Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  To forestall that and to get a jump on the city commissioners—several of whom were facing reelection—I called Hazel Marie to tell her that we should get up a petition.

  “Let’s divide up the area,” I said, “and get the signature of every homeowner for blocks around. That means we’ll have to knock on doors and talk to people.”

  “Where do we get a petition?” Hazel Marie asked, which momentarily stopped me.

  “Well, just get them to sign a piece of paper so that you have a long list of names. Then we’ll get Binkie to word something for us and we’ll attach the list to it.”

  “Well, okay,” she said, but not very eagerly. “I guess I could take the twins for walks in their stroller, and stop along the way to knock on doors.”

  “That’s perfect, Hazel Marie. That’ll remind all your neighbors that you have little ones next door to that house, and they’ll understand your concern.” And probably wonder how in the world she managed to push that huge double stroller with two healthy toddlers in it. I’d stopped offering to take them for walks months ago.

  * * *

  —

  Fully intent on doing my part to fill a page with signatures, I spent the afternoon walking around my immediate neighborhood, ringing doorbells and explaining the impending peril to the peace and quiet that we all enjoyed, making sure to mention the peril to property values as well.

  Having saved the one I was looking forward to until the last, I walked along the sidewalk on that glorious afternoon on my way to Thurlow Jones’s house. It was fairly late—fourish, an ideal hour, which I knew Helen Stroud would appreciate. Back in the days of making formal calls, one always waited until the lady of the house had completed her morning duties and had her lunch as well as a short nap before one rang her doorbell.

  When I turned the corner of the block that Thurlow’s house occupied, I stopped to marvel at the repaired wrought-iron fence on a brick base that enclosed the entire block. Even more impressive was the magnificent hedge on the other side of the fence, meticulously pruned yet tall enough to hide all but the dormered roof of the house inside it. Even the gate that opened to a brick walkway—without a blade of grass in it—swung open at a touch. The last time I’d been to Thurlow’s, that gate had hung by one hinge.

  I started up the walk, marveling at the smooth lawn, the freshly painted shutters—none of which hung loose—the three-car garage at the end of the driveway looking practically new, and, most impressive of all, every window in the house gleaming in the sunlight without one hint of a smudge.

  As I approached the front door, I recalled a previous visit I’d made some years past when the house had been in such a shoddy state. I had brought Lillian with me, hoping that her presence as a witness would keep a lid on Thurlow’s rambunctiousness. It hadn’t, but that’s another story.

  I rang the doorbell, hearing melodious chimes that were starkly different from the banging of the tarnished brass lion’s head knocker that had once graced the door.

  A young maid, dressed in a gray uniform with a white apron and cap, opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?” she said.

  “Good afternoon. I am Mrs. Murdoch and I have come to call on Mrs. Stroud,” I said, handing her the calling card that I’d made sure to bring along. Helen appreciated such niceties. “My card,” I said.

  “Please come in,” she said, accepting it. “Would you care to wait in the library?” And she motioned toward the room to my right where French doors stood open.

  I nodded, remembered to close my mouth after noticing two men on ladders painting the deep crown molding of the foyer, and headed for the one room that I’d been in before.

  What a difference! The room had once been Thurlow’s den, or sty, if you want to be specific. It had been painted a dark green with an overlay of yellowish brown from tobacco smoke. Newspapers had been strewn around, a dog bowl overturned, and a suspicious odor wafted through the stench of cold ashes in the fireplace. Ronnie, Thurlow’s old spotted Great Dane—named, I’d been told, for Thurlow’s favorite president—had lain sprawled out between a listing sofa and a threadbare recliner, adding his own peculiar reek to the general miasma.

  I stood for a moment in the doorway, deeply impressed with the transformation. Helen had chosen a pale-yellow paint—the room was on the north side of the house—with shiny white on the moldings, windows, bookcases, and fireplace mantel. The furniture was either new or newly upholstered, and a lush Oriental rug covered the floor. A lady’s desk stood between the front windows, an indication to me that this must now be used as a morning room.

  “Julia,” Helen said, coming in behind me. “How nice to see you. Won’t you have a seat?”

  “My word, Helen, you’ve done marvels with this house. Every lover of fine architecture should be grateful to you. How are you? And how is Thurlow?”

  She smiled, and I thought to myself that she looked, well, blooming, and in her role as chatelaine of the manor, well she should. Her face with its rosy glow was so different from the strained expression that I’d noticed the last time I’d seen her. But, of course, free-floating anxiety is greatly reduced when you know where your next meal is coming from. And Helen most certainly now knew whence hers was coming.

  It didn’t take long for us to conclude our business—I, to explain the purpose of my visit, and Helen, to sign the petition.

  “We want to improve the neighborhood,” she said, putting the cap back on her pen, “not degrade it. Why in the world anyone would want to disrupt a quiet residential area like this, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t, either,” I said, “although you know that we’ll be labeled selfish and uncaring of needy children. And that’s probably the least of it.”

  “I’m fully aware,” Helen said with a knowing smile, “of how committees pumped full of righteous eagerness to do good can run rampant over anyone in the way. I’ve been in on that too many times.” As, of course, she had. If you’d ever wanted anything done, you knew to ask Helen to chair a committee.

  “But,” Helen went on, “you should keep this in mind, Julia. I’ve made it my business to get to know Thurlow’s immediate neighbors—something he’s never bothered to do—but I’ve done it because I’m interested in urging a beautification effort by all the homeowners. And if Madge’s group starts labeling us as child haters, we should point out that most of the homeowners here are retired teachers, nurses, and social workers. They’ve spent their lives helping children, and now this Johnny-come-lately group is intent on devaluing their largest and, possibly, only investment—their homes.”

  “Excellent point, Helen!” I exclaimed, intending to use it as soon as I needed it. “Now, I know you’re busy, but how is Thurlow? Should I look in on him before I go?”

  “I’m sure he would like to see you, but I’ll tell you, Julia, he’s not doing well. His casts are off, but he was immobilized for so long that he’s having to learn to walk again.” Helen stood and, motioning me to follow, headed for the door. “He’s upstairs. I have him downstairs most mornings, and out in the yard if the day is pleasant. But he’s slow recovering from his fall, and at his age . . . well, I’m sure you understand.”

  I followed her up the stairs and into a large, nicely furnished room, free of clutter and neatly arranged—all except for the occupant of the bed. Propped up by a number of pillows, bushy headed and sallow faced, Thurlow snarled at the muscular man in white who sat by his bed.

  Helen, smiling, walked up to the bed. “Look who’s come to see you, Thurlow.”

  He glowered at me, then his face cleared. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Lady Murdoch. What brings you to my bedside, madam?”

  “I’ve come to see how you are, Thurlow,” I said, keeping my distance, for he had a tendency to put a hand where he shouldn’t. “And to wish you well. How are you?”

  “Oh, just fine, can’t you tell? Here I am, laid up in bed with tw
o broken legs, meals of lettuce and carrots, and painful contortions forced on me by this oaf here.” And he flung his arm out at the man beside his bed.

  Just as I started to repeat some inane get-well-soon Hallmark comment, the maid appeared at the door with a message for Helen.

  As soon as Helen went out in the hall, Thurlow’s hand—as quick as a snake—grabbed my arm and pulled me close. “Get me outta here,” he hissed. “She’s robbin’ me blind!”

  “Now, now, Mr. Thurlow,” his minder said, prying Thurlow’s hand from my arm. “Let’s not hurt the lady.”

  Helen called to me—she was needed by the painters—so I turned to leave after a last look at Thurlow, who now lay back, gaunt faced and subdued, on the pillow.

  * * *

  —

  My walk home was disturbed by questions and possibilities concerning Thurlow’s welfare, although to wonder about Helen’s integrity was as distasteful to me as to wonder about Sam’s.

  And, I reminded myself, Thurlow was not the most trustworthy of tale tellers. In other words, if he could stir up trouble or get what he wanted, Thurlow could and would tell a bald-faced lie without turning a hair.

  Still, I mused, it would be well to keep a sharp eye out for any misdoings by either of them.

  And where, I wondered, was the highly odoriferous Ronnie? I’d not caught even a whiff of his presence in the house.

  Chapter 9

  As soon as I walked into the kitchen at home, Lillian said, “That new preacher of yours call an’ say can you come over to his office.”

  “Right now?”

  “He didn’t say when, jus’ can you come.”

  “Well,” I said, sighing, “it’s suppertime, so, no, I can’t. Is Lloyd home?”

  “No’m, not yet.”

  “Then I’ll call and see when the pastor wants me. I declare, you’d think he would’ve been more specific.”

  I wasn’t any more pleased with Pastor Rucker’s summons after speaking with him than I’d been when I’d first heard of his call. What he’d wanted was for me to meet with him and Madge Taylor to discuss my problem—that had been the way he’d put it—my problem.

  “The three of us,” he’d said, “can get together here in my office and dialogue. You and Madge can present your differing points of view, and I will moderate. I’m sure we can come to a consensus that way, and everybody can go home happy.”

  “Pastor,” I’d said, trembling with anger, “first of all, I am not interested in meeting with Madge at all, much less to dialogue. And second of all, dialogue—mentally spelled correctly, I hope—is a noun, not a verb. And thirdly, there is no way that you can be an impartial moderator. You’ve already declared yourself, so what you really want is for me to submit to a brainwashing by the two of you.”

  “Well,” he replied, soothingly, “I would hope that you’d be openminded enough to at least listen to what Madge has to say. Do you realize, Mrs. Murdoch, that there are more than two hundred homeless children in this county?”

  That stopped me for a minute. “Two hundred? Madge isn’t planning to house them all, is she?” I could picture the Cochran house bulging with children.

  “One must start somewhere,” the pastor said, somewhat piously.

  “Well, tell me this: Where are all these children staying now? Surely they aren’t sleeping on sidewalks, are they?”

  “The legal definition of the homeless is this: individuals who lack a fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residence. So some stay over with various friends or different relatives or in shelters if beds are available.”

  “Well,” I said, “if the idea is simply to provide a regular, adequate bed each night, then the churches should set up beds in their Sunday school classrooms, none of which is used except for one hour a week, and often not even then. That would be a whole lot better than warehousing as few as half a dozen in one small single-family house.”

  “Oh,” Pastor Rucker said in a condescending tone, “I wouldn’t use the term warehousing.”

  “I would, because I believe in calling a spade a spade. And, Pastor, it seems to me that you and Madge are tackling the problem from the wrong end. It’s the parents, not community activists, who should be caring for these children. What’re you doing about them?”

  “Many times it’s the parents themselves who’re the problem.”

  “That’s my point. It seems to me that you should be working on the underlying problem, not just the results of the problem.”

  He sighed. “Madge can explain all that to you. Will you meet with us? It would show your good faith if you would.”

  My good faith? What did that mean?

  “I’ll think about it,” I said and brought that unproductive phone conversation to an end.

  * * *

  —

  After supper and after sitting for a while afterward talking with Lloyd, I found I was too stiff from all the walking I’d done that day to take on another visitation. The older one gets, the more one has to pace oneself. Pursuant to that, I called the pastor, who by this time was at home, to tell him I would be happy to meet with him and his confederate some evening later in the week.

  Ordinarily I would not call the pastor after hours when he was at home with his family—unless, of course, it was an emergency, in which case I’m not sure I would call him at all. But that was neither here nor there. Besides, he never hesitated to call me at home and at any hour he was moved to do so.

  “Lloyd,” I said as he came downstairs later, signaling that he was through with homework and ready for a snack. “Let me ask you something. If you didn’t have a fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residence, would you want to live in a group home with several others in like circumstances?”

  His head swiveled around to look at me, a frown expressing his surprise at the question. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never thought about it.”

  And why should he, as he had two fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residences? On the other hand, he’d been barely nine years old when his father had expired over the steering wheel of his new Buick Park Avenue parked right out there in my driveway, leaving Lloyd and his mother, for all anyone knew, penniless. Hazel Marie had had no group home to turn to at that time, so she’d left him on my doorstep—an outrage of the first order that turned out to be the turning point of my life.

  I doubted, however, that Lloyd at that age had understood his mother’s desperate attempt to house him, and I certainly was not going to bring it up at this late date.

  “Well, just think about it,” I said, and explained to him the possible influx of homeless boys next door to his mother’s house. “Would you enjoy living with five or six boys you didn’t know and be overseen by houseparents and counselors from the Department of Social Services?”

  “No’m, not me. I don’t like constant company, somebody after me all the time. I like to be by myself when I’m studying or thinking or just hanging out.”

  “So do I,” I said, confirming what I’d thought all along.

  “On the other hand,” he said, “I guess if I really had nowhere to live, that would be better than sleeping on the ground somewhere. But I’d get out as soon as I could. I’d want to take care of myself.”

  “Yes! Absolutely.” I was pleased with his answer and wondered how many of those already troubled boys would have the same desire for self-determination. “I think there’s still some rocky road ice cream if you want it.”

  * * *

  —

  Still feeling the effects of all the walking I’d done that day, I closed up the house and went upstairs. To forestall stiff muscles, I took a long, soaking shower—I’d given up long, soaking baths because once in the tub, I couldn’t get back out. I think I’ve already mentioned some of the hazards of aging, and that’s another one.

  And to forestall another such hazard—old-a
ge body odor—I put at strategic places dabs of Chanel No. 5 perfume—or parfum, if you will—from the sizable bottle that was one of Sam’s gifts to me every Christmas. The bottle was getting low, but Christmas was getting near.

  Lying in bed and missing Sam, I suddenly thought again of Thurlow’s dog. Where had Ronnie been? It didn’t surprise me that Helen would not have wanted him in the house, but he’d been Thurlow’s constant companion for so long that I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done with him. Surely she hadn’t had him put down—a euphemism that covered a cold-blooded desire to be rid of an unwanted animal.

  Having never become attached to either a dog or a cat, I could understand Helen’s aversion to having Ronnie underfoot all day every day. He was a lot to have to step around, as Lillian well knew. Still, it seemed to me that Thurlow’s emotional condition could improve only by having his longtime companion with him. I mean, Thurlow was having to come to terms with so much that he was unaccustomed to—like a clean house and healthy meals, to say nothing of enforced physical exercises—that to do without his closest friend seemed an unwonted burden.

  I didn’t get to sleep until I’d decided to learn Ronnie’s whereabouts, for I had convinced myself that if Ronnie was gone, Thurlow would not be long behind.

  Chapter 10

  “Lillian,” I said the next morning after seeing Lloyd off to school, “I’d like to take a walk this morning. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Her eyebrows went up as she turned to look at me. Then she frowned. “Where to?”

  “Oh, around the block or so. I walked so much yesterday that I’m feeling a little stiff today, but a nice, leisurely walk this morning should loosen up the muscles.” And, because I wasn’t above playing on her pity, I added, “But until they loosen up, I don’t want to take a chance on stumbling. And maybe falling.”