by Ann B. Ross
Just as I pulled the car into our driveway it occurred to me that I might have more to worry about than either James or Brother Vern. Now, everybody knows that it’s not my custom to meddle in other people’s business, but I was unnerved as I realized just how unaware Hazel Marie seemed to be of her husband’s discomfort.
I sat there for a few minutes thinking over the day—something in the back of my mind was bothering me. Well, a lot of things had been bothering me throughout the day—LuAnne’s carelessly given cooking lesson, the fussy, unhappy babies, Brother Vern’s castigation of Hazel Marie, James’s drawn-out recovery, not to mention Granny Wiggins’s medical advice of Epsom salts and bourbon. But there was something else.
As I went back over the events of the day that might have created the underlying fretful feeling I was having, I suddenly leaned my head against the steering wheel in despair. Mr. Pickens’s tight-lipped silence, his curt response to my greeting, his early departure from home that morning, his active dislike of Brother Vern, and my sure knowledge of his habit of picking up and moving on—all of this flashed through my mind. What in the world would he do when he learned that that little dust devil Granny Wiggins had been added to the mix? I recalled wondering the day before how Mr. Pickens was adjusting to a settled married life, and here I was wondering how long he would tolerate such an unsettled married life as he now had. I happened to know that men like pleasant and comfortable routines in their homes. They want to come home to order, especially if their working hours are hectic and disorderly, as Mr. Pickens’s assuredly were.
Maybe, I thought as I raised my head and gazed unseeingly out the windshield, this was not the time to worry about Hazel Marie’s ability to put meals on the table. Maybe I ought to discard my idea of providing recipe books and cooking lessons, which only added to the tumult, the number of people underfoot, and the general discord of the household.
Maybe, instead of concerning myself with improving Hazel Marie’s cooking skills, I ought to turn my attention to improving Mr. Pickens’s surroundings so he’d stay happy and in place.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when there was a sharp rap on the car window. I turned with a gasp, and the face looking back at me startled me even more.
“Thurlow!” I said, opening the car door. “What do you mean sneaking up on people and scaring them half to death?”
He stepped back as I got out of the car. “Well, what’re you doing sitting out here in the car? Murdoch run you out of the house?”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, no, he did not run me out of the house. I was just . . . It’s none of your business what I was doing.” I closed the car door and tried the best I could to compose myself. Feeling a nudge against my knee, I glanced down and saw Ronnie, Thurlow’s huge spotted Great Dane, looking expectantly, I assumed, for a handout. “Anyway,” I went on, heading for the front door, “since you’re here, it’s too chilly to stay outside. But you might as well tell me now: Is this a social visit or have you come to complain about something?”
“I’ve come to complain, which I have every right to do,” Thurlow said, lifting his head in that arrogant way of his as he followed me to the door. Ronnie walked right beside him, as if he’d been issued an invitation as well. His tail, wagging fiercely, flapped against the door frame.
Thurlow himself was in his usual getup—baggy trousers, plaid shirt half in and half out, work boots, and a greasy-looking canvas coat. I had heard several reports that Helen Stroud had taken him in hand, cleaned him up, and demanded he buy new and decent clothes. She’d even gotten him to church, but I didn’t know how long that had lasted. Everyone kept expecting news of a wedding, even though the two of them were so ill suited that few of us could fathom such an outcome.
“Well, come on in and let’s hear it.” I held the door open, hoping to get it closed before Ronnie romped in. I didn’t make it, for he barreled his way into my house as if he owned it and sprawled out on the Oriental in my living room.
Now, if you should think that I was being less than welcoming, you’d be correct. And if you’re inclined to think that Thurlow was to be pitied, dressed as he was like a Main Street bum, I assure you that he could buy and sell more than half the residents of Abbotsville. In addition, Thurlow was no gentleman, and he had a way of getting under my skin like no other. He didn’t care what he said or how he said it, belittling women in general and, seemingly, me in particular. I always tried to avoid him, but here he was with another grievance, which would be merely one more out of many.
After he was seated on my Duncan Phyfe sofa and I in a Victorian chair across the room from him, he proceeded to tell me the purpose of his visit.
“Well, Madam Murdoch,” he began, “I hear you’re preparing a cookbook and I’ve been waiting for you to ask for my recipes. So far, you haven’t, and I want to know why not.”
“Why, Thurlow,” I said, taken aback at his demand, “I didn’t know you wanted to be included. In fact, I didn’t know you cooked.”
“How do you think me and Ronnie eat? Of course I cook, though probably not the fancy dishes you require. But that don’t mean I want to be left out when you’re running all over town getting recipes from every Tom, Dick, and Harry you can find.”
“I hardly think . . .”
“Yeah, and half the women you’re getting recipes from don’t even know how to boil water. They all have cooks to do it for them.”
“Maybe so, but . . .”
“No maybe about it. I keep up with what’s going on, don’t think I don’t, and you ought not to leave me out just because I don’t waste my money on kitchen help.”
“Oh, I’d never think you wasted money on anything,” I assured him, for he certainly didn’t. In fact, a lot of us wished that he would. “But I didn’t intend to offend you by not asking for yours. I merely thought you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Let me decide when I’m interested and when I’m not. Now, I know you’re trying to help that woman you took in when nobody else would. Not everybody would welcome a husband’s discards like you did, even if he was dead, and you may not think it, but I always admired you for that.”
“Well, ah, thank you,” I murmured and added, “I guess,” under my breath. But I was on guard, because I didn’t want Thurlow to go off any more than he already had about Hazel Marie’s less than appropriate relationship with Wesley Lloyd Springer. That was in the past, and I powerfully resented the subject being brought forth again by anybody.
“Yeah,” he said, unable to leave well enough alone, “everybody still wonders how you and that woman can get along like you do. Considering everything.”
“My friend, Hazel Marie,” I said as firmly as I could, “is a properly married woman with a decent, hardworking husband and small children. Anything I do to help her is my business and not open to discussion or criticism.”
“Oh,” Thurlow said with a wave of his hand, “don’t get your back up. You’re too sensitive on the subject. All I want to do is give you one of my recipes, and that woman can use it or not—it don’t matter to me.”
“For the last time, Thurlow, she is not that woman. Her name is Hazel Marie Puckett Pickens or, better still, Mrs. J. D. Pickens, and you’d better not let her husband hear you run her down. He is not a man to take something like that lightly.”
“Well, I guess I ought to be quaking in my boots, but I don’t quake so easy. Now, do you want my recipe or not?” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and leaned over to give it to me.
I had no conception of what his recipe would be. For all I knew anything made from it would be inedible. I thanked him, determining at the same time that before recommending it to Hazel Marie, I’d have Lillian look it over, if she could read the handwritten scribbles.
“Now, that one,” Thurlow said, all business now, “is for homemade soup, and I got plenty more if you need ’em. But I call this one T
hrow-Everything-In Soup—whatever you got can go in it. It’ll make enough for two family meals at least. Three or four for me. I make it on a Sunday afternoon and have almost a week’s worth of suppers from then on, if I don’t give too much to Ronnie. He likes it, too. And the next one . . .” He stopped and looked at Ronnie, whose stomach growled with an imminent threat. “Ronnie!” Thurlow yelled as he sprang off the sofa. “Get up from there and get outside!”
Ronnie hopped to his feet, then spraddled out his front legs with his head bent between them. He started coughing deep in his throat.
“My word,” I yelped, springing up, too. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s throwin’ up, that’s what. Get out here, Ronnie.” Thurlow had the front door open, but Ronnie was in the throes of powerful stomach spasms and couldn’t move. Thurlow ran back to him, lifted him with a mighty effort, and dragged him out on the porch, where Ronnie emptied his stomach all over my front steps.
“Well,” Thurlow said, surveying the scene, “at least he got outside. But don’t worry about him. He does this off and on whenever he eats something he shouldn’t. He’s all right now. Just take a hose to this, Madam Murdoch, and nobody’ll know the difference. Tell that woman I hope she enjoys the soup.”
I stood there, outraged at being left with Ronnie’s mess, as the two of them walked away, unconcerned and unapologetic.
“Well, I never,” I said, but of course I was speaking to myself and went right on doing it, employing some choice epithets for sick dogs and their owners.
But what was I to do with Thurlow’s recipe? If Hazel Marie tried it, would everybody in the house come down with Ronnie’s ailment? That’s all Mr. Pickens would need to make him look for greener fields. Of course I could conveniently overlook Thurlow’s recipe, but he’d be sure to know it wasn’t in the book. I’d never hear the end of his complaining. But if Ronnie’s stomach upset was the result of Thurlow’s cooking—and what else could it have been?—I needed to make sure the Pickens family never suffered a similar affliction. A caution, a warning of some kind, would have to be included with anything that had Thurlow’s name attached.
Thurlow’s Throw-Everything-In Soup
(Just as he gave it to me)
Take a large pot and put in a pound or more of good stew meat, cut in chunks and trimmed of fat if you’re a picky eater. Cover with water, add a large onion, quartered, and simmer until the meat is no longer pink. Skim off any scum. Add 1 or 2 large cans of tomatoes. Drain a small can each of green beans, lima beans, and corn niblets, saving the juice (except from the green beans—it’s awful) and add the vegetables to the pot. Add a bay leaf if you have it, and salt and pepper to taste. Cover and let simmer all morning or afternoon.
About an hour before eating, add 1-inch chunks of 2 potatoes and 2 or 3 sliced carrots. Cover and continue simmering until the potatoes are done.
At this point, taste again. You may need to add more salt and a small can of tomato sauce to make it richer. If your tomatoes taste too acidic, as they can at certain times of the year, add 1 teaspoon of sugar, stir, and taste. Keep adding sugar, a little at a time, until it tastes right. Throw out the saved juice. You don’t need it. Remove the bay leaf before serving.
You can add anything else you want to this soup: shredded cabbage, celery, English peas, and so on. You’ll need cornbread to go with it.
It’ll feed Ronnie and me for three or four days, so do the math.
(For heaven’s sake, Hazel Marie, talk to me before you try this. You won’t believe what Ronnie did.)
Chapter 18
Rubbing my hands, which were half frozen from handling the hose I’d used to clean the steps, I went into our lovely new library and sank into a leather chair. Resolutely putting any decision about Thurlow’s recipe on the back burner and giving thanks that he apparently hadn’t known about the lessons, I turned my mind to dealing with Hazel Marie’s frenetic household. My first impulse was to go upstairs and discuss the problem with Sam. Or, even easier, go to the kitchen and ask Lillian’s advice.
But I couldn’t move—the whole state of affairs was weighing too heavily on me. Taking one problem at a time, I knew that the only thing under my immediate control was the recipe book and the hands-on cooks. I could table the book and cancel the cooks, which would immediately cut down on the number of people tromping in and out of the Pickens house. And also, I realized, make Granny Wiggins redundant. Hazel Marie would no longer need someone to watch the babies if she didn’t have to be in the kitchen.
But of course she did have to be in the kitchen—or somebody had to be—which brought up the problem I’d started with: feeding that crowd for as long as James was laid up. And I knew that two or three outstanding meals a week prepared by his wife could go a long way toward keeping Mr. Pickens content. Men do like to come home to a table laden with good food.
Be that as it may, though, good food and plenty of it wouldn’t be enough to balance out the discord in the rest of the house. And that brought me to a decision: The last one in should be the first one out, and that was Brother Vernon Puckett. I didn’t count Granny Wiggins because she was on a trial basis and didn’t live there anyway.
The ring of the telephone startled me and I hurried to the mahogany desk to answer it.
“Julia?” Mildred Allen asked as if she wasn’t sure who had answered.
“Why, hello, Mildred. I hope Hazel Marie told you how much everybody enjoyed your recipe. I know that Mr. Pickens just beams every time he thinks of it.” Actually, I didn’t know any such thing, but it never hurts to be complimentary whenever you can.
“Oh, she told me, and I’m so glad. Ida Lee and I talked about how much we enjoyed the morning, so if you need another lesson just let us know. But, Julia, I want to ask you about something else. Just what kind of preacher is Hazel Marie’s uncle?”
That stopped me for a minute. “Well, uh, why?”
“He called on me a little while ago and I must say he was most pleasant company. I’d never had the opportunity to actually talk with him, but I found him very courteous and attentive, and I’m intrigued by the new ministry he’s planning. So I wonder if you could tell me a little about his background.”
“I would if I could, Mildred. But the fact of the matter is, I don’t know that much about him. All I know is that he and Hazel Marie have had a testy relationship over the years I’ve known her, but if you’re asking about his educational background, I’m not sure he has any.”
“Oh, really? Well, he seemed quite earnest and sincere. I’d go so far as to say burdened, and it doesn’t take an academic degree to move a tender heart the way his has been moved for the downtrodden among us.”
“I daresay,” I murmured, wondering what Brother Vern was up to now, although it was plain to me that Mildred’s diamonds had whetted his interest.
“Anyway,” Mildred went on, “he has a special ministry in mind that would benefit the community, but he needs start-up money. I told him I would consider sponsoring him.”
“Mildred,” I said, immediately on my guard, “you’ve put me in a difficult position. I want to be honest with you, but I also don’t want to run Hazel Marie’s uncle down. He’s not well, you know, and for all I know he may have had an awakening that’s put him on a different track.” I paused, wondering how much to say, then decided that I couldn’t hold back. “And of course I don’t want to be unkind, so I’ll put it this way: From the experiences I’ve had with Vernon Puckett, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
Mildred laughed. “Oh, Julia, you don’t mean that. He is so concerned about Hazel Marie, and he’s determined not to be a financial burden on her. And he did tell me about his physical condition, which truly hampers him as far as an active ministry is concerned. But he’s anxious to pull his own weight and become self-sufficient again. And perhaps contribute to household expenses.” She paused as I had, then, as if deciding
to say what was on her mind, she lowered her voice and said, “I didn’t know that the Pickenses were under a financial strain.”
“What! Did he tell you that?”
“Well, no. But he implied that they were having a hard time making ends meet.”
“The only hard time they’re having is putting up with him.” I was so furious I could hardly speak. “Mildred, don’t be taken in. I assure you that the Pickens family is well taken care of.” But at that point, I had to recalculate. I knew that Mr. Pickens had been reluctant to marry money—I’m speaking of Lloyd’s money, his inheritance from his father, Wesley Lloyd Springer. Which, of course, benefited Hazel Marie as well. I’d assumed they’d come to terms with that, but if they hadn’t, and Mr. Pickens was just bullheaded enough to demand that they live on his income, they might very well be under a financial strain. But I wasn’t about to discuss that with Mildred, and it infuriated me to learn that Brother Vern had brought it to her attention.
And, if it were true, how did Brother Vern know when I didn’t?
After ending the phone call, I tapped softly on the door of the old sunroom upstairs, newly turned into Sam’s office. I rarely disturbed him when he was working on that monumental legal history of Abbot County, which he might never finish, seeing that lawyers and judges kept getting into debt, tax arrears, and general all-around hot water, but this was one of those rare times. “Sam? It’s me.”
“Come in, sweetheart,” he said, opening the door. “I’m glad to see you.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you, but . . .”
“You can interrupt me anytime you want. Here, sit down—I’m more than ready for a break. What’s on your mind?”
I took a seat in a chair beside his cluttered desk, as he got comfortable in the creaky old chair behind it.
