by Ann B. Ross
But the fact of the matter was, I didn’t know what I wanted, except to keep the child and his mother close, and I had no idea why I wanted that. Maybe to keep rubbing salt in my wounds so the pain and anger wouldn’t subside. But that was too uncharitable of me to even consider. So I didn’t.
Hazel Marie got up from her chair by the front window and said, “I think I’ll walk downtown and deposit this check. Then I can write one to you for the months we’ve been here, and one for December, too.”
“No, just start as of this month. No back pay is necessary. Now, Hazel Marie, remember to fill out a deposit slip and endorse the back of your check.”
She nodded. “Yes ma’am, I know.”
Well, I hadn’t, so how did she? It still griped my soul that Binkie Enloe, my attorney, who was less than half my age, had had to instruct me on how to manage my own money. Well, Wesley Lloyd’s money but, in spite of his intentions to the contrary, he’d not been able to take it with him.
I tightened my mouth, but Hazel Marie didn’t notice. She said, “I used to close out the cash register when I worked at Pat’s Convenience Store. Other than that, I’ve never had much to do with banks, which is kinda ridiculous when you think about it. I mean, at my age and all. But then, I’ve never had enough to have any use for a bank.”
“Just deposit that, then you can write a check for cash to have walking around money. And you can write checks for anything you want to buy.” I stopped and thought for a minute. “Hazel Marie, you do know to enter the amount of the checks you write in your checkbook, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. And I know I have to subtract each time, too. I don’t think that’s going to bother me, because it doesn’t look like this’ll ever run out.”
I smiled tightly. “You’d be surprised. Why, your personal monthly maintenance bills will mount up before you know it.”
“My maintenance bills? You mean, rent and food, things like that?”
“No, I mean what it takes for your own personal grooming. Things like hair care, manicures and pedicures, and such.”
A delighted smile spread across her face. “Really? I can do all that?”
“And you need new clothes and so does the child. What I’ve purchased for you both is not enough. You might want to think about buying a car in the next few months, too.”
She looked at me, her eyes shining. “A car,” she said, as if it would be a dream come true, as it undoubtedly was. “I would love to have a car, and be able to come and go whenever I want to.”
“Be careful with that kind of thinking, Hazel Marie. There are many places you shouldn’t want to go to. We’re known by the company we keep, you know.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to go to any place I shouldn’t. I’m just talking about being able to take Lloyd to school and pick him up without asking you to do it for me or borrowing your car. And being able to run to the store for you or Lillian. You know, not having to be dependent on anyone else.”
I understood what she was saying, but I didn’t know her well, and who knew but what she’d want to hang out in roadhouses or bars or whatever. Not that we had any bars in Abbotsville to speak of, but this was not a woman who was accustomed to patronizing libraries, concert halls, or art museums. I needed to keep my eye on her so she wouldn’t be profligate with her child’s inheritance.
“Oh, Miss Julia!” Hazel Marie’s face lit up with a sudden idea. “I know what else we can do.”
“What would that be?”
“Let’s have a wonderful Christmas! Oh, my goodness.” In her excitement, she began fanning her face with the check. “This will be the best Christmas ever. I won’t have to tell Lloyd that Santa Claus didn’t get his letter, or make up some story about another little boy who needed a gift more than he did. I can get everything he wants for the first time in his little life.”
Now, have you ever heard anything so foolish? I just shook my head, because that was exactly the kind of rampage I’d feared. She was going to take that money and go crazy with it.
“Hazel Marie,” I said, “I hope you don’t mean that. That child has to learn that he can’t have everything he wants. It’s not good for his character. And don’t tell me he still believes in Santa Claus. He’s nine years old, for goodness sake.”
“Oh,” she said, frowning as the light faded from her face. “You may be right.” She looked at the check again and said, “Well, I guess I better go put this in the bank.”
Chapter 17
I heard no more about Christmas for some few days after that, and to tell the truth, I thought no more about it either. There was still so much to do to get Wesley Lloyd’s estate settled, and it seemed that I spent days at a time in Binkie’s office, looking through deeds and bills of sale, and first one thing and another. We went through lockboxes and file cabinets and, as more and more assets came to light, I wondered where my mind had been all those years when Wesley Lloyd was amassing such wealth. And keeping another woman. And begetting a child, the thought of which kept me so unsettled I could hardly pay attention to what Binkie was telling me.
“Look at this, Miss Julia,” she said, turning a ledger toward me.
“What is it?” I asked, following her finger as it went down a list of names.
“I’m not sure,” she said, frowning. “Oh, I see what it is. It’s a list of loan transactions. See, here’s the rate of interest charged on each one and the monthly payments due. And this is the total owing on each loan. Wait a minute.” She began flipping through the pages, comparing them with the names on the first list. “Yes, I thought so. This is the master list, and these are the amortization schedules for each one.”
“Oh, then it’s bank business,” I said, no longer interested, even if I’d known what she was talking about. Wesley Lloyd had owned one of the few independent banks left in the state. But since I had no desire to learn the banking business, Binkie was in the process of negotiating its sale to one of the major institutions that was always looking to buy up something with the money they’d accumulated from deposits, certificates of deposits, car loans, and home mortgages.
“No, it’s nothing to do with the bank.” Binkie pushed her reading glasses up into her curly hair. “It’s a record of private loans.”
A rush of fear surged through me. “You mean I owe all this?”
Binkie flashed a quick smile. “Nope. You don’t owe a thing. They owe you.” She leaned again over the ledger, pointing to a number of names that I recognized. There was Horace Allen and Dr. Walter Hargrove and Pete Williams and Ronnie Crenshaw and Jim Hardison and that new dentist in town, Dr. Bradley, and, my goodness, a bunch of others.
“They owe me?”
“Yes, and it’s perfectly within your rights to call these loans in so we can settle the estate. But since you don’t need it, you’d be better off just continuing to receive the monthly payments until the loans’re paid off.”
I sat back in my chair, warmed by an unexpected feeling of well being. Half the town, it seemed like—at least the half that I knew—was indebted to me. I hesitate to admit it even now, but for the first time in my life I knew what it was to have the upper hand, and I liked it. I could even feel a little warmth toward Wesley Lloyd for all the work he’d put in, but most especially for his not being around to stifle my enjoyment of the results.
“All right,” I said, trying not to let my pleasure show too much. “Let’s do that. But I don’t understand, Binkie. Why did these people borrow from Wesley Lloyd? Why didn’t they just go to the bank if they needed money?”
“Lots of reasons. Some of them may have been overextended at the time. Others may not’ve been a good loan risk or maybe they didn’t have sufficient collateral and would’ve been turned down. And I’ll bet, if I looked all these up, that Mr. Springer charged something like a quarter or a half point less interest than the bank.” Binkie glanced up at me, then went on. “Private loans are a good source of income for those who can afford to make them.
Of course, you do have to be selective and know who you’re lending to, but a lot of people do it.”
I leaned over the ledger, memorizing the names of those who owed me money. Then I noticed something else. “These interest rates, Binkie, why are there different amounts?”
She smiled. “Interest rates fluctuate anyway, but these probably depended on who wanted the loan, how badly he wanted it, and how much Mr. Springer could get away with charging.”
I took a deep breath at the thought of Wesley Lloyd’s sharp business dealings. “You mean he was a usurer.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly, but he obviously knew when somebody really needed money. I see a few here who I know have been in a particularly hard spot, and, let’s just say, he took advantage of their need.”
“Then why don’t we renegotiate these loans and make the interest rate the same for everybody? Say, a quarter under the current rate, whatever it is. I’d sleep better at night, knowing I wasn’t taking food from anybody’s mouth.”
Binkie grinned up at me. “Hardly that. But you could even cancel them, if you wanted to.”
I reared back in alarm. “Let’s not go that far.” I shook my head. “No, when you borrow, you have to pay back. It’s not good to get something for nothing, and I don’t intend to be the cause of anybody’s character being ruined.”
“Okay,” she said, but for some reason, she tried to hide a smile. “I’ll make a note to notify these folks of the rate change, as well as your intent to continue the loans. You’re going to relieve a lot of minds, Miss Julia. They’ll be worried about the loans being called in, so I expect they’ll be grateful to you for not doing it.”
“Well, I should hope so,” I said, feeling quite satisfied with myself. I was now in a position to grant relief to the hard-pressed and reveal myself to be both gracious and charitable. I just hoped those debtors appreciated it.
I got home later than usual that evening just as Lillian was ready to serve dinner. Hazel Marie and the boy had waited for me, as they should’ve, and we went into the dining room together. I sat at the head of the table with the others on each side of me, across from each other. The table was pleasing to me, with its white cutwork placemats against the polished mahogany and the lighted candles in the candelabra. It’s important to carry on with the daily routine, especially after a family tragedy, which we’d all experienced and I was still suffering from. Wesley Lloyd had always insisted that the evening meal be served with silver and crystal and fine china, and I saw no reason to discontinue that custom. The child and his mother both needed to learn that meals should be taken in a refined atmosphere, and not on a hit-and-run basis like you see on television, with people eating in cars and talking with their mouths full.
I shook out my napkin and placed it across my lap. “Little Lloyd,” I said, “you may return thanks for what we’re about to receive.”
“Yessum,” he whispered, as we bowed our heads. Then he proceeded to mumble the old standby. “God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen.”
“Thank you. We’re ready for Lillian now,” I said, and tinkled the tiny silver bell by my plate.
Lillian entered with a platter of roast beef and vegetables. She offered it to me first, as I’d instructed her to do, so that our guests could see how it was done. Still, she had to help both of them fill their plates.
I noticed as we began to eat how their eyes kept cutting over to me, watching to see how I handled my knife and fork, when I took a sip of water, and where I put my butter knife. I didn’t mind, for they both needed to learn correct table manners.
“Little Lloyd,” I said to break the heavy silence, “it’s customary to discuss the day’s events at the dinner table. But remember that such conversation should be light and entertaining and conducive to good digestion. Would you like to share anything with us?”
The child ducked his head, causing his glasses to slide down his nose. He murmured, “No, ma’am. Thank you, anyway.”
“Come now, surely there’s something you can tell us. You can start any subject at all and, chances are, your mother and I will have something to add to it. So give us a topic of interest to you, anything but religion and politics, both of which are apt to cause disagreements and subsequent internal upsets.”
He turned a pleading face toward his mother, hoping, I was sure, to be rescued from my attention. She was equally intimidated, so he had no help from that quarter. I disliked putting the child on the spot, but, if we were ever to have a comfortable relationship, we had to learn to converse together.
“Perhaps something amusing happened in school today,” I prodded him.
With another desperate glance at his mother, he hunched his shoulders, took a deep breath, and spoke to the tabletop. “Well, this one boy in my class had to go to the bathroom real bad and the teacher said he’d already been and couldn’t go again. And he started wiggling and squirming, and he got real red in the face, and the teacher said, ‘Willis, you do not have to go to the bathroom, so quit putting on,’ and he said he wasn’t putting on, he was putting out.”
Lillian, who had just walked in with a basket of rolls, laughed out loud, and Hazel Marie sputtered so bad she had to put her napkin over her mouth. I permitted myself a polite smile, although it was all I could do to keep from falling off my chair.
“Well, you certainly avoided religion and politics,” I said, when I could keep a straight face. I had no wish to kill his spirit, but I didn’t want to encourage such unsuitable dinner conversation either. “But perhaps we should add another forbidden subject.”
Lillian walked over to him and said, “Take one of these here rolls, baby. You done entertained these folks enough, so you eat while we see how good they do.”
Lillian had already lost her heart to the child, and I feared she’d spoil him rotten if his mother didn’t do it first. I thought it well that there was at least one person in the household who cared about the proper rearing of a child. Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it, so saith the experts, as well as Solomon, who said it first.
As Lillian removed our dinner plates before serving dessert, she surprised me by speaking of a subject that was usually discussed in our weekly planning sessions. “Miss Julia,” she said, standing by Little Lloyd’s chair, “December already here, an’ we don’t have us a Christmas tree yet. This chile need one an’ so do you an’ ever’body in the house, includin’ me. I know you mournin’ Mr. Springer, but he . . .” She stopped and put her hand on the child’s shoulder, perhaps to bolster her courage. “You know he love Christmas, an’ I know he want you to keep on keepin’ on with the usual. An’ prob’ly a little more.”
I looked sharply at her. She knew as well as I did that Wesley Lloyd Springer had despised Christmas and all its trappings, so I didn’t know why she’d stand there with no expression on her face and tell a bald-faced lie. But then, she cut her eyes down at the child, who was looking expectantly at me.
“Well, I suppose,” I said, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Yes, I suppose with a child in the house, we should make an effort to celebrate the season. Hazel Marie, if you’d like to take my car tomorrow, perhaps you and Lillian could go pick out a tree.”
“Can I go? Please, can I?” Little Lloyd was exhibiting more animation than I’d seen in the few months I’d known him, a matter of concern to me, for my tolerance of unruly children was all but nonexistent.
“Of course, you can,” his mother said. “Lillian, if it’s all right with you, we’ll pick him up after school and then go find a tree.” She turned to me. “Where should we go? When I was little, we’d get our tree from a field or out in the woods, but I wouldn’t want to take your car off the street.”
“I should say not,” I said. “Go to the nursery on North Main and pick out a good one.”
“They’re awfully expensive,” she said, frowning. “They grow them special, you know.”
“Yes, I k
now. But if you’re going to have a Christmas tree, you might as well have a nicely shaped one, two or three feet high. I don’t want a straggly, crooked tree with half the branches in nubs. Lillian, you know the kind we usually get.”
“Yessum, but . . .”
I turned to Hazel Marie. “Lillian will clear off the lamp table in the front window, and we’ll put it on that. The box of ornaments is in the basement, clearly labeled. I’ll leave the decorating to you.”
Little Lloyd’s eyes shone as he looked at his mother. “A real Christmas tree,” he said. “I’m going to like that a whole lot better than what we got in a box at Wal-Mart’s.”
My word, I thought, an artificial Christmas tree, the most tasteless thing I could imagine. The child desperately needed training in the finer things of life, and a real Frazier fir covered with ornaments was as likely a place to start as any. Of course, if it’d been left up to me, I’d’ve gone to bed and stayed there until Christmas was over and done with.
Now, all this time later, I squirmed and twisted in my chair, but no rearrangement of position could relieve the discomfort in my soul as I recalled the pinched and ungenerous woman I’d once been. Rubbing my hand across my face, I reminded myself that a lot of things start out a far cry from what they end up being. In a lot of cases, the end results are remarkably better than the way they start out—penicillin, for one, and bacon for another. And perhaps Julia Springer Murdoch, for a third.
Taking a deep breath, I realized that our present troubles might not be quite as bad as the ones I’d already come up against. And overcome, I might add.
Except they wouldn’t stay overcome. Here was Brother Vern back again, this time with a Wesley Lloyd look-alike claiming to be Little Lloyd’s natural father. And, of course, it wasn’t a stretch to consider that he just might be. I had no illusions as to Hazel Marie’s morals. I knew when I first laid eyes on her and that child what she’d been up to. I might be old and old-fashioned, but I knew where children came from and how they get here.
