Miss Julia Stands Her Ground

by Ann B. Ross

  “An unwashed shirt is the last thing I would’ve kept.” A washed one either, I could’ve added.

  “I’m reaching, Julia, trying to think of anything that might have epithelial cells on it. They’d probably be too old to test, anyway, so forget about that. What I’m saying, though, is that we want to try everything we can before resorting to exhumation. That would be hard to keep from the whole town, including Hazel Marie and Lloyd.”

  “Oh, Lord, yes, it would, and we don’t want that if we can help it. Let me think, Sam.” I rubbed the side of my face, thinking back to the shame and fury that had overwhelmed me when I’d learned of my deceased husband’s folly. I’d marched up to our bedroom, fired with determination to rid myself of everything that had belonged to Wesley Lloyd. Rummaging through the clothes hanging in the closets and stacked in the dresser drawers, I’d flung everything he owned into the middle of the floor. Shirts, three-piece suits, shoes, raincoat, overcoat, umbrellas, you name it, it went onto the pile. I remembered cleaning out the medicine cabinet, throwing out Wesley Lloyd’s toothbrush, shaving implements, comb, hairbrush, clothes brush, lint remover, shoe polish, his Listerine, his Metamucil, his half-used box of Tuck’s—everything that he’d even touched. I’d raked it all into the wastebasket. I’d cleaned out the drawers of the table on his side of the bed, throwing away a full box of Kleenex, the glass he’d kept his partial in, his clock, the gold pocket watch and chain that had been his father’s, tiepins, and cuff links. Even his Bible and his Sunday School lesson book, giving them a particularly vicious spin since he’d read them so piously while living so wickedly. I’d even thrown away his eyeglasses, including his extra pair, doubly angered by the funeral director’s asking if I wanted to bury him with his glasses on or off. I ask you, what was he going to look at?

  Downstairs, I’d started another pile, emptying his desk of pens, papers, calendar, and everything else that Binkie hadn’t needed for probate. Things I didn’t even know what they were, I threw on the pile. If they were his, they went.

  Then I’d walked out. “Lillian,” I remembered saying as I passed her in the hall, “if there’s anything you or anyone you know can use, take it. Whatever’s left, burn. I don’t want to lay eyes on any of it ever again.”

  “Yessum,” she’d said, her eyes wide as she stepped back from my passing. She’d never seen me in such a state, since up to then I’d always been of a meek and submissive nature.

  That cleaning episode had been a turning point for me. Getting rid of anything that reminded me of Wesley Lloyd had given me a sense of power and control that I’d never had before, and it had made me the woman I am today. Of course, I’d kept the most obvious reminders of his transgressions—namely, Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd—but I’d had my reasons. Everything else I could do without and never miss.

  Except now I’d’ve given an eyetooth for a single strand of hair from Wesley Lloyd Springer’s head.

  Chapter 13

  “Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, as she pushed through the door into the dining room where I was looking over my serving pieces in the sideboard, “Lillian’s just made a fresh pot of coffee. Come on and have some with us.”

  I held up a silver chafing dish. “Do you think this needs resilvering? It’s been used so much that it’s about down to the brass.”

  “It takes forever to get that done. I wouldn’t worry about it. Come on, Lillian’s pouring now, and she’s made some brownies, too.”

  I rarely eat between meals, but a chance to sit down with Lillian and Hazel Marie was most appealing. The house had settled into its morning quiet now that Sam had left for his home office and Little Lloyd was back in school. I declare, my heart was so heavy and my mind so fraught with fearsome speculations that I stayed tired all the time. Efforts to keep myself busy had been for naught, so I followed Hazel Marie into the kitchen and gladly took a chair at the table.

  Lillian set a cup of hot coffee in front of me and passed one to Hazel Marie. Then she sat down and commenced spooning sugar into hers. “If you ’spectin’ anything different for Christmas an’ all yo’ parties, you better let me know,” she said, giving me a baleful eye. “It gettin’ mighty late in the day to come up with something I never cook before.”

  “You can cook anything, whether you’ve done it before or not,” Hazel Marie said. She passed the plate of brownies. “Here, Miss Julia, have one.”

  I did, but I had no appetite for it. “No changes, Lillian,” I told her. “Let’s have the same Christmas dinner we have every year. But, I want you both to know, I am cutting down on the parties. I see no need to entertain everybody under the sun just because I’ve always done it.”

  “No parties?” Hazel Marie reared back in her chair, shocked that I would fall down on our social obligations. “But, Miss Julia, everybody looks forward to them.”

  “I know, but that’s a poor reason to do them. And the fact of the matter is, I just don’t have the heart to go all out this year. I’m a married woman now, and the holidays should center around the family and not the whole town.”

  They looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. Lillian recovered first. “What you talkin’ about? We don’t center ’round no whole town.”

  “Well, the ones who count, we do. But even so, I just don’t feel like having so many people this year.”

  Hazel Marie put her hand on my arm. “Are you sick, Miss Julia?”

  “I don’t know why everybody thinks I’m sick every time I want to do something different. I’m not sick, Hazel Marie, I just have my hands full. I’m still getting used to having Sam underfoot all the time.” Then, thinking that I might’ve sounded less than happily married, I quickly added, “Besides, I don’t know how I could have Mildred and her husband, much less LuAnne and Leonard at my table, knowing what they bought from Tina. I’d keep thinking about what goes on in the privacy of their bedrooms while I watch them eat at my table.”

  Hazel Marie started laughing, with Lillian demanding to know what was so funny. She was both shocked and thrilled when Hazel Marie told her about the passion party in our living room. That took them off on another tangent, which gratified me in spite of the questionable nature of the conversation. I didn’t want Hazel Marie prying more closely into my reasons for slacking off on our holiday entertainments. But the fact of the matter was, I was fearful of Brother Vern and what he might spring on us next. I wouldn’t put it past him to suddenly appear at one of my elegant teas with an erstwhile intimately known man of Hazel Marie’s acquaintance, an occurrence that would certainly put a damper on the celebrations.

  “Law,” Lillian said, still entranced by Hazel Marie’s description of Tina’s party. “What this world comin’ to?” She got up from the table, taking her empty cup with her, and said, “I got to get up from here an’ go to the store. We out of everything. Miss Julia, you got the grocery list ready?”

  “There by the phone,” I said, indicating the pad where we all jotted down items as we saw a need.

  “I have to get busy, too,” Hazel Marie said, following with her cup. Then she stopped and came back to the table. “I forgot to tell you. Guess what I heard about Clara Denham.”

  “Is she back with Dub?”

  “No, and she probably won’t ever be.” Hazel Marie took a seat and leaned toward me, eager to pass on the latest news. “She’s moved in with an electrician, of all things. Nobody knows who he is, exactly, but seems he did some work on the ceiling lights in the library. And that’s where she met him, right there over the reference desk.”

  “That doesn’t sound very romantic to me.”

  “Well,” Hazel Marie said, lowering her voice, “from what I hear, he is a honey and a half. Big and muscular, and as dark and handsome as George Clooney, only taller. I can’t blame her, because that’s my type, too. Anyway, they say he has a house out on the east side of town, and she’s living there with him. Helen Stroud said that Clara looks like a new woman—she’s had her hair streaked and highlighted,
and she’s gotten so bouncy and happy and all that they’ve had to take her off the reference desk and put her in a back office. And they say she’s setting such a bad example that the library board is thinking of firing her.”

  “Well, my word, Hazel Marie. I guess her mistake was being so happy about it. If she’d acted upset about her marriage breaking up, her job would’ve been safe.” I paused, then added, “Not that I approve of what she’s done, mind you.”

  “I know, and you’re right. What people look on as sin is not supposed to make us happy, but sometimes it does. Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I’ve got to get out of here. Victoria’s Secret’s having a sale, so I’m going to run over to the mall and check it out.” She looked at me, her eyes sparkling with fun. “You want to go with me? Sam would love it.”

  “I haven’t lost a thing at Victoria’s Secret, and neither has he. Hazel Marie, I declare, you shouldn’t let Tina’s merchandise turn your head.”

  She laughed and assured me that she’d loved flimsy lingerie long before Tina began peddling her brand of underwear.

  After they left I settled into one of the Victorian chairs by the living room fireplace, thinking that we might build a fire later in the day. Unfolding the newspaper that Sam had left neatly put together, I scanned the headlines, then turned to the obituaries to see if anyone I knew had passed on in the last day or two. LuAnne’s husband, Leonard, always said he read the obituaries to be sure that his wasn’t among them. It was his one joke and, since it had gotten a laugh the first time he said it, he kept trying for more.

  Giving up on the paper, I leaned my head back, content to rest a while in the silence of the empty house. I nearly dropped off to sleep, even as I went over and over the wisdom of letting Hazel Marie know she was being accused of fraud, deceit, lying, theft, and sleeping around. Though, Lord knows why that particular activity was called sleeping. As far as I could determine, there was nothing restful about it.

  I jerked upright when the doorbell blasted the peace and quiet. Mumbling to myself about unexpected visitors, I got to my feet and went to answer it.

  Brother Vernon Puckett, big as life, was standing there with an ingratiating smile on his face. I didn’t return it, just stood there holding the door, my face as rigidly unwelcoming as I could make it.

  “Yes?”

  “Miz Murdoch,” he stated flatly, as if I didn’t know my own name, “accept my utmost apologies for droppin’ in on you like this, ma’am, but I had to strike while the iron was hot. Would you tell Hazel Marie I’m here? I need to see her, and she needs to see me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t. All I could feel was relief that she wasn’t at home. And anger at the nerve of the man, showing up at my door when we’d been trying to protect her from him. “She’s not in at the present. And I’m not sure when she’ll be back. Probably be gone all day and up into the night. If you need anything, perhaps you should speak with Sam. He’s over at his house.”

  The smile gradually left his face as he learned that his surprise visit had not netted the results he wanted. He stood watching me for a minute, expecting, I expect, that I would invite him in. I didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to be cordial to him, so I stood my ground, hoping he’d take himself off my front porch and never darken my door again.

  “Ma’am,” he said, as his face hardened, “I’ve made a special trip here to counsel her, for the Lord is burdening my soul about her devious ways. I even went far out of my way just to bring her face-to-face with her past, which she’s got to face sooner or later, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to do it again.”

  “Well, I can’t help that. She’s not here, and I’m not expecting her anytime soon.” My teeth were grinding together by this time, wondering if he thought I could make her appear out of thin air.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to do the next best thing. Hold on a minute, ma’am, there’s somebody I want you to meet.” He stepped to the edge of the porch, put his two fingers in his mouth, and blasted out a shrill whistle. Aghast at what the neighbors would think, I watched, open-mouthed, as he waved his hand toward the shiny silver Cadillac parked at the curb. Then he turned back to me. “It’s the man I been tellin’ you about—Hazel Marie’s partner in immorality and the daddy of that boy of hers.”

  I clasped the edge of the door, fearful of losing strength in my limbs. I wasn’t ready to hear the intimate details, and if I’d had the strength to do it, I would’ve shut the door and locked it behind me.

  But then I took courage, realizing that Brother Vern was now showing all his cards. I was about to be justified in my total belief in Hazel Marie. I knew the kind of man she liked—tall and broad-shouldered, dark and swarthy, a man’s man—whatever that was—just like Mr. Pickens and, by all accounts, Clara Denham’s electrician, which proved in my estimation that Wesley Lloyd had been an aberration brought on by necessity. Brother Vern was going to bring out his number-one exhibit, and that would put my worries absolutely to rest, since there was no way on earth that Little Lloyd resembled Hazel Marie’s preferred type.

  I stuck my head out the door to watch as a man climbed out of the car and came down the walk. As he stepped onto the porch, I looked him over as my grip on the door grew tighter. He was of a slight build, barely taller than Brother Vern, which wasn’t all that tall, with narrow shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch in his midsection. He wore a brown wool suit with, Lord!, black shoes and white athletic socks. A pocket saver full of Bics was in his shirt pocket. His hair was a nondescript sandy color, receding from a prominent V over his forehead. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and a thin mustache—the only discordant note—that took a squinch of the eyes to see. He gave me a brief, jittery smile, along with a deferential nod of his head, as he chewed gum in a fast and open-mouthed manner.

  I just stared, standing there, frozen in my tracks.

  I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth, even when Brother Vern said, “Miz Murdoch, this here’s Deacon Lon Whitmire, known to one and all as Lonnie. He had a close friendship with Hazel Marie.” He nudged the man with his elbow. “Tell her, Lonnie.”

  Deacon Whitmire nodded again, licked his lips, and snapped his gum, as high color bloomed on his face. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and began fingering his change—a sure sign of nervousness in a deacon when he’s called on by his pastor. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to listen to the jingling of coins while one of our deacons stumbled through a public prayer.

  This particular deacon cut his eyes at Brother Vern, then jumped when he got nudged again. “Long time ago,” he mumbled, “before I come to know the Lord.”

  An errant breeze whipped across the porch, lifting a wispy tuft of the deacon’s hair.

  My mouth moved, but nothing came out. I clung to the door, feeling light-headed and wobbly. Everything seemed to tilt, and I thought I was about to faint, even though I’d hardly ever done such a singular thing in my life.

  With a mighty effort of will, I managed to say, “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s been some sickness in the house. I fear it’s highly contagious.”

  With that, I slammed the door in their faces and took a tottering step toward the sofa. Sick to my soul, I collapsed on it, thinking only one thing: Deacon Lonnie Whitmire looked enough like Wesley Lloyd Springer to be his brother.

  Chapter 14

  I took to my bed, pulling the covers over my head and retreating from the world. When the others came in, expressing concern and offering help, I told them that I’d had a sudden onset of the malady that had afflicted Little Lloyd a few days earlier. All I needed was a little rest, but one by one in they came, bearing hot-water bottles for my feet and ginger ale for my stomach.

  That was all well and good, but there is no easy cure for soul sickness. All along I had relied on the fact that Little Lloyd had such a strong resemblence to Wesley Lloyd that there could be no question as to his descent from a Springer. And now, suddenly, a veritable rep
lica of my first husband, except for the mustache, had emerged, claiming to have had relations with Hazel Marie. I’d always heard that everybody has a double somewhere in the world, but I never expected to find Wesley Lloyd’s duplicate popping up in the same county.

  It was more than I could bear, because my previously unshaken confidence in Hazel Marie was now badly undermined. I remembered telling myself that it wouldn’t matter who the child’s father turned out to be. He would remain special to me, regardless. But as the repercussions rolled around in my head, I realized that his paternity did matter, not only because his rights of inheritance hinged on it, but also because the kinship I felt toward him and his mother—which was based on trust and affection—would be irreparably damaged.

  It was enough to make anybody ill.

  Finally, after numerous trips to see how I was feeling by Lillian, Hazel Marie, Sam, and Little Lloyd—and during which I got little rest—the house settled down for the night, and Sam came in to prepare for bed.

  “Can I get you anything, Julia?” he whispered, as he leaned over the bed.

  I threw off the covers and pulled myself up against the pillows, surprising him with my sudden show of energy. “I need to talk to you, Sam. Are we alone?”

  “Well,” he said, turning his head to survey the room, “it looks like it.”

  “I don’t mean in here. I mean, will anybody come walking in on us?”

  He smiled an intimate smile. “The door’s closed, and they know what that means.” Then he sat on the bed and took my hand. “You sure you’re feeling well enough?”

  “You can just switch channels, Sam Murdoch,” I said, snatching away my hand. “I have something to tell you that is beyond belief, and it’s what has sent me to my bed this livelong day.”

  So I told him of Brother Vern’s visit and the uncanny resemblance of Deacon Lonnie Whitmire to Wesley Lloyd Springer.