by Ann B. Ross
“I don’t think he’d do that, Hazel Marie,” I said, wondering about the things she came up with to worry about. “You know he’d be careful. Or he might ask one of the godparents to carry one, or maybe both godparents could each carry a baby while he stayed out of it. And on that subject, have you decided whom you’ll ask to be godparents?”
“No’m,” she said, sighing and lowering her eyes, “I haven’t. There’re so many people I’d like to ask, I just can’t decide.”
“Well, let me put your mind at ease about one thing. You shouldn’t ask Sam or me, and our feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t. You should ask somebody young, somebody who’ll be around as these babies grow up and, of course, somebody who’ll watch over their spiritual growth if you and Mr. Pickens aren’t around to do it. So if we’re on your list, you can scratch us off. Besides,” I went on with a satisfied smile, “I figure Sam and I are already Lloyd’s godparents, or as good as, even though we’re slightly beyond the ideal age limit.”
Hazel Marie’s eyes suddenly filled up as if a spring had broken loose somewhere, and before I knew it, she was in full weeping mode.
“Oh, Hazel Marie, what is it? ” I asked, immediately concerned that I’d said something to hurt her. Either that or she still had hormones close to the surface. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No’m,” she sobbed, her hands over her face. “Not that. It’s all my fault because I didn’t want him dunked in that filthy river and I’ve never done anything about it, and he’s already half grown.”
Etta Mae and I looked at each other, trying to understand what she was talking about.
“Who, Hazel Marie?” I asked. “And what haven’t you done?”
She took her hands down and looked up at us, her face red and blotched from crying. “Lloyd, my precious Lloyd. I’ve never had him baptized, or christened, and I’ll probably go to hell for it too.”
“My goodness,” I said, sinking down on the side of the bed, the wind suddenly taken out of my sails. “Well, Hazel Marie, I’m just as much at fault as you, and maybe more, because I just assumed . . .” I stood up, patted her shoulder, and said, “Stop crying now. We’ll take care of it. Nobody’s going to hell in this house—not if I have anything to do with it.”
Chapter 47
As Hazel Marie dried her tears and began to dress for our Sunday afternoon visitors, I left her to it and went to the living room to think over what could be done. Maybe we could have Lloyd christened at the same time the babies were, or if the rites were the same, we could baptize all three at once. Thank goodness we Presbyterians believe in baptism by anointing—or sprinkling, as some call it—which can be done on infants without fear of damage. If we’d belonged to a church that believed in total immersion—or dunking, as some less-than-pious folks called it—we’d have drowning to worry about. In that case, we’d be forced to wait until the babies were old enough to hold their breath.
Sitting there thinking it over, I felt done in by my own slackness in not seeing to Lloyd’s eternal welfare before this. To have assumed that he had had the benefit of baptism in or out of the cradle was to have assumed more than I should have. Hazel Marie had been a single mother, and a kept woman at that, so it made perfect sense that she would’ve been less than eager to stand before a congregation and present her misbegotten infant for the sacrament of baptism.
There was only one thing to do. Well, two things. The first was to make arrangements with Pastor Ledbetter to have Lloyd baptized as soon as possible, although I knew it couldn’t be right away. The pastor would require Lloyd to attend a catechism class and then pass an oral test concerning his beliefs and understanding of the faith—all of which would take time. The second thing to do was to cover the gap between then and now, and I intended to take care of that.
With that decided, I turned to the other matters that were crowding my mind. Walking into the kitchen, I found Lillian alone at last as she finished cleaning up from dinner.
“Lillian, I want to tell you something, but you have to keep it quiet. I have at last found out what Richard was doing in Miss Petty’s toolshed and it will be the talk of the town as soon as I can tell it. The problem is, I can’t tell it without admitting how I discovered it, and how I discovered it doesn’t make me look very good.”
“Then,” she said, “if I was you, I wouldn’t tell it.”
“Well, but I have to, at least to Sam, so he’ll know that none of it had anything to do with me. Once he hears what I saw last night, he’ll understand that.”
“Last night!” She put the last pan in the dishwasher and looked at me in amazement. “You mean to stand there an’ tell me you went out to that toolshed again? By yourself?”
“I didn’t intend to, Lillian. I just ended up there to keep from getting picked up by a deputy, and you were right to be afraid of it. That place is haunted. You won’t believe this, but I actually saw Richard Stroud’s ghost. And I am still a bundle of nerves, because you know I don’t believe in ghosts. But I saw the thing and I ran right through it as if nothing were there.”
“Oh, Law,” Lillian said, her eyes wide. “What you do then?”
“Well, I got picked up by a deputy after all and was glad of it. The only problem with that was he thought I was deranged and out wandering around because I was lost, and I had to pretend to be my friend who really was senile.”
She squinched up her eyes at me. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, waving my hand. “What does matter is this: Richard was spying on either Helen or Thurlow—I haven’t figured out which one yet. Could’ve been both, I guess, and found out that they’re seeing each other—and I mean seeing each other—and it shocked him so bad that he had a heart attack. Can you believe that?”
She shook her head. “No’m.”
“Well, me either, except I saw them with my own eyes. Eye, I mean, through that knothole and through Thurlow’s kitchen window. And there’s no mistake—they are an item. And Sam needs to know that, but how can I tell him without admitting I was looking for Helen’s car in his garage? Which means that I was the one who was his prowler. You know, the one that James called the deputies about.”
Her frown got deeper as a look of concern swept over her face. “You feelin’ all right, Miss Julia?”
“I’m feeling fine, Lillian, better than fine since I learned what’s really going on.” I turned as the front doorbell rang. “That’s our company. The first of it, anyway. Lillian, if you’ll put out some pound cake slices and fill the coffee urn—oh, and maybe put a pot of spiced tea on the dining room table—we’ll let everybody help themselves. Then I want you to go upstairs and stretch out on the bed and rest. Or just go on home whenever Latisha will let you.”
She rolled her eyes. “That might be never. She think she got to watch them babies.”
By the time I got to the living room, Etta Mae had already welcomed LuAnne in and was taking her coat, If Etta Mae hadn’t caught the coat, I think LuAnne would’ve let it fall to the floor, she was so thrilled to see the babies. And they were a sight to see: both babies were dressed in long pink dresses and little white socks with lace on them; they wore pink ribbons in their hair. Hazel Marie sat in a wing chair, holding them and smiling proudly as if she were holding an audience.
A fire was burning brightly in the fireplace, all the lamps were on, and someone had picked up the Sunday papers. The room was beautiful, but Hazel Marie and her lapful made it even more so.
LuAnne went into raptures, talking a mile a minute and exclaiming over the wonders of twin babies. Of course she wanted to hold one, so as soon as she arranged herself on the sofa, Etta Mae handed one to her. Hazel Marie watched every move, eager enough to show off her offspring but not all that happy about having them passed around.
I sat beside LuAnne, guiding her hand behind the baby’s head, hoping that my proximity would ease Hazel Marie’s fears. Though she might have appreciated my help, LuAnne didn’t.
“You
don’t have to show me, Julia,” she said. “I know how to hold a baby. I had two of my own, you know.”
Before I could respond, the doorbell rang again and Etta Mae answered it. She ushered in Helen Stroud, looking as neat and tidy and composed as she always did. We all greeted her, although it was all I could do to reconcile her present appearance with what I’d seen the night before. Her classic suit and sensible heels just did not compute with that filmy red negligee. As she oohed and aahed over the baby in Hazel Marie’s lap, I kept seeing her in Thurlow’s arms and wondering again what she saw in him.
“Could I hold her?” Helen asked, as she sat in a chair next to Hazel Marie. “Just for a minute?”
Etta Mae handed the baby to Helen and arranged it in her lap. A glow came over Helen’s face as she looked down at the baby. Like me, Helen had never had children, but unlike me, she’d never had anyone like Lloyd to fill that empty space. Unless it was now filled by Thurlow, who certainly needed better raising than he’d had.
With her arms empty, Hazel Marie sat back in her chair, her eyes going from one child to the other, always watchful.
“Here, Hazel Marie,” Etta Mae said, putting a cup and a dessert plate on the table beside her. “Have some tea and cake. Oops, there’s the doorbell again.”
And in came Binkie and Coleman, Coleman holding little Gracie. All three were smiling and talking, as Gracie squirmed to be put down. I stood to greet them, as Binkie threw her arms around Etta Mae, then hurried to Hazel Marie to do the same.
As pleased as she was to see them, Hazel Marie became even more alert, concerned, I knew, about Gracie having a cold or some other infectious disease. But Gracie wasn’t interested in the babies. As soon as she saw Lloyd, she toddled straight to him, everybody else, including her parents, forgotten.
“Come on, Gracie,” Lloyd said, “want to go play in Mama’s room?”
And down the hall they went, Lloyd leading the way, Gracie following, and Latisha right behind her, trying to pick her up.
Binkie sat on the other side of LuAnne on the sofa, and LuAnne reluctantly gave the baby to her. Then they both began to examine the baby’s little feet and hands, exclaiming over the tiny gold bracelet that Hazel Marie had put on the baby’s arm.
“Which one is this, Hazel Marie?” LuAnne asked.
“That’s Lily Mae and Helen has Julie.”
“I don’t know how you tell them apart,” LuAnne said. “They look just alike.”
Hazel Marie just smiled, content in a mother’s knowledge of her own babies.
Binkie said, “Look, Coleman, see how darling this little precious thing is?”
“I see it,” Coleman said, “and I see you lookin’ real natural, holding it.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Binkie said, laughing.
Coleman looked at me. “Sam around?”
“He should be home any minute,” I said, hoping that was true. “He and Mr. Pickens are looking over Sam’s house.” Then, hearing the sounds of entry from the kitchen, I went on. “That may be them now.”
And it was. Sam and Mr. Pickens came in, and Coleman stood up to shake hands. Etta Mae, ever helpful, brought in some dining room chairs. Sam, in his usual genial way, walked around the room, speaking to Binkie, LuAnne, and Helen. When Sam got to Helen, I watched carefully for any silent communication as he greeted her. I couldn’t help being suspicious because, notwithstanding his stated intent to return home or her nightly visits to Thurlow, I couldn’t forget the private luncheon they’d had.
Mr. Pickens followed Sam’s lead, though not with the same social ease that came so naturally to my husband. But if the setting had been a bar or a juke joint instead of my living room, it would’ve been a different story.
But Mr. Pickens handled himself ably enough, considering the disreputable elements he associated with in his line of work. In fact, he gazed proudly at his daughters and accepted with grace the praise that was heaped on him. He leaned down and kissed Hazel Marie, then drew a chair next to her and sat down. I was increasingly pleased with how well he was fitting into his fourth marriage and first fatherhood.
Still watchful for any surreptitious communication between Sam and Helen, a few questions came to mind. Could Helen be playing Sam off Thurlow? Or vice versa? Could Sam still have some interest in her, and if so, what did men see in her, anyway? Surely Sam didn’t know that Helen was seeing Thurlow and that Thurlow was seeing a great deal more of Helen than anyone suspected.
Should I tell him? And if so, how could I tell him what I’d seen last night? He needed to know what she was up to, but I couldn’t tell him without revealing what I’d been up to, prying into other people’s business and taking all kinds of chances with my own life and limb—the very kind of thing that ran Sam up a wall.
It was a quandary, all right, and if not for that constant worry, I would’ve enjoyed the afternoon: the talk and the laughter as people went to and from the table, the sound of the children laughing and playing, the babies passed from arm to arm, the fire warming the room, and Mr. Pickens lighting up Hazel Marie’s face as he whispered to her.
When the doorbell rang again, Etta Mae was right there to answer it, making me wonder how we ever would have managed without her. She never seemed to tire, never held back from whatever was needed, whether it was caring for the babies or pitching in with kitchen work. And above all, I would never forget how she’d helped with the snowbound delivery of the babies.
At the sound of her voice and that of someone else at the front door, I rose to see who it was.
“Hey there, Miss Julia,” Pastor Poppy Patterson said, a big smile on her face as she handed her coat to Etta Mae. “I’m dropping in like you asked me to, and I’ve just met Etta Mae, here. Etta Mae, we ought to go out for coffee one of these days real soon and have a good long talk.”
Etta Mae beamed, immediately taken by the lovely young woman, who apparently made friends upon first sight. I took Poppy around and introduced her, stopping for her to coo over each baby and for her to heap compliments on Hazel Marie for her accomplishment.
As we walked toward the dining room table, where Coleman and Helen were filling their coffee cups, Pastor Poppy pulled me aside.
“I just have to tell you,” she said with a mischievous smile, “Mr. Jones was in church this morning, and he did exactly what he said he’d do—took notes all through my sermon. I expect I’ll hear from him sooner or later, but I wanted you to know that our visit worked. So thank you again for going with me and getting me in the door. It was all your doing.”
“Oh, not at all, Poppy. Anyway, I was glad to do it. I expect, though, that he was secretly glad to see you just to have a chance to take you to task. That’s the way he is. Now let me get you some coffee or would you prefer spiced tea?”
We turned toward the table and came face to face with Helen. “Helen,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Pastor Poppy Patterson from First Methodist. Poppy, this is Helen Stroud.”
Searching for some way to characterize Helen, as I tried to do whenever I made introductions, I almost added, “She’s one of our most faithful Presbyterians,” even though I had not seen her in church since long before Richard’s demise. I had assumed that shame over his fraudulent activities had kept her away, and I had admired her for it.
Then I was glad I’d held my tongue, for Poppy laughed and said, “Oh, I know Helen. She’s one of our regular visitors—so regular, in fact, that we might be about to make a Methodist of her.”
Chapter 48
Well, that set me back on my heels. And the first thing that came to mind was this: Did Helen and Thurlow sit together at the Methodist church? But no, they must not, or Poppy would’ve mentioned it, or more likely, she’d have asked Helen to go with her to visit Thurlow. I was willing to bet, although I wasn’t in the habit of betting, that Poppy knew nothing of their unlikely, and to me unseemly, liaison.
So, I mused, as I excused myself to replenish the cake tray and fled to the kitchen, Thurlow,
who had never darkened a church door before, and Helen, a lifelong Presbyterian, were both showing up—apparently separately—at the Methodist church. What did that say about their intentions?
I didn’t know, but I did know that Pastor Ledbetter would accept in a dignified, yet sorrowful, way the loss of a faithful member to another church, while Emma Sue would be hurt to her soul. All I could think was that if Helen had indeed been the reason that Thurlow was going to church, then she was doing what no one else had been able to do. And maybe, I suddenly thought, she’d done some other things that no one else had been able to do: things like clean and refurbish Thurlow’s house and yard.
Now if she’d just turn her hands to him, I’d give her all the credit in the world. Provided that she stayed away from Sam at the same time.
I heard the doorbell ring again and hurriedly finished slicing another pound cake. Wondering who else had come in, I started through the swinging door into the dining room. Then hearing an unexpected voice, I slid the tray on the table and slipped back into the kitchen before anybody saw me.
My heart pounded away, as “Be sure your sins will find you out” ran through my mind. The last person in the world that I expected or wanted to see was standing in the hall talking to Sam. And why did he have to answer the door? Easing the swinging door open just a tiny bit, I listened.
“Come on in, Deputy,” Sam was saying. “I expect you know Coleman, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Bates, good to see you,” Deputy Will Powers said. “Sorry to barge in like this. I just wanted to bring this by, in case anybody here lost it.”
And would you believe he pulled out Lloyd’s many-colored cap and held it out toward Sam?
