by Ann B. Ross
By this time, LuAnne had leaned far enough away from me that she was practically hanging off the arm of the sofa. The look on her face would’ve deterred a less determined woman than I. But I was on a roll now.
“But when it comes to urinary tract infections, overactive bladders, and irritable bowel syndrome, I can understand the need for initials. Oh, they still imply exclusiveness, but at least it takes a few minutes for the images of bowels and bladders to form in your mind, even as you sympathize with the poor afflicted actors who can’t find a bathroom.”
LuAnne sprang from the sofa and began gathering coffee cups and saucers. Stacking them on the tray, she said, “I’ll just take these to Lillian, and, Julia, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you need to rest a while. I’ll get a list from Lillian and go to the store for you.”
“No, wait, I wanted to tell you what I overheard in a gift shop at the mall one day. It just illustrates what I’ve been talking about.”
“Well, just for a minute,” she said with a sigh as she sank again onto the sofa. “I have to get the groceries.”
“This won’t take long, but I was just wandering around the shop, looking at the pretty things, and all of a sudden I realized that two women were talking on the other side of a rack of note cards I was looking at. One of them whispered something like, ‘My OAB is giving me fits. I can’t get anything done for having to go to the bathroom.’ And the other one whispered back, ‘Honey, you don’t know about an OAB until you have a UTI. You’d really have something to complain about then.’ Now, see, LuAnne, I would’ve thought they were members of some secret society talking in code if I hadn’t learned about such things from television ads.
“But listen,” I went on, “I had to look up one on Lloyd’s computer because I couldn’t ask him to do it. Now, see, everybody by this time knows what ED means, which is shameful enough. I mean, they’ve been beaming ads about that into family homes for years, which I think is highly inappropriate. Don’t you? But now they’ve added BPH to it, and at first I thought they were talking about a gas station, which I thought was strange. They don’t explain or spell it out at all, and it’s a good thing they don’t because nobody would understand it, but it’s not a gas station. Let me tell you, anybody with ED would not want BPH too. And, LuAnne, would you believe that there’s something worse than IBS? You could have a D tacked onto it as well, and that really puts you in an exclusive group, especially if it’s the explosive type, which it’s likely to be.”
LuAnne, looking around frantically, hopped up again. “Go lie down awhile, Julia. You could use a nice little rest. I’ll look in on you when I get back from the store.” Forgetting the coffee tray, she scurried off to the kitchen and, as the back door closed, on to the grocery store.
And I, having outflanked another repetitive discourse on LuAnne’s marital options, sighed and leaned my head back, as the blessed sound of silence surrounded me. Maybe now that she had left the house to get away from my endless talking, she would better understand Leonard’s search for solace—read that as peace and quiet.
Chapter 30
Right before Lloyd and Latisha came in for lunch, LuAnne called and told Lillian that she was having lunch downtown and would get the groceries afterward. Maybe she really didn’t like hot dogs, or maybe she wanted to stay away from my rambling monologues as long as she could.
I felt slightly ashamed of myself, but not so much that I wouldn’t try changing the subject again if need be.
Having gone in to help Lillian with lunch, but more often getting in her way, I had asked, “Mrs. Conover not back yet?”
“No’m, so good thing I had hot dogs in the freezer, else we be eatin’ grits for lunch. I give her one of the household checks for the groceries. Was that all right?”
“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t expect her to pay for all we need after being away so long.” Although, I thought but didn’t say, a thoughtful guest might’ve at least offered.
The children had come running into the kitchen then, letting the door bang shut behind them.
“Man!” Lloyd said, pushing his hair out of his face. “It’s getting rough out there. That wind is blowing like sixty.”
Latisha laughed. “Yeah, it nearly blowed me away.”
Going to the window, I looked out at the row of Bradford pear trees bent over by the wind, noticed some debris in the air, and saw a spattering of rain from the dark clouds overhead.
“My goodness, what’s going on? It was beautiful outside the last time I looked.”
“Better turn on the Weather Channel, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said as he sat at the table. “We’re in for the edge of Marty. It made landfall between Charleston and Savannah as a category three storm, so we’ll be getting high winds and heavy rain.”
“Oh, no. I thought we’d gotten away from that thing. For goodness’ sakes, we’re two hundred miles from the coast. We aren’t supposed to have hurricanes.”
“It’s following us, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said, grinning as if gale force winds didn’t bother him at all. “They say that the storm surge has flooded Charleston’s streets. Water’s coming up from the manholes, and the islands are taking a real beating.”
“Well, I’m glad we got out when we did,” I said, taking my seat at the table and giving a skeptical eye to the hot dog on my plate, “but you and Latisha should stay in this afternoon. That wind will be blowing things around and you could get hit with something.”
“Yes’m, I know,” he said. “But I was all set to play some tennis. No telling when the courts will be dry again, so that’s the end of that.”
Latisha, sounding much like her great-granny, said in a knowing way, “You don’t wanta be hittin’ no balls in this weather, Lloyd. They might come flyin’ right back atcha.”
He laughed. “They just might. But I hate to miss any more time on the courts. School starts next week, you know.”
“Don’t remind me!” Latisha put her hot dog down on her plate. “Puttin’ that in my mind jus’ about make me sick.”
—
I was up in our bedroom unpacking suitcases and thinking vaguely of lying down when I heard LuAnne come in downstairs. Glancing at the clock, I wondered at the four hours it had taken her to get both lunch and groceries. But it had been four hours during which I hadn’t been forced to think of Leonard Conover.
Hearing LuAnne’s footsteps on the stairs, I picked up a stack of clean clothes and put them in a drawer.
“Julia?” LuAnne hesitantly said as she stood in the doorway. “How’re you feeling? Did you get a nap?”
“Oh, I’m fine, LuAnne. Come in. I’m just trying to get unpacked.”
“Well,” she said, perching on my chintz-covered chair, “I just wanted to tell you that I think I’ve figured out who the woman is who’s offering Leonard solace. And who knows what else, because you know that’s not all she’s offering.”
That got my attention, so I sat on the edge of the bed and waited to hear. “Who?”
“Helen. Helen Stroud.”
“Oh, LuAnne, no! Why in the world would you think that?”
“Because it makes sense. Helen’s not married, for one thing. In fact, she’s a divorcee, so she’s probably looking for a man. And Helen can keep a secret. You know how closemouthed she is. And another thing is that one time Leonard helped her with her coat while I stood by struggling with mine. I think she’s the obvious one.”
“LuAnne,” I said tiredly, as I prepared to refute her argument. “Listen, Helen’s not married, that’s true. But that doesn’t matter because Leonard is and it hasn’t stopped him from looking around.”
“Doing more than looking,” she interrupted darkly.
“And you’re right,” I went on, “Helen can keep a secret, but so can any number of other people, including me. And helping her with her coat one time in all the years we’ve known each other is a poo
r reason to suspect her. No, LuAnne, you should be looking elsewhere. I could never believe it’s Helen. In fact, I’d say she’d be the last one to get involved with someone else’s husband.”
Not only could I not believe it of Helen, but she was beyond the belief of anyone. For one thing, Leonard was so far beneath Helen’s level of interest that it was laughable to even consider. Helen would be attracted only to a successful, confident, and intellectual man, and Leonard was none of the above.
“Well,” LuAnne said, “I wouldn’t put it past her. But, Julia, if it’s not her, who could it be? I’ve wracked my brain and I can’t come up with anybody.”
“Have you asked him? I mean, have you come straight out and asked who she is?”
“He won’t tell me, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay here forever, and I can’t go home. And sometimes I miss him, and other times I want to flay him alive, and I’m so mixed up I don’t know what to do.”
Here we go again, I thought, as the house creaked in a sudden gust of wind. Glancing out the window, I could see papers and twigs blowing across Polk Street as my poor boxwoods were getting soaked by a downpour. All I could think of was being trapped inside listening to LuAnne bemoaning her fate.
Change the subject, I thought, and proceeded to do so.
“Have you ever noticed,” I began, “how television commercials lead our culture? Or maybe they follow the trends, I don’t know. But we’re back in the Me Generation, or maybe we never left it. There’s this one in which several actors and actresses say, ‘See me. See me.’ And another in which a young woman, on the verge of tears, says, ‘When I have an outbreak, I’m not me anymore.’ And, LuAnne, there was one in which a young man is buying a hamburger, and he proudly says, ‘I like this place because it lets me be me.’ Now I ask you, who else would he be? And does a choice of hamburger toppings indicate whether he’s himself or not? It beats all I’ve ever heard.”
“Julia,” LuAnne said, rising from the chair, “I’ve come to a decision. You need to rest, and I need to take hold of my problem. I’m going home and I’m going to dog every step Leonard makes. I’m going to devote every minute, day and night, to following him, listening in on the phone, whatever it takes until I find out everything I need to know. Then I’ll know what to do.”
“Why, LuAnne, I think that’s an excellent idea. As it is now, you’ve given him a free hand to do whatever he wants, to go and come, and to have a guest if he wants to. Yes, I think you need to be in your home to protect your interests. But, I want you to know that you’re welcome here for as long as you want to stay.”
“Thank you, Julia, you’ve been a good friend.” She stopped, bit her lip, then went on. “I don’t mean to be critical, but do you think you might be watching a little too much television?”
“Why, no. I hardly watch it at all—just the news with Sam and some HGTV on occasion. Why do you say that?”
“Well . . . ,” LuAnne said, a concerned frown on her forehead. “No reason, I guess. It just seems that you know an awful lot about what’s on it—none of which is very edifying.”
“You’re certainly right about that, but,” I said with a wave of my hand, “listen, I think you’re doing the right thing by going back to Leonard. Maybe the two of you can talk things out. Just turn off the TV and hide the remote. Then sit there staring at him until he has to talk to you.”
“Maybe, but I want you to know that even though I’m giving Leonard another chance, I won’t be sleeping in the same bed with him.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” I murmured, shuddering at the thought.
Chapter 31
Her mind firmly made up, LuAnne lost no time in gathering her things and getting them into her car during a brief respite in the downpours. Cautioning her to watch for fallen limbs as she drove up the mountain, I endured a hug, then stood on the porch waving good-bye.
“Well, Lillian,” I said as I went back to the kitchen, “I wonder how long that’ll last. I do wish her well, though. It’s no fun thinking that you’ve been betrayed for years all unbeknownst to you. And I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes’m, I know you do. But you had it easier ’cause Mr. Springer already passed by the time you find out. Miz Conover, now, she got to keep on livin’ with it ’cause Mr. Conover keep on livin’.”
“Law, Lillian, don’t make a point of that. When she gets in one of her rages, she might try to remedy the situation.”
Lillian laughed. “No’m, she won’t do that.” Then she stopped, gave me a sidewise look as if she were testing the waters, and went on. “I tell you what she want me to do, though. Miz Conover, she come an’ tell me I oughta keep my eyes open. She think you got something bad wrong with you.”
Surprised, then stung, I said, “Why in the world would she say such a thing? Just what’s supposed to be wrong with me, I’d like to know.”
“Well, she say you jus’ been talkin’ up a storm ’bout nothing that nobody want to know. She say she can’t get a word in edgewise, no matter how hard she try.”
I stared at her, then laughed. “Exactly! It worked, Lillian; what you said I should do worked!”
Then the lights flickered and the room dimmed. Lillian whirled around and said, “What . . . ?”
“We’ve lost power,” I said, “but hold on. The generator will come on in a few seconds.”
But not before we heard footsteps on the stairs as Lloyd and Latisha came running down. “The power’s off, Miss Julia!” Lloyd called, as if I hadn’t noticed.
Latisha ran to her granny and hid her face in Lillian’s apron. “That big, ole storm’s comin’ here!”
Just then the generator started up, the lights came on, the ceiling fans whirred, and everything looked a great deal brighter.
“Well, Lillian,” I said, relieved that something worked the way it was supposed to, “I was going to tell you to go home early, but the way that wind’s blowing, there’ll be more outages. I think you and Latisha should stay the night here.”
“I think so, too,” Latisha said, back to her confident self again. “That ole house of ours sure do creak an’ carry on when the wind blows.”
“This one does, too, Latisha,” I said, “but I think we’re safe. I do wish, though, that Sam would come on home.”
“Oh, me!” Lillian cried, throwing up her hands. “I forget to tell you. Mr. Sam, he call and say to tell you he goin’ to look at some property with Mr. Burnside. He be home by suppertime.”
Len Burnside was a real estate broker and longtime friend who knew Sam’s propensity for buying far-flung land that nobody else wanted. Every once in a while, Sam got a bee in his bonnet about owning undeveloped tracts of land, usually those that involved long treks through brush and over hill and dale to get to. But if it had water on it, even a little creek, he would snap it up, telling me that land was valuable because they weren’t making any more of it.
“My word, that means he’s out in this storm!” I looked out the window and saw the same thing I’d seen the last time I’d looked. And Sam was out in it.
It was bad enough to worry about him caught somewhere in a thicket, but now I began thinking of Hazel Marie alone with those babies. Turning to Lloyd, I said, “Call your mother, honey, and see if they’ve lost power. I expect a tree is down somewhere, so it could be hours before power comes back on. Use your cell phone—it should be working—and tell her to come over here if she wants to.”
In a few minutes Lloyd came back into the kitchen, saying, “Mama’s still got power. Guess she’s on a different grid from us, but she said that all the stoplights and streetlights on Main Street are off.”
“That means,” I said, “they’ll get the power back on before we know it.” I jumped as something—a limb, a trash can, something—crashed against the house. Latisha screamed, and Lillian called on the Lord. Lloyd’s eyes got big, and my nerves were jump
ing all over the place.
“Quick,” I said, “Lloyd, let’s you and me and Latisha run through the house and draw the curtains—just in case a window gets broken.”
By the time we’d gathered back in the kitchen, which for some reason seemed the safest place, I’d had enough of the storm we couldn’t get away from. Vaguely worried about LuAnne getting up the mountain safely, and deeply worried about Sam out somewhere braving the elements, I put my mind to keeping the children calm and occupied with something other than the remnants of Marty that were raging outside. It’s a fact that when the weather is really bad, people tend to huddle together, lower their voices, and hope that if they don’t call attention to themselves, they can ride it out.
“I guess,” I said, “if we had the cards, we could play Old Maid. But we don’t, so somebody think of something else.”
“I know something we can do!” Latisha sprang up, her face bright with a sudden idea. “Let’s go get Lloyd’s mama an’ her glue gun. Then we can bring my shells downstairs and dump ’em out so we can find the best ones, ’cause Miss Hazel Marie said she’d show me how to decorate picture frames an’ mirrors an’ things. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”
Not really, I thought, picturing my kitchen table strewn with sandy, salt-water-leaking shells, but I said, “Let’s save that for another day, Latisha. It’s too risky to be driving in this weather.”
Lillian, looking skeptically at Latisha, said, “I don’t know as I want you usin’ no glue gun. No tellin’ what you get stuck to.”
“Well,” Latisha said, her hands on her hips, “I aim to make me some pretty things so I can sell ’em an’ make me some money.” Then almost under her breath, she said, “I might want me a scooter or something.”
“How about a puzzle?” Lloyd said, and dashed upstairs for one that he’d had since the fifth grade. He spread the pieces out on the kitchen table, and we all sat around putting together a picture of a sailing ship.
