Miss Julia Stands Her Ground

by Ann B. Ross

  I’d heard enough. Brother Vern was still unaware that I was behind him, so I leaned over and raised my voice right in his ear. “What is this?”

  He nearly jumped out of his shoes, springing back with his mouth open and a startled look on his face. “Lord amighty, woman, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “I don’t sneak up in my own house, and I’ll thank you not to take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.” Turning to Hazel Marie, who had half risen from her chair, I said, “Hazel Marie, this man’s done all the damage he’s going to do. I want you to go upstairs and lie down. I’ll be up in a minute, just as soon as I see Brother Vern out.”

  “Miss Julia . . .” She could barely get the words out between the shuddering sobs and gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever he’s said to you, it doesn’t matter.”

  She sidled away from me, cringing as she passed Brother Vern, and scurried out of the room. By the time I turned my attention to Brother Vern, he’d regained his composure and was puffing himself up again.

  “I’m here to tell you, sister, that sin always matters, don’t matter whether we know it or not.” He pointed toward the door through which Hazel Marie had gone. “That woman has run a ringer in on you, and you been taken in by him and her, too. That boy that’s been livin’ under your roof and partakin’ of your generosity and become known as the son and heir of your husband—your first husband—is no more kin to him than I am.”

  “You are wrong, Mr. Puckett.” I looked him in the eye and stood my ground. “That child is a Springer through and through, and nothing you say will make it any different.”

  He pursed his mouth and shook his head. “It’s a sorry thing when a woman won’t be led by the admonitions of a man of God, so let me lay it out for you plain as I can. Hazel Marie used to flit from one bed to the other, right up to the time Mr. Springer took her in hand. But, and this is a big ‘but,’ ” he said, raising a finger in front of my face, “there was somebody else in the picture. And that somebody else was Lonnie Whitmire, and he fathered that boy, not Mr. Springer, may he rest in peace. So there it is, plain and simple.”

  “Not so plain and simple at all,” I said, glaring at him. “Where’s your proof, Mr. Puckett? Just because a man claims a child doesn’t mean the child is his.”

  Brother Vern’s face turned red, whether from the delicate subject matter or from anger, I couldn’t tell. With a knowing smirk, he said, “A man knows when the seed he’s cast has taken root.”

  “No, he does not,” I said, coming right back at him. “All a man can do is cast and hope. Or hope not, as the case may be. If the only thing you have to go on is an old wives’ tale like that, you might as well pack it in.”

  “Listen, Miz Murdoch, I know I’m tellin’ you what you don’t want to hear, but Deacon Lonnie is willin’ to swear that the boy is his and . . .”

  “You better check with your deacon. I happen to know that he’s just been aggravated into having a change of heart. You’ll be hard-pressed to get him to swear to anything.”

  That news brought Brother Vern up short, but he shook it off and plowed ahead. “I already got him notarized. He’ll stand up and swear he is.”

  “And Hazel Marie will swear he’s not. So who do you think I’ll believe? And I’m the one who counts.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head in a sorrowful manner, “you are not. Now listen, I already talked to a lawyer, and that boy is Mr. Springer’s true and legal heir, they ain’t nothin’ nobody can do about that, and it don’t matter that Mr. Springer was sufferin’ from a delusion, can’t nobody take a nickel away from the boy. That will’s as good as gold, and it don’t matter who his father was, or is. Legally, the money’s his’n. I mean, it will be when he’s old enough. The real problem is his mother, the one who’s lied and deceived and taken you in. She don’t deserve nothin’. And she’s been brought to her knees about it, too, ready to repent and confess and take herself out of the way of raisin’ that boy.”

  So that was it. I could feel my eyes narrow and my breath starting to pick up speed. “And who do you think deserves to raise him?”

  “Well,” he said, spreading his hands, “ain’t it plain? His mother’s the next of kin, but I got her on lying and perpetratin’ fraud and being a loose woman, so it falls to me to step in. I’m that boy’s great-uncle, and that makes me the next to the next of kin.”

  It was all I could do to stand there and keep a semblance of equanimity, but inside I was steaming and ready to blow. But before I could let him have it, he kept on talking.

  “Now, I’ve give this a lot of thought, and here’s what I’m thinkin’ of doin’. We’ll just let that boy keep on thinkin’ his daddy was Mr. Springer, God rest his soul, there ain’t no need to muddy up the waters. We’ll just keep all this under our hats, so he won’t get mixed up. And Lonnie won’t be a problem. He don’t want to take on a half-growed kid at this late stage, so don’t worry about him. Ever’thing’ll go right along like it’s been doin’, only Hazel Marie’ll have to step down as one of the trustees.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “What do you know about the trustees?”

  “I know Brother Sam and that lady lawyer, Binkie whoever, and Hazel Marie are the trustees for that boy till he comes of age. It’s a public record. But Hazel Marie’s not fit for the job, so as the next closest kin, I’m the natural one to take her place. And I believe I can make a good case to a judge for doing just that.”

  Lord, I thought, as a stab of fear hit me hard, put that way, he just might.

  Chapter 43

  I leaned against the door after closing it behind Brother Vern and tried to make sense of what he’d said. His parting shot was that he’d be in touch with Sam to make arrangements.

  And where was Sam? He’d been gone all day without a word as to where he was or what he was doing. And Mr. Pickens was in the wind as well, both of them out scouring the countryside, while everything had blown up in my face right here at home.

  Pushing away from the door I prepared myself to undo what Brother Vern had done to Hazel Marie. From what I’d heard, he had beaten her down until she had thrown in the towel and given in to him. And I wasn’t going to have it. Brother Vern a trustee? Over my dead body, or Wesley Lloyd’s, as the case might be.

  I climbed the stairs, intent on giving her enough gumption to stand up to him. With even Brother Vern convinced that Little Lloyd’s inheritance couldn’t be touched, I could put that out of my mind. All that remained was Hazel Marie, and if she had deliberately lied or even if she wasn’t sure who the child’s father was, I just didn’t care. At the moment, at least.

  When I went into her room, I expected to find her in bed or cowering in a chair or maybe on her knees, but she was doing none of that. Her back was to me, as she leaned over to fill a suitcase lying open on the bed. Her face was blotched from crying, and she held a wad of Kleenex in one hand as she folded a sweater.

  “Hazel Marie,” I said, “what are you doing?”

  “Packing. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

  “Leaving! And just where do you think you’re going?”

  She turned away as her shoulders shook with a new flood of tears. “I don’t know,” she said between sobs. “But I can’t stay here.”

  “Of course you can. This is your home. Listen to me, Hazel Marie. I don’t know who you were before you came here, but as far as I’m concerned your life began the day you moved in. And I don’t care what Vernon Puckett says or Lonnie Whitmire, I know you and I believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I can’t prove who Lloyd’s father was, so it’s just my word against his. People will believe what they want to believe.”

  “But that’s just the point, Hazel Marie. I want to believe you, and I do. And so does Sam, and so does Mr. Pickens and Lillian and your son, too. There is no need in the world for you to turn tai
l and run. You ought to know that your word carries more weight than his. After all, you were there and he wasn’t.”

  “But he’ll make a big scene and hire a lawyer and make Sam and Binkie put him in my place, and, and . . .” She stopped to blow her nose. “And Lloyd will hear all he says about me, and he’ll hate me, and everybody’ll look down on me, and it’ll just be awful.” She took a rasping breath and tried to pull herself together. “As soon as I get settled, I’ll send for Lloyd, if you don’t mind looking after him for a little while.”

  “Oh, no, Hazel Marie, you can’t do that.” The thought of losing her was bad enough, but the possibility of losing that child sent me into a tailspin. “I can’t stand this. Please, come over here and sit down. Let’s talk this out. There’s no reason for you to run off. You’ll just be playing into Vernon Puckett’s hand if you do that. Come on now.” I took her by the arm and led her to one of the chairs by the window. “Listen now, there’re a few things you don’t know. Brother Vern came to Sam several days ago and told him this cock-and-bull story about Little Lloyd’s natural father. Neither of us believed him then, and we don’t believe him now. So we’ve been thinking about it longer than you have, and we’ve come up with a few things we can do. Are you listening to me?”

  She nodded, but she wouldn’t look at me.

  “All right, first off, we’ll demand a DNA test from Lonnie Whitmire, and that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Little Lloyd is not his child.”

  She raised her head, and I saw the first glimmer of hope in her eyes. “It will, won’t it?” There was something like awe in her voice, and I have to admit that her reaction reassured me more than I can say.

  “Absolutely. And where will Brother Vern and his claims be then?”

  “Oh, Miss Julia,” she said, as she buried her face in her hands again, “he’ll just come up with somebody else. Because it’s still just my word against his.”

  “Then there’s only one thing to do.” I closed my eyes tight, hating to think it, much less say it. But I did. “We have to dig up Wesley Lloyd and test his bones or whatever’s left of him.”

  Hazel Marie gasped and pulled away from me. “Dig him up! Oh, that’s awful.” Then she gave her eyes a final wipe. “Can we do that? I mean, how would we do it?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Sam and Binkie’ll take care of the legalities, and hiring the diggers and the testers and whatever else we need. And as soon as Sam gets back here, if he ever does, we’ll start doing whatever has to be done. In the meanwhile, you start unpacking, because you’re not going anywhere. We’re going to put this matter to rest once and for all, even if the dirt has to fly.”

  Whatever qualms I had previously had about disinterring Wesley Lloyd were now gone. Oh, I still hated to have to do it, especially since it’d make the local headlines, but I was considerably relieved that Hazel Marie was eager to have it done. If there’d been any doubt in her mind about who Little Lloyd’s father was, she’d have tried to talk me out of it. Wouldn’t she?

  “But,” she said, her eyes wide, “what would we tell people? I mean, it would get around, and everybody’d want to know why we did it.”

  “We’ll tell them it was for health reasons,” I said, thinking fast. “Hint around about pollution of the ground water or something, then say no more. They’ll think something was wrong with the burial, and believe me, they won’t want to know the details of that.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said, beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. “If we could do it, that would settle everything, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t ever have to worry about anything Vernon comes up with again.” She stood up, a smile beginning on her poor, ravaged face. “Oh, Miss Julia, thank you for being willing to go that far for me.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “People are dug up for one reason or another all the time. We live in a modern age, Hazel Marie, and we might as well make use of it. Now, I’m going downstairs to try to get Mr. Pickens and Sam back here so we can put things in motion.”

  I started for the door, but she called me back. She’d slumped down in the chair again, hiding her face. “Miss Julia, there’s something else.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said, feeling another cloud of dread close over me. I walked over to her and collapsed in the chair beside her. “Hazel Marie, this is no time for true confessions. If you think that testing Wesley Lloyd won’t help us solve this mess, just tell me now before we disturb him. Anything other than that I don’t want to hear.”

  “No, oh, no. I want you to disturb him, I really do. It’s just that I do have something to confess, but it’s not about him. It’s about Emma Sue.”

  “What does Emma Sue have to do with this?”

  “Well, nothing, really. It’s just that I’ve been feeling real bad ever since she said I was so spiritual. Because I’m not.”

  “Now, Hazel Marie, none of us are as spiritual as we’d like to be or ought to be. Just accept the compliment and go on about your business.”

  “But I did something I shouldn’t’ve done, and I can’t let her go on thinking I’m something I’m not.”

  “I can’t imagine what you did, Hazel Marie. I certainly haven’t noticed anything. What was it?”

  “Well, you know that prayer I gave at the circle meeting? Well, it wasn’t mine like Emma Sue thought it was. I couldn’t ever come up with something that good by myself, so I used somebody else’s.”

  I frowned, wondering whose prayers she’d been listening to. Pastor Ledbetter could send up a full, rounded one that covered all the bases, but the one she gave hadn’t sounded anything like his. And I knew it couldn’t be one of Brother Vern’s, because he preached when he prayed. And the grace that Little Lloyd said at meals didn’t come anywhere near the eloquence of the one she’d said.

  “Whose did you use, Hazel Marie?”

  “Well, you know that book of prayers Binkie has?” she said, biting her lip. “Well, I kinda borrowed it and copied from it. I know I shouldn’t’ve done it, Miss Julia, but I get so nervous when I have to pray out loud with everybody listening. My mind just goes blank, and I tried to write out one of my own, but I didn’t know what to say. So I used that book, and now Emma Sue thinks I’m just about a saint or something.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes, Hazel Marie. You mean you used a prayer from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer?”

  “I didn’t think it was so common. I thought it was beautiful, and it said what I wanted to say but didn’t know how to. I know it was wrong. . . .”

  “I declare, you worry about the most unnecessary things. The prayers in that book are supposed to be used. Why do you think they’re there in the first place? And let me tell you something else: Every one of their preachers or priests or rectors or whatever they call them use them every day that rolls around. They don’t rely on the first thing that pops into their heads, like we do. So you’re not the only one to lift a few from that book, and if Emma Sue is so impressed with what you said, well, we’ll just let her go on being impressed. And if she does find out about it, it won’t hurt her to know that Presbyterians haven’t cornered the market on praying.”

  A smile lit up Hazel Marie’s face. “Then you think it’s all right . . . ?”

  “I certainly do. Now I want you to put all your worries to rest. Forget about Emma Sue. We need to concentrate on getting Wesley Lloyd sent off for testing. That’s going to solve all our problems.”

  Then she said something that nearly stopped my heart in mid-beat: “Oh, I hope it will.”

  Before I could get my mouth open, the doorbell sounded downstairs. I waited, thinking that whoever it was would go away, but it rang again, longer and more insistently this time.

  “Unpack that thing, Hazel Marie,” I said, pointing at her suitcase. “I’ll go see who it is and hope it’s somebody with better news than I’ve been getting.”

  Chapter 44

  To my dismay, it looked to be bad news, or at least di
sturbing news, in the form of Pastor Ledbetter. He stood at the door, shivering from his dash across the street in the cold drizzle.

  “Come in, Pastor, and put that umbrella in the stand. It’s a cold day to be running around without an overcoat.”

  “It is that,” he said, stepping in and brushing raindrops from his shoulder. “But I have to talk to you, Miss Julia, for time is drawing short. I won’t stay but a minute. I know it’s getting late.”

  Motioning him to a seat on the sofa, I walked around, turning on the lamps to brighten the room. Then I took a seat some few feet away from him. “It’s always a pleasure to see you,” I said, trying to compose myself. But I was feeling an inner turmoil that threatened to erupt all over the place at any minute. I didn’t have the time nor the inclination for church business or for spiritual instruction, if he was feeling led to give me some.

  “Miss Julia,” he began, leaning forward on the sofa, his arms on his knees and his hands dangling down. “I have to have your decision, and I hope you’ve made the right one. We have to get the names of the nominees for the session in the bulletin this coming Sunday. But before you say anything, let’s have a prayer so you’ll be led in the right direction.”

  “Pastor, I . . .”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Don’t tell me yet. I want you to know that I have had this matter in constant prayer ever since it came up. Be aware, Miss Julia, of what your decision can do to our church.” He bowed his head, and I thought he was about to call on the Lord. But he was just gathering steam. “I’ve been led to a decision myself, which I’ve told no one, not even Emma Sue. But I have to share it with you. I cannot, in conscience, bring myself to continue working in the Lord’s vineyard here if a woman is voted onto the session. It would go against everything I’ve learned and believed in, and I want you to know that before you give me your decision.”