by Ann B. Ross
“I sure don’t like this,” Little Lloyd said, stepping out with a shovel in his hand. “I mean, I sure don’t like that you have to move, Miss Lillian. But I’m glad we can take your flowers with us. Come show me what you want dug up.”
“They ’round yonder in the back,” she told him. And the two of us followed her around the house. “I sho’ hate to leave my apple tree an’ the grape arbor back there, but they too big to take.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “And I doubt we’d get them in the trunk, either.”
They both smiled at that, but we were a serious trio, as we trooped to the back of the house.
“What all you want, Miss Lillian?” Little Lloyd asked as he surveyed the side yard, which was lined with a chicken wire fence, overhung with ivy and honeysuckle.
“That Rose of Sharon right there.” She pointed to the bush. “An’ my snowball bush, if we can get it outta the ground. An’ maybe one or two of them daylilies. We don’t need many of them ’cause they spread out an’ grow by theyselves. An’ if you not too tired, Little Lloyd, my penny bush. I already cut it back, so it won’t take up much room.”
“Penny bush?”
“Peony,” I whispered, but he didn’t know the difference, so I needn’t have bothered.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, beginning to wonder if I’d started suffering from a mental weakness of my own. “Lillian, I need to put something in the trunk of the car, some plastic or something. I completely forgot about that.”
“Yessum, that car be ruint we put all that dirt in there.”
“Well, I’ll run to the hardware store and get something. Little Lloyd, you go ahead and start digging, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am. And maybe you ought to get something to tie down the trunk. We’re going to have so much, it might not close. Good thing, though,” he said, as he pushed the shovel with his foot into the soil, “that the leaves’re all gone. They might not’ve fit in the trunk at all.”
As I turned to leave, Little Lloyd called out, “Miss Julia, you might better bring back a mattock, too. This ground is pretty hard.”
I waved, not too sure what a mattock was, but sure that someone at the hardware store would know. I heard Lillian caution Little Lloyd against cutting any roots, as she began hacking at the daylily bed with the hoe.
I left them to it, and drove to Prince’s Hardware. It was not my favorite place to shop since I didn’t know one thing from another in it. But it was far and away better than one of those huge sprawling things outside of town where you had to dodge some old man wanting to hug you and where you couldn’t find anything or anybody to help you. Give me a business that’s family-owned and operated anytime. And I’m talking about a local family, not one that lives in Arkansas.
Clabe Harris greeted me as soon as I stepped inside the store, but he did it without running at me with arms outspread. He knew I’d not tolerate any such familiarity, nor would any other well-positioned woman in town.
“Mrs. Springer,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
I looked around at the baskets of nails of all sizes, the stacks of shining snow shovels ready for a change in the weather, the shelves of sorted hinges, bolts, screws, and other hardware oddments. A man I didn’t know was examining a leaf blower with the help of another clerk, and I hoped to goodness he wouldn’t fire it up. The noise of those things could deafen a person.
“How do you do, Mr. Harris,” I said, noting his thinning hair, his checked sport shirt, his khaki trousers, and his running shoes that looked enough like the ones Hazel Marie had bought for Lillian to’ve been their twins. “I need something called a mattock, and something to put in the trunk of my car to hold some plants we’re digging, and something to tie the lid down if it won’t close.”
“Yes, ma’am, you want a liner and a tie-down. We got ’em right down this aisle.” He led me past shelves filled with plumbing apparatus to an area with all kinds of gardening equipment. “Now, what size mattock you want?”
Not knowing that they came in different sizes, I thought for a minute and said, “Boy size.”
He picked up a yard tool that I immediately recognized, hefted it, and said, “I think this’ll do you. Just right for a youngster or a lady gardener.”
“It’s not for me,” I informed him, but then thought I might have to use it if Little Lloyd and Lillian gave out. I’d do it, too, because I intended for Lillian to have what she wanted from that yard. “It’s for Little Lloyd, at least for a start. Do you think he can manage this thing?”
“Sure he can. Y’all plantin’ bulbs? We got some real nice Dutch tulip bulbs over here. They’ll make a pretty show, come spring.”
“Not today, Mr. Harris. We’re moving some of Lillian’s plants before those bulldozers tear up everything in sight, which I understand will be first thing tomorrow.”
Clabe Harris’s shoulders seemed to sag in concern. “That’s bad doin’s, Mrs. Springer. I was sorry to hear ’bout it. But,” he said, straightening somewhat, “business has to go on. Who knows? Clarence Gibbs may make a real economic impact on the town that’ll benefit a lot more people than the few who have to move.”
“What kind of economic impact?” I asked, wanting to know what he’d heard about Clarence Gibbs’s plans.
“Well, I don’t know for sure, but word is that he’s found some kind of spring or well up on the ridge of that field, and Willow Lane’s the only easy access to it.”
“Well, my goodness,” I said, trying to downplay my interest in the matter. “What’s so wonderful about a spring that he has to tear down people’s houses in order to get to it?”
“Word is, he’s gonna channel that water and build a bottling plant. Then he’s gonna put it on the market. I’d kinda like to invest in something like that.”
“Why, Mr. Harris, that doesn’t make sense. There’s already more bottled water on grocery shelves than anybody could want. And I wouldn’t want any of it. Why in the world would Clarence Gibbs think he’s got something the others don’t have?”
Mr. Harris’s eyes slid away from mine, and a flush of color ran up his neck. “I don’t know too much about it, but the way I hear it, that water’s real good for your constitution.”
“Really?” I asked, as if it was all new to me.
“Well, uh, I might’ve heard wrong.”
“Oh, I doubt that. If Mr. Gibbs has to move a bunch of old people out so he can put that water in a bottle, I’d like to hear what makes it so special.”
“Well.” Mr. Harris was finding a shelf of garden pest killer mighty interesting by this time. “Way I hear it, that water acts kinda like a tonic for some folks. Gibbs has had some doctor or laboratory-type person analyze it, and that’s all I know. You might want to ask somebody else, Mrs. Springer. We better ring these things up. I’ll put the liner in the trunk for you.”
And he headed off toward the cash register, leaving me to follow in a state of frustration. That’s the way a bandwagon gets started. Some superstitious nonsense that’d been circulating for years, with nobody really believing it, and now, all of a sudden, a sharp businessman makes noises as if it’s a wonder-working cure-all, and normal, everyday people start opening their checkbooks. For my money, if anybody’s constitution needed help, they could buy some vitamins or take a tonic to clear out their systems.
I huffed all the way to the cash register, thinking that Clarence Gibbs had a nerve depriving Lillian of her home just to get tired people’s hopes up. Of all the snake oil promises I’d ever heard, this one took the cake. It was as bad as all those companies selling cosmetics that promise to cure face wrinkles, and charging you an arm and a leg for it without doing one blessed thing that I’d been able to tell.
Chapter 20
The trunk lid bounced and Lillian’s big satchel clanked every time I hit a pothole on the way back to the house. But we’d gotten her plants in the trunk, and I hoped they’d survive the digging, pulling, and shoving that we’d
subjected them to. Both Lillian and Little Lloyd were dirt-smeared and worn out by the time we got home.
“There’s Coleman,” Little Lloyd said, sitting up in the backseat as I pulled into the driveway. The garage door was open, and most of Lillian’s household goods had been un-stacked and pulled out in front.
I could see Coleman’s head bobbing up from behind boxes, a chest of drawers, and a rolled-up rug that he’d moved out of the garage.
“Oh, that pore man,” Lillian said. “He been movin’ stuff all day, an’ I bet that clothes box right on the bottom.”
“I hope he’s got enough energy to help with the plants,” I said, somewhat concerned at how tired Little Lloyd looked.
I needn’t have worried, though, for the child hopped out of the car and hurried to help Coleman. Coleman was like a tonic to him, a much better one than any Clarence Gibbs could bottle.
“Lillian,” I said, as we got out of the car, “now that you and Little Lloyd have some help with clothes and plants, I’ll run on in and set the table.”
She nodded and, brushing at her nylon outerwear, went into the garage to search through boxes.
The smell of the pork tenderloin that Lillian had left cooking in the oven filled the house and made my mouth water. I called to Hazel Marie from the dining room as I hurriedly set the table.
“We’re having a meeting tonight,” I said as she came into the room. “I hope you don’t mind, but Mr. Pickens is coming, too. I want to get that Poker Run idea of his moving.” Having run through my mind the number of ladies who’d meet Thurlow’s requirements, I figured it to be our best hope for raising money on a grand scale.
She smiled a little, then quickly became businesslike. “I don’t mind. I’ll give him credit, he’s good at that sort of thing. But do I have to sit next to him?”
“Hazel Marie, I declare, we need to put aside personal animosities and pull together on this. You don’t know what’s at stake here.”
“What?”
“Well . . . oh, there’s the phone. Would you finish the table for me?”
I hurried to the kitchen and answered the phone, only to hear an unwelcome voice.
“Mrs. Springer? Clarence Gibbs, here.”
“Why, Mr. Gibbs, how nice to hear from you.” I glanced toward the dining room door, hoping Hazel Marie would stay behind it. “I hope you’re calling to say that you’ll give us more time, and that you’ve reconsidered your ill-advised proposal concerning my house.”
He didn’t answer right away, but he breathed so that I knew he was there. “No, that’s not why I called. I just want you to understand that I’m going the extra mile for you, and honoring your request to give you until the morning for your decision. I tell you right now, Mrs. Springer, things’re moving, and you’re going to have to, too, if you want to take advantage of this opportunity.”
I felt weak, afraid to make the commitment and afraid not to. “I’m thinking, Mr. Gibbs,” I said. “And one thing I thought of is to offer you a very nice trailer park out beyond Delmont in place of my house. Wouldn’t that be sufficient to hold the Willow Lane property for maybe sixty days?”
“No’m, it would not. First off, three weeks is my limit. And second off, I don’t want a trailer park. It’s your place or nothing.”
“But I don’t understand why you want this house. You already have a lovely home.”
He made a noise that might’ve been a low laugh. “I don’t want to live in it. It’s in a business zone, so I’d tear it down and put up an office building. It’s close enough to Main Street and the courthouse to be fully rented before the paint dries.”
My knees wobbled at the thought, and I had to clear my throat before I could answer. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.” I cleared my throat again and said, “You’re a hard man, Mr. Gibbs.”
He said good-bye with a lilt in his voice, and I do believe he took my comment as a compliment.
I hung up, just so provoked with myself for begging him to allow me enough time to put my own home in peril. But the fact was, I had to make up my mind, and do it soon. That made it imperative that I find out just how effective that water was up on the ridge. And if, by any remote chance, it did have something in it that men would pay good money for, then all the more reason for me to push that motorcycle calvacade for all it was worth.
Mr. Pickens scraped the last crumbs of Lillian’s pineapple upside-down cake from his plate, and said, “I’ve already talked to Red Ryder, and he’s all for it. We decided on the last weekend in the month. That’ll give us time to get notices and flyers’ll out, so we’ll have a lot of riders.”
“I thought he was a cowboy,” I said. I was mentally counting the days, trying to picture the calendar. Three weeks would be up the Monday after the last weekend.
“Who?” Mr. Pickens, his bushy mustache twitching, glanced across the table at me.
“That Red Ryder person you just mentioned.”
He gave me a quick grin. “No, this Red owns a motorcycle shop and restaurant, Red Ryder’s Shop, Stop and Eat, out on 193, this side of Delmont. He organizes several runs every year, so he knows how it’s done. Now here’s the good part,” Mr. Pickens said, leaning on the table so that I got a whiff of his new aftershave—lemon and mint and who-knows-what else—designed, I speculated, to lure Hazel Marie back. From the tantalizing aroma that swirled around my head, he was going to lure not only Hazel Marie but every other woman within smelling distance. I leaned back to clear my head as he went on. “The motorcycle club has agreed not to take a cut of the pot. Every cent will go to the fund, and Red thinks there’ll be a good response. The only thing he asks is that we start and end at his place.”
“And eat there when we get back,” Sam said with a smile. “Well, that’s the least we can do. Food’s not bad, either.”
“I like his barbeque,” Hazel Marie said. I noticed that she’d kept her place next to Mr. Pickens, in spite of what she’d said earlier. Every time he moved, she was being engulfed with waves of that sweet-smelling cologne emanating from him. She’d close her eyes and sway like she was being carried away every time a wave of the stuff broke across her brow.
“It concerns me a little,” Sam said, “that we’re doing this so late in the year. These things’re usually held in the summer, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, usually.” Mr. Pickens finally gave in and helped himself to another piece of cake. “But if the weather holds and we get one of our clear Fall days, they’ll come out in droves.” He forked up a bite of cake. “Only problem is, I don’t think a Bikini Bike Wash would be a good idea, and that’ll be a disappointment.”
“Oh, J. D.” Hazel Marie said, “I wish you’d get bikinis off your mind.”
He grinned at her, then took up where he left off. “But we can count on the beer flowing freely any time of the year, and when the crowd’s had enough, we can pass the hat for more donations.”
“Now, let’s get one thing straight,” I said, deciding that this was as good a time as any. “I do not intend to dine with a bunch of intoxicated and unruly carousers, no matter how much money they give.”
“Why, Julia,” Sam said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I wouldn’t expect you to drive out there and join us. It’ll just be the riders who come in off the run. Of course, if you want to, you’re welcome to meet us there.”
Lillian slid her chair away from the table and made as if to rise. I declare, the woman couldn’t stand being around deceitful activities of the least kind. I put my hand on her arm to keep her seated.
“I’ll be riding with you,” I said, folding my napkin and laying it beside my plate, as calmly as I would announce I’d be going to church on Sunday.
There was a moment of dead silence, and I felt every eye in the room staring at me. Mr. Pickens’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth and Hazel Marie tipped the sugar spoon she was holding, spilling sugar on the table.
“Oh, boy,” Little Lloyd said, being the first to recover. “We’ll
have a lot of fun now.”
“Oh, Miss Julia, are you sure?” This worried question was from Hazel Marie, no less. The one who’d told me I’d enjoy riding if I’d just try it.
Mr. Pickens’s surprised look shifted into that wicked grin, which I was convinced had enticed many a woman off the straight and narrow. “That’s my girl,” he said, so that I couldn’t help but preen a little at his approval. “This is gonna be a ride and a half.”
Sam hadn’t uttered a word, and I’d carefully avoided looking at him. Now, I slid my eyes to him, deciding not to wait for his response.
“Now, Sam,” I said with enough force to brook no argument. “I’m doing this entirely for Lillian’s sake.” I felt her stir in the chair beside me, so I hurried on. “But I want to get back in one piece, so you better get to be a better driver than what I’ve seen so far. And I want a side seat, too. I’m not about to perch myself on the back of that thing.”
“Julia,” he said, reaching over to take my hand. I took it back. “If you’ll ride with me, you can have anything you want. I’ve been taking a safety course, so you don’t have a thing to worry about.”
“And,” Little Lloyd said, squirming with excitement, “he’s joined the H.O.G.s, too.”
“Please, Little Lloyd,” I said. “Not at the table.”
“Harley Owners’ Group, Miss Julia,” Mr. Pickens said, enlightening me, but not by much.
Sam leaned over and said, “What made you change your mind, Julia?”
“Well,” I said and hesitated. Now was the time for a big, fat lie if there ever was one. I could pretend I wanted to experience that freedom of the road Sam had talked about. But I didn’t think I could pull it off—Sam wouldn’t believe me and Mr. Pickens would laugh. They’d all know I had as much freedom of the road as I wanted, tooling around in my little sports car. “It’s occurred to me that there might be some professional and business people and the like who would be willing to sponsor teams of riders. Especially if those teams were made up of, well, let’s say, unusual combinations. Like, for instance, if women of a certain age and status who wouldn’t ordinarily be caught dead on a motorcycle teamed up with your average biker-type drivers. I’m thinking of LuAnne Conover, for one, if we could find someone for her to ride with.”
