he told me as he started up the stairs, “but it’ll kinda be a relief to go to school. At least they make us be quiet.”

  I went in and out of Hazel Marie’s room several times, wanting to be of help but hoping at the same time that they wouldn’t need me. They never did. In fact, there was almost too much help, what with Lillian, Etta Mae, Mr. Pickens, and Hazel Marie, each with suggestions of what could be tried next to pacify them. Anything, however, except those rubber nipples expressly made for pacifying, which Etta Mae kept suggesting and Hazel Marie kept refusing to use on the grounds of their being unsanitary and likely to cause buck teeth.

  It was a madhouse, so Sam and I went to bed. He gave me an update on his day’s events, telling me that he’d spoken first to two of the bank’s vice presidents.

  “They realize that you didn’t write those checks,” he said. “But they weren’t willing to speculate on who did. All they’d say was that it must’ve been somebody who had access to your signature so it could be copied.”

  “Forged,” I said.

  “Right, forged. The signatures were pretty good too, so whoever did it knew what he was doing. Anyway, your checking account is back where it was, and the bank and the stores will have to take the loss. Oughtta teach ’em a good lesson because the big check, the one for thirty-five hundred dollars, was cashed by one of their own tellers. She swears she asked for identification, and the man had it.”

  “The man?” I asked, turning on my back to stare at the ceiling. “What kind of identification of mine would some man have?”

  “Beats me, and she claims she doesn’t remember.” Sam rolled on his side and put an arm around me. “I think she took one look at the check, saw your signature, maybe looked at your account, and just cashed the thing. You’re fairly well known around town, Julia, and she probably didn’t think twice about it.”

  “I expect she will from now on,” I said with some satisfaction. Then remembering how I’d been accused and questioned, I asked, “But what about the deputies and the magistrate and Lieutenant Peavey? Are they going to drop the case against me? An
d apologize? Because they ought to.”

  “It’s off the books, Julia. Don’t worry about it. And,” he said, yawning, “I’ll tell you something if you won’t pass it along.”

  I rolled my eyes but it was too dark for him to see. “I don’t pass along rumor, gossip, or hearsay. Except to you and Lillian. And sometimes to Hazel Marie. So you can trust me to keep it to myself.”

  “Well, this is fact but the lieutenant wants to keep it quiet for now. They don’t have a formal identification yet, but they’re fairly certain they know who that body was. Peavey wouldn’t say more, but he’s confident that it was somebody who knew your signature well enough to forge it.”

  “I should say so,” I said indignantly. “Richard Stroud would certainly know my signature.”

  Sam sat up in bed and looked down at me. “How do you know it was Stroud?”

  “Mildred told me. She figured it out, except we weren’t sure because we thought he was still in prison. I’m just wondering if Helen knew he was out. Maybe not, though, or he’d have died at home—unless Helen divorced him—instead of at Miss Petty’s. Lie back down, Sam, we’re both too tired to think straight.” I rolled closer to him, feeling secure now that he had taken care of the bank and the sheriff’s department and was safely home with me. “Thank you for all you did, you sweet thing, you.”

  He didn’t answer, so I knew he’d dropped off. But as tired as I was, I couldn’t do the same. Even with the door closed, I could still hear the caterwauling down below. I rolled and tumbled for some time, trying not to disturb Sam but worried sick about those babies. What if they were starving? Literally, I mean. Would Hazel Marie ever give in and produce some milk in some form or another? Preferably by way of a bottle? Should I call the doctor to talk some sense into her?