by Ann B. Ross
“Well, of course that’s what this group wants to prevent,” Binkie said.
“Wait just a minute,” I said, sitting straight up. “Don’t tell me that you agree with what they’re doing! Because if that’s the case I need another lawyer—one who’ll work for me, not against me.”
“Rest easy, Miss Julia,” Binkie said. “Yes, I agree that something should be done for the homeless, but, no, I don’t agree with the way they’re doing it.”
“Well,” I said, calming down a few degrees, “that’s my feeling, too. All right, Binkie, I’ll keep you on, but don’t let your tender heart get in the way of moving those people elsewhere.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry about that, and by the way, I’ve spoken to a real estate broker who knows the town. He tells me that if a group home of any kind—regardless of what it’s called—goes up right next door to the Pickenses, the value of their house will be reduced by twenty percent. That’s the bad news, but it’s another reason for me to do all I can to deter any kind of care facility next to them. I care about Hazel Marie and her family, too.
“And one last thing, Miss Julia,” Binkie went on, “don’t go public with any of this—you’ll never win the PR battle. Letters to the editor or speaking to a reporter to tell your side will just lay you open to public ridicule and shaming. I’ve heard a report that a group of churches—seven of the most prominent—are praying for this home. Even though not a fraction of the members of the churches know anything other than how wonderful it will be. Let’s us just stick to the law and continue what we’re doing without laying all our cards on the table.”
“Well, all right,” I reluctantly agreed. “But can’t I tell Madge Taylor and Pastor Rucker what I think? They keep after me to see their side, asking me to meet with them, and trying to talk me into agreeing with them. I’m not sure I can hold my peace under the circumstances.”
“Oh, sure, you can tell them whatever you want,” Binkie said with a grin, “and I think you should. Just don’t get into anything we’re planning to do legally and don’t let anybody quote you in the newpaper.”
“I wouldn’t do that anyway,” I said, recalling that a lady never has her name in the paper except for birth, wedding, and funeral announcements.
* * *
—
On my way home, I tried to remember everything Binkie had said, but, I declare, with DSS this and state regulations that, I wasn’t sure I had anything clearly in my head. One thing, however, had stuck and that was those seven prominent churches whose members were praying for damage to be inflicted on Hazel Marie and her family. It seemed to me that instead of praying for the ruination of a neighborhood and asking for volunteers to help them do it, the members of those churches should be urged to take a needy child into their own homes.
As soon as I got in the house, I hurried to the library and picked up the Bible—the one with the concordance—and looked up the word churches, and seeing the word seven following one of the references, I knew that it was the one I wanted. Pleased that my recollection was valid, I sat down and read the first three chapters of the Book of Revelation.
Words of warning, I thought as I closed the book and cogitated over what I had read, wondering if Madge and Pastor Rucker were familiar with the passage. It might, it seemed to me, be my Christian duty to remind those two of the harsh rebukes and doleful warnings handed out to another group of seven churches.
Then I picked up the little calculator that Sam kept on the desk and did some calculating. It’s a good thing I was sitting when the numbers came up because the sight of them made me sick at heart.
Chapter 17
“Miss Julia?” Lloyd walked into the library, drawing my attention away from the distressing number on the calculator.
“Come in, honey. How was school today?”
“Oh, okay.” He sat down opposite me and clasped his hands around a knee. “Uh, I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other day. You know, about what I’d do if I didn’t have a home or a place to sleep?”
“Yes, I remember. And you gave a good answer to it.”
“No’m, I don’t think I did, because I hadn’t given it enough thought. But now I have, and I know what I’d do if I didn’t have your house or Mama’s house to live in. First of all, I wouldn’t let any government department know my business because they’d take over, and I guess they’d declare me a ward of the state, and I wouldn’t have any say-so at all. But the most important thing I’d have to do would be to finish high school, so I’d get a job after school and on the weekends. I’d get any kind of job I could find and ask that part or most of what I’d make would include a cot somewhere to sleep on.
“Like,” he went on, “I could ask Mrs. Allen next door if I could do her yard work year-round and maybe sleep in her pool house. Or I could ask Mr. Simmons if I could keep his store clean and stocked, and maybe sleep on a pallet in his storeroom. Or I could see if some of your lady friends who live alone would like to have a boy in the back room or the basement to make them feel safe at night, and I could grocery shop for them or rake leaves in the fall or shovel snow in the winter so they wouldn’t fall. The only thing I wonder about is keeping myself and my clothes clean. I could go to the Laundromat, I guess, when I got a handful of quarters, and I could probably shower at school in the locker room. Anyway, I’d do whatever I had to do to finish school and stay out of a group home with counselors and foster parents and other nosy people wanting to know my business and decide what was good for me.”
“Well, Lloyd,” I said, my heart filled with gratitude for this fine boy, “you’ve certainly given it a lot of thought, but thank goodness you will never be reduced to such circumstances. I am so proud, though, that you have such a great sense of your own worth and dignity. Your willingness to work and do what you have to do to get what you want is more than admirable, it’s outstanding.”
He smiled and shrugged. “I just figure that if I kept my grades up and got out of high school on my own, I’d get a scholarship—it wouldn’t matter where, just a college somewhere. That way I’d be living in a dormitory, and my worries would be over.”
“Oh, darling boy, your worries are already over.” Lloyd’s share of his father’s estate made sure of that.
“Yes’m, I guess, but I have been thinking of people who don’t have what I have, including not one bed, but two.” And he grinned at the thought of his two homes, his mother’s and mine. “I’m pretty lucky.”
Yes, he was, but he was also a planner and a worker, and even without a wealthy, though deceased, father, I was convinced that he would’ve gone far entirely on his own.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I’ve been wondering if we ought to help those boys who don’t have what we have. I mean, I know J.D. and Mama don’t want them next door, and I know you’re concerned about it, too. But aren’t we supposed to help those who can’t help themselves?”
Oh, Lord, I thought, out of the mouths of babes.
“Yes, Lloyd, we should, and we should do it with a cheerful heart. The problem with this situation, though, is the way they’re going about it and the damage they’re doing in the process of doing good.” And I went on to explain the sneaky, underhanded way the Homes for Teens group was trying to go around the laws, how they had publicly announced that the neighbors had no problem with them—when, in fact, the neighbors were up in arms—how his mother and father were concerned about that number of troubled boys so close to his sisters, and the fears of the mother of the early developer on the other side. Then I showed him the calculator with the breathtaking number of dollars that his mother’s house would be devalued with such an unsavory next-door neighbor.
“Wow,” he said. “I guess I didn’t think it through enough. I sure don’t want my sisters in any danger, and I don’t want Mama and J.D. hurt in any way. Boy, there’re always two sides to everything, aren’t there?”
; “Indeed, there are. The problem in a situation like this is that most people see only the good side. They either don’t know or don’t care if anybody else gets hurt. But,” I went on, “I’ll tell you this, Lloyd, if those people who’re so intent on opening a group home would listen to reason and move to a more suitable place, I would support them to the utmost degree. As it stands now, though, they’re determined to have their way, regardless.” Then I said, “I hope that you won’t think the less of me when I tell you that I aim to do whatever I can to foil the plans of those one-track-minded people who’re leaving havoc in their wake.”
“No’m,” he said, “I won’t. And now that I see the other side, I understand why J.D.’s putting up such a big fence. He’d like to run them off, wouldn’t he?”
“Well, let’s just say that he’d like to discourage them from ruining the neighborhood—because his is not the only property that’ll be adversely affected.”
* * *
—
“Oh, my goodness,” I said after a quick glance at the calendar I kept by the telephone. It was the following morning, and I’d just entered the kitchen for breakfast. “I’d forgotten the coffee that Sue Hargrove is having this morning.”
“She a nice lady,” Lillian said, ready as always with a complimentary comment. It was only when she had nothing good to say that she said nothing. “An’ everybody like her husband.”
“Yes, we’re fortunate to have such a good doctor in town. But I could do without a social occasion this morning. Now I’ll have to go back upstairs and dress for it.” I sat at the table, wondering if I was up for chitchat on a day when the Pickens situation was weighing so heavily on my mind. “Thank you, Lillian,” I said as she put a plate of bacon and eggs before me. “Has Lloyd eaten yet? I didn’t hear him upstairs.”
“He already eat an’ already gone to school to do that tutorin’ he’s doin’.” Lillian opened the dishwasher door, then turned to look at me. “Miss Julia, you know any Pruitts?”
“Hmm, no, I don’t think so. The name’s familiar, though. There might be some out in the county. Why?”
“That’s who Lloyd’s tutorin’. He asked me if I know the fam’ly. I don’t, but I know of ’em—hardscrabble folks, mostly.”
Glancing at my watch, I quickly pushed back from the table. “Oh, my goodness, it’s later than I thought. I declare, Lillian, I’m beginning to think I need a keeper.”
I hurried upstairs to dress again, wondering how I would be able to talk and mingle and sip coffee as if nothing were wrong. My spirits rose, though, at the thought of my one fall purchase hanging in the closet—a new dark red suit with matching silk blouse. I say dark red, but it could’ve been burgundy or magenta for all I knew. Whatever the color was called, it was different from the softer, more pastel colors that I usually wore, and I felt I’d chosen well when I’d bought what the saleslady had called a power suit. A power suit was exactly what I needed, especially when I thought of the seven prominent churches arrayed against me. My pearls and the diamond brooch that Sam had given me set it off perfectly, and I sailed off feeling clothed with authority.
* * *
—
Sue’s coffee was as lovely as I expected it to be. Her warm, comfortable home was conducive to conversation, either sitting or standing or moving from one group to another, and the twenty or so invitees were making the most of it. Hazel Marie, I noticed, was not there, and I wondered what her husband was up to now—it didn’t surprise me that she felt she had to keep an eye on him. LuAnne was chatting away, telling everyone how lucky she was to be free and single—almost as if she had to convince herself. Mildred was holding court from a large wingback chair beside the fireplace, where a small fire brightened the gray November morning. Helen Stroud made a brief appearance, just long enough to visit with a few of us because, she said, “Thurlow is more at ease when I’m in the house.” And so, I thought, was she, what with painters and carpenters and kitchen designers, and all the other workmen in the house. But, then, I’m somewhat cynical, I know.
“Julia!” The shriek of my name turned me around to come face-to-face with Madge Taylor. She threw her arms out as if to embrace me, and I took a step back.
“Hello, Madge. I hope you’re well. Have you tried these sandwiches? You should, they’re delicious.”
Discounting the cream cheese and pineapple sandwiches with a wave of her hand, she sidled up close to me and whispered, “I hope you’re feeling better about us—we so covet the support of people like you. And believe me, Julia, we have no intent of being anything other than good neighbors.” Then she stepped back and in a louder voice said, “I hope you can find it in your heart to consider us worthy of your financial support. We would love for you to lead off our fund-raising drive by making the first donation.”
The nerve of her! To be solicited at a social occasion was beyond poor manners, but to hem me up in public—several ladies had turned to listen—just sent me over the edge.
“Well, Madge,” I said, speaking clearly and firmly, “you do know, don’t you, that you already have an eighty-thousand-dollar gift from my family?”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes lit up. In a voice that stopped all conversation in two rooms, she said, “Eighty thousand dollars! Oh, Julia, no, I didn’t know. Thank you, thank you! That is outstanding. Now every boy can have his own television set and his own cell phone and his own iPad tablet. Oh, this is wonderful! When did the check come in? I haven’t heard a word about it.”
Everybody was looking at us and listening to us. I smiled and said, “No check has come or will be coming, Madge. The house that your bleeding-heart group has purchased next door to Hazel Marie’s family is costing them twenty percent of the value of their home. So eighty thousand dollars is not what’s coming to you, but what you’ve taken from them. That means that you’re out of luck if you’re looking for a dime more from any of us.”
Madge’s eyes narrowed, and a flush rose in her cheeks. “Your problem, Julia,” she said with a superior smile, forced though it was, “is you’re a nimby.”
“Let’s don’t get into a name-calling contest,” I said. “It’s so inappropriate. Besides, I don’t know what a nimby is, so if you intended an insult, it failed to hit the mark.”
“A nimby is anybody who’s so selfish that they say ‘not in my backyard,’” Madge said, as if it were the ultimate put-down.
“Then absolutely that’s what I am,” I shot back as I held my head up high, “and so are you, Madge, because we all notice that a group home is not in your backyard.” I turned aside to leave, then threw back at her, “Your side yard, either.”
Chapter 18
Driving home, I was both seething at Madge and ashamed of myself. To create a spectacle at a social event was so unlike me that I could hardly believe I’d let myself be drawn into a war of words that had almost degenerated into a catfight. I had always prided myself for staying above the fray—whatever the fray might be—keeping myself poised and in firm control of my emotions. But it had been all I could do to retain a semblance of self-control when faced with such self-righteous arrogance and plain bad manners.
It was all Madge Taylor’s fault. I had no doubt that she’d elbowed herself onto Sue’s guest list, then used a social gathering to push her personal agenda, then publicly resorted to name calling. I’d wanted to slap her silly, and even as I drove toward home, my hands were still shaking with the urge.
With no conscious intent, I found myself turning onto Jackson Street and slowing as I approached the Pickens and Cochran houses.
My word, but Mr. Pickens had put in the work. Already wide horizontal boards had been nailed one above the other some six feet high between the first five concrete block towers, and two men were busily putting up additional boards. Several more of the towers were under construction along the lot lines of Mrs. Osborne’s property and Mr. Pickerell’s. The nonprofit Ho
mes for Teens house, otherwise known as the Cochran house, would soon be barricaded on three sides.
Well, good for Mr. Pickens for making his views known. But even as I had that thought, two cars pulled up to the curb in front of the Cochran house and five people piled out, two carrying boxes, two others loaded down with stacks of linens and blankets, and the last carefully carrying a lamp. They were moving in—hurriedly, almost surreptitiously, without a glance at the creeping extension of Mr. Pickens’s fence.
Gritting my teeth, I drove on home to repair a few fences of my own.
* * *
—
“Sue?” I said when she answered my call later that afternoon. I had waited a couple of hours to give my hostess time to wash and put away her good china and silver after her guests had left. “I’m calling to apologize for my behavior this morning. I should’ve walked away from Madge, although we all know how difficult she is to avoid.”
“Oh, Julia,” Sue said in her warm way, “don’t worry about it. You don’t need to apologize for speaking the truth.”
“Well, thank you, but I do dislike striking up an argument in a social situation, especially in your home. It’s just that Madge gets under my skin so badly that I can hardly contain myself. And when she used your lovely coffee to solicit funds for that illegal project of hers, well, frankly, it’s a wonder that I’m not now apologizing for a physical confrontation.”
Sue laughed. “Well, if we’re being frank, I’ll tell you that I hadn’t intended to invite her. And the only reason I did is because Pastor Rucker asked me to.”
“He did? Why? What does he have to do with our social affairs?”
“I had already invited Lynette—wanting, you know, to include our new pastor’s wife. Then she called me back to say that the pastor would really appreciate it if she could bring Madge, too. So I was put on the spot, but I’ll tell you this. If Lynette tries that again, she’s going to see a dearth of invitations herself.”
