Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel

by Ann B. Ross

  She protested, but I remained firm because she was about wiped out. Going quietly from room to room upstairs so as not to wake the babies, I gave everything a lick and a promise to do better next time.

  When I got back downstairs, all was quiet except for a game show on television. I walked in to see about James, asking if he needed anything.

  “I’m feelin’ like it ’bout time for lunch,” he said, barely taking his eyes off the set. Then his head jerked around. “You smell something burnin’?”

  “Oh, Lord!” I said, whirling out of the room. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  And sure enough, smoke was drifting out of the kitchen as I ran through the dining room. The smoke alarm began shrieking loud enough to wake the dead and both babies upstairs. Hazel Marie had the back door open while she flailed away with a broom, batting the alarm to make it stop.

  “What happened?” I asked as soon as she knocked the alarm off the wall and quiet descended—except for the wailing from the cribs upstairs. “Where’s the fire?”

  She leaned against the wall and pointed to the sink, where a skillet still hissed as water ran over it. “I was fixing James a grilled cheese sandwich, and the pan just started smoking. I guess it got too hot.”

  I guess it did, I thought, looking at the shriveled, blackened, water-soaked sandwich in the skillet. “No harm done, Hazel Marie. You go on and see to the babies. I’ll fix lunch.”

  After Hazel Marie’s attempt, I felt quite competent making two nicely grilled cheese sandwiches, one for her and one for James. Putting one sandwich, along with a glass of milk, on a tray, I took them in to James.

  His mouth turned down at the sight of the milk. “A Co-Cola’d go a whole lot better with that,” he said.

  “You need the calcium,” I said, mainly because I hadn’t been able to find any soft drinks. “Good for the bones, you know.”

  Later, as I dragged myself tiredly into the kitchen at home, I said, “Lillian, I am going to find some help for Hazel Marie if it’s the last thing I do.” And the way I felt after that strenuous morning, it could very well be the last thing I did.

  Chapter 8

  Before she could respond, I headed for the telephone on the counter by the refrigerator. “I hate doing this,” I said, knowing full well that a ringing telephone was the last thing Hazel Marie needed. “But I forgot to tell her something.”

  “Tell her ’bout that man callin’ her, if that what you forget.”

  I nodded, listening as the phone rang so long that I was about to hang up and run back over there. When Hazel Marie finally answered, she sounded beside herself, in spite of the fact that I’d spent most of the day helping her.

  “Hazel Marie, honey, I’m sorry to interrupt whatever you’re doing, but . . .”

  “Oh, Miss Julia,” she sobbed, “I almost killed him!”

  “Who?”

  “James! He has to go to the bathroom and I tried to help him get up, but he lost his balance and fell back in the chair and I fell on top of him. I don’t know what to do and he has to go real bad.”

  “Okay, listen. Here’s what you do: Put the phone down and run to the pantry. Find a fruit jar or some other large watertight container with a lid and take it to him. Pour something out if you have to. Take it to him right now, then come back to the phone. I’ll wait.”

  She gasped at the simplicity of it, flung down the phone, and left. I waited, hearing her footsteps as she ran through the house and hearing also the mumble of their voices as she and James spoke.

  “Miss Julia?” she panted as she picked up the phone. “I’m back. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that, except he probably wouldn’t have used it if I had. But when I told him it was your idea, all he said was, ‘I sure hope you close that door.’” She took a deep breath, pulling herself together. “I guess I’ll have to go empty it.”

  “No, that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to tell you not to try to move him by yourself. Sam will be over there in a little while and he’ll empty it and get him back to bed. I’m sorry, Hazel Marie—I should’ve thought to tell you before I left.”

  “That’s all right. I’m just, well, I’m not thinking too good myself. Everybody needs something at the same time. I’ll be so glad when J.D. gets home.”

  You and me, I thought but didn’t say. “Well, here’s something else I keep forgetting to tell you. Lillian says that some man has called you a couple of times, but he doesn’t give his name or say what he wants. He just hangs up when she says you aren’t here.”

  “Wonder who it could be?”

  “Probably a salesman or somebody wanting a donation. I just thought you should know.”

  “Well, don’t tell him anything,” she said with asperity. “I don’t need anybody else wanting something from me.” Then she giggled. “I might throw that milk carton I got out of the trash at whoever wants another thing. And I mean when James gets through with it, too.”

  “Lord, Lillian,” I said, after hanging up the phone. “To think that just a couple of days ago, I was feeling that all was right with the world. Everybody was happy and settled and getting on with life and . . .” I stopped, put my hand to my mouth and reconsidered. “Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking of those poor souls who’ve had tornadoes, wildfires, hurricanes, floods, wars, lost jobs, and foreclosures. And fairly soon, there’ll be snow and sleet and power outages and who knows what else. When you think of all that, it doesn’t look as if anything, anywhere, is going right. It’s just chaos everywhere you look.”

  “Yes’m, but that’s livin’, Miss Julia. Ever’body have to get they enjoys where they can, when they can. Besides, James’ll get well, Mr. Pickens’ll be back home, an’ the babies’ll grow up. Nothin’ last forever. Least, when you think of all them other things, I hope they don’t.”

  “That’s one way to look at it, I guess. Everything—good or bad—will pass sooner or later.” I stopped and studied the matter for a minute. “Somehow or another—I don’t know why—that doesn’t seem very comforting.”

  “But the Reverend Abernathy say it do. He tell us we live in a transitory world, then he tell us what that mean. It mean something that don’t last long, an’ we got to take a overview. Which mean lookin’ over what happen here an’ countin’ on what happen hereafter.”

  “Lillian, that is the most comforting thing you could’ve said. The reverend is absolutely right, and when things start going wrong we need to be reminded of it. At least I do.” I sat down at the table and rested my head on my hand. “I declare, I wish Pastor Ledbetter would take some lessons from him. It’s our annual pledge time—the Every Member Canvass—and all we hear is how we should be tithing and giving over and above. Then next Sunday one of the elders will tell us how badly we need a youth director, and the Sunday after that a deacon will tell us that the church furnace is acting up. I think I might start going to your church.”

  “You jus’ come on anytime,” Lillian said with a little smile. “We be glad to have you. But you might get a little of the same kind of preachin’ now an’ then, ’cause the Reverend Abernathy say the Lord don’t pay no ’lectric bills.”

  “That’s true,” I said as we laughed together. “Well, I guess I’d better get up from here and try to line up a few more cooks for Hazel Marie. Sam will be up in a little while, and I expect James will be glad to see him. He’s been sitting in that chair all day.”

  “I ’spect he been sleepin’ in it, too. He can nod off jus’ settin’ in a straight chair, so you don’t need to feel sorry for him. I jus’ hope this the last night Mr. Sam have to spend over there.”

  Saying, “I do, too,” on my way out, I headed for the new library, where my folder and calendar were, thinking as I went about who I should call next.

  Etta Mae, I decided, because her work hours were somewhat erratic and I wanted her to have a choice of days before they filled up—if they fil
led up. I was somewhat skeptical of her cooking skills, knowing that she patronized McDonald’s an inordinate number of times each week, but I couldn’t leave her recipes out of Hazel Marie’s book. The two women had known each other too long and I myself owed Etta Mae the courtesy of being included and much more than that, if the truth be told. So, figuring that she was home by this time, I dialed the phone in her single-wide at the Hillandale trailer park.

  “Etta Mae?” I said when she answered. “This is Julia Murdoch. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Uh, Miss Julia, I really don’t think I can go back to West Virginia anytime soon.”

  “West Virginia? I’m not going to West Virginia or anywhere else, for that matter. No, I’m calling about something else.” And I went on to explain what I was doing and what I hoped she could do to help me.

  “Recipes? Oh, sure, I can do that,” Etta Mae said in a considerably lightened tone of voice. “And I’d love to get in the kitchen with Hazel Marie—that’d be fun. Let me think a minute. I don’t do a whole lot of cooking, but my granny taught me how to fix a few things.”

  “What’s a good day for you?” I asked, my calendar at the ready. “Mildred Allen and Ida Lee are going over tomorrow, and LuAnne Conover has Monday and Wednesday. She wants to do two days, but I doubt anybody else will.”

  “Oh, I can do next Friday, a week from today. I have it off because I’m working that weekend. Would that do?”

  “It’ll do perfectly,” I said, putting her name on the calendar. “Now, Etta Mae, we need a main dish, although you can submit a couple of others if you want to. But the main dish has to be something simple, something you can show her how to make. And remember it’s Hazel Marie we’re dealing with.”

  “Okay,” Etta Mae said. “I’ve got the perfect thing right here in my recipe book. One of the shut-ins I look after gave it to me, and I’ve been meaning to try it. Looks like it can be put together early in the day, then it just simmers for a while. I’ll read it off to you.”

  Etta Mae’s Chicken Cacciatore

  Flour, salt, and pepper 4 chicken breast halves (with or without bone, as preferred)

  Heat 11/2 tablespoons of butter and 21/2 tablespoons of olive oil in a Dutch oven. Sauté 1 clove of minced garlic, 1 large chopped onion, and 1 large chopped bell pepper.

  Add and saute the prepared chicken breasts until the chicken is golden brown.

  Then add the following:

  2 cups canned tomatoes with juice

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  2 tablespoons parsley

  1 large pinch each of thyme and oregano (dried is okay)

  Salt and pepper to taste

  1 cup dry red wine (Burgundy or claret)

  Cover and simmer gently for at least 1 hour—longer is fine. Then add 2 cups of sliced mushrooms (preferably fresh, but drained if not) and cook 30 minutes more. Serve over rice.

  Serves 4.

  (Hazel Marie, even if this comes out right when Etta Mae makes it, if I were you I’d wait for Lillian to look it over before attempting it yourself.)

  “That sounds delicious, Etta Mae,” I said, more than a little surprised because I’d thought her recipe would be for Hamburger Helper or sloppy joes or some other such throw-together dish. I halfway wished it had been, instead of an untried one. “Now, if you’ll make out a grocery list of all the ingredients and drop it off here, we’ll have everything at Hazel Marie’s ready to go next Friday. But be prepared, because you’ll have to show her how to sauté.”

  “That’s no problem,” Etta Mae said, laughing. “I’ve been frying stuff my whole life.”

  “There’s one other thing,” I said, thinking that I should put the word out wherever I could, and went on to explain what had happened to James which resulted in Hazel Marie’s dire need of help. “So, if you know anybody who could help with him or with the babies or just come in to fix breakfast and lunch, I’ll, well, I’ll dance at your wedding.”

  “Shoo,” she said, laughing, “that won’t be anytime soon. I’ve been down that road too many times already.” Then, turning serious, she went on, “I wish I could come over and help, Miss Julia, but my boss is threatening mayhem if any of us even look like we want time off. But let me think about it. I know a lot of people out in the county, so I might can come up with somebody.”

  “Lillian,” I said, as I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, “you won’t believe this, but Etta Mae Wiggins gave me what looks like an interesting recipe—except she’s never made it, so who knows? Look at this and see if we should try it first.”

  As I handed her the recipe I’d copied down, the telephone rang and I turned away to answer it.

  “Miss Julia?”

  “Hazel Marie?” I could barely make out her voice, it sounded so subdued and strained. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, well,” she said, half murmuring, “I guess I have to cancel our cooking date tomorrow. I’m real sorry, but it’s not a good time for Mildred and Ida Lee to come over.”

  “Why, what in the world, Hazel Marie? Everything’s all set and ingredients have been bought. It’s really too late to cancel. We can work around James and the babies, so what’s brought this on?”

  “Well, uh, you know how somebody’s been calling me?”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “And you know we’ve been wanting somebody to help with James?”

  “Yes, and . . . ?”

  “Well, I guess we might have somebody.”

  “Who?” I asked, gripping the phone, disturbed at the way she sounded. “It’d be wonderful to have help, but who is it?”

  “I don’t know how he found out where I live, but he just called. And he’s on his way over because he has nowhere else to go. He said he’s in a bad way and needs help from his family, and I’m all the family he has.”

  “Who, Hazel Marie? Who’re you talking about?”

  “My uncle. You remember . . . ?”

  “Brother Vern? Brother Vernon Puckett? Don’t tell me he’s back in town.”

  I had to sit down, so done in by the thought of that money-grubbing, itinerant street preacher back in our lives again—and back just when Hazel Marie didn’t need another soul to look after. She already had three needy people—three and a half, if you counted when Mr. Pickens was home, which you might as well—clamoring for her attention. The Lord knew she didn’t need another one.

  Chapter 9

  After hanging up, I sprang from the chair and hurried out of the room. “I’ve got to get Sam up. Lillian,” I called over my shoulder, “don’t go anywhere. I’ll tell you about it in a minute. Lord, we’re in for it now.”

  Hurrying up the stairs to our bedroom, where Sam was sleeping after being up most of the night with James, I hated the thought of waking him early. But, hesitating only a second before putting my hand on his shoulder, I whispered, “Sam? Can you wake up?”

  He turned, looked at me through half-closed, bleary eyes, and said, “Hey, honey. Time to get up?”

  “Not quite,” I said, sitting on the side of the bed and taking his hand. “But I need you to, anyway. Hazel Marie just called, and that good-for-nothing uncle of hers is back, wanting—no, expecting—her to take him in. We need to do something.”

  Sam sat up, his eyes clearing at the news. “Brother Vern? He wants to move in?”

  “That’s what it sounds like. Oh, Sam, she sounded like a beaten child, and I just can’t stand for her to be under his thumb again—you know how he is. We’ve got to get rid of him.”

  “Wait. Wait, Julia. I do know how he is, and he doesn’t stay anywhere for long. He may just want to drop by to see her. Maybe hit her up for a little money, then he’ll be gone again.”

  “I don’t think so this time,” I said, feeling weepy with dismay. “He told her he was in a bad way—so who knows? He may be sick
because he said he needed his family at this time. And, as you know, she’s the only family he has.”

  “Hmm,” Sam said, “probably the only family who’ll give him the time of day. But, look, sweetheart, it’s not going to be a problem. Pickens will be back tomorrow and he’ll handle Brother Vern. Besides, we can put him to work helping with James.” Sam smiled and kissed my hand. “That ought to cut down on how long he stays.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. If he’s sick, he won’t be any help—he’ll need help himself.” I stood up and began pacing by the side of the bed. “I tell you, Sam, Hazel Marie isn’t the strongest person in the world and this might be the final straw. I mean, she’s barely gotten over the birth of twins, and along with acquiring a home of her own with a full-time husband in it, well, it’s a lot to adjust to.”

  Sam laughed and reached for my hand as I made another turn. “Oh, I think the way Pickens has to travel, he’s more of a part-time husband.”

  “Even worse. He’s in and out, and half the time she doesn’t know where he is, and now that uncle of hers means to camp on her doorstep. And we haven’t even mentioned James laid up in bed, clanging that bell and wanting to go to the bathroom. I tell you, Sam, I don’t know how much more she can take. She’s already letting herself go, what with dark roots and no eye shadow.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a bad sign,” Sam said, grinning, as he threw back the covers and got out of bed. “I’ll go on over and see what Puckett’s intentions are. But, remember, Pickens will have something to say about what goes on in that house. I don’t think he’ll take kindly to having another burden put on his wife.”

  “You’re right—I know you’re right. I’m worrying for nothing.” I sat down in the warm place that Sam had just left. “You think we should call him and let him know what’ll be waiting for him?”