Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  A dearth? Sam would love the word, so I stuck it in the back of my mind to use when he came home.

  “But, listen, Julia,” Sue went on, “you won’t believe this. When Lynette got here with Madge in tow, the first thing Madge did was to ask me if she could make a little announcement about that Homes for Teens since, she said, it was so seldom that so many well-to-do ladies were in one place.” Sue took a deep breath, then went on. “Julia, she wanted to use my party to solicit my guests! I told her absolutely no!”

  Knowing Sue’s kind disposition as I did, I figured she’d probably said something like, “Please don’t do that, Madge. Why don’t you wait for a more appropriate time and place?” So even though Madge didn’t get to tinkle a spoon against a teacup to get everybody’s attention, it hadn’t stopped her from hitting me up for a check, and who knows how many other guests she’d hemmed into a corner?

  “I’m glad you did, Sue,” I said. “To invite people to a social occasion only to let it degenerate into an unannounced fund-raiser would be the tackiest thing yet. But, then, Madge is no stranger to tacky. Anyway,” I went on, “the coffee was lovely, as everything you do always is. And I hope I didn’t spoil it too much by my run-in with Madge.”

  “Not at all. In fact, you made me see the other side of what they’re doing. I didn’t know where Madge’s nonprofit house was located until Mildred told me after you left. So now I understand why Hazel Marie had to regret, although she’d just said that her husband was doing some yard work and needed her around. Maybe she’d heard that Madge would be here, but she didn’t say a word about it. She is just the sweetest thing, and I was sorry she couldn’t make it. I’d rather have her than Madge any day.”

  “So would I, Sue, and Hazel Marie is sweet, but you should drive by her house and see what that husband of hers is doing. You’ll understand then why she felt she had to stay home—and you can blame it all on Madge Taylor and her gang of determined do-gooders.”

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t know just how determined Madge had been until Mildred Allen called a little later on.

  “You should’ve stayed at Sue’s a little longer, Julia,” Mildred said. “After you left, Madge buttonholed every guest there, trying to get them to commit to her new project. I noticed, though, that she made sure that Sue wasn’t near enough to hear her.”

  “Did she really? Well, Mildred, I hope you know that Sue had asked her not to turn her social event into a fund-raiser, but it’s just like Madge to have her way regardless. She just has no conception of common courtesy.”

  “Well, she told me she knew that the neighbors were what she termed ‘unwontedly fearful,’ but—be prepared—she’s going to bring them around by issuing an invitation to tea when they get that house fixed up.”

  “An invitation to tea?” I almost yelled. “And that’s supposed to turn the neighbors into supporters of the demise of their own neighborhood? Mildred, the woman must live in la-la land. She has no clue at all.”

  Mildred laughed. “You should’ve seen her face when I told her not to bother sending me an invitation because I was preemptively turning it down. And Madge said, ‘Oh, but, Mildred, you’re not a neighbor. What we’re doing won’t affect you.’ And I said, ‘Oh, but I am, too, a neighbor—my house is within the neighborhood circle. I’m not next door like Hazel Marie, but what affects my friend also affects me.’

  “And, Julia,” Mildred went on, “I wanted to jump up and cheer when you called her a nimby right back at her, and I would’ve if it hadn’t been so hard to get out of my chair.”

  * * *

  —

  Comforted by the loyalty of my friends and their dawning understanding of the perils of unleashed do-goodism, I called Hazel Marie to tell her what she’d missed at Sue’s coffee.

  “I’m glad you weren’t there,” I said after relating my contretemps with Madge Taylor. “I did nothing but embarrass myself, although in another way, it was a relief to say what I’d been wanting to say to her. I’m just sorry that it had to be so public. I would’ve embarrassed you, too.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, being her usual supportive self. “You could never embarrass me, and now I wish I had been there. I would’ve loved to have seen Madge’s face when you called her a nimby, too. Or maybe it ought to be a nimsy for ‘not in my side yard.’”

  “Yes, well, I got that in, too. But, Hazel Marie, how is Mr. Pickens doing? Is he feeling better now that his fence is going up?”

  “I’m not sure, because he’s looked at that fence as a stopgap measure all along. He’s hoping it’ll be so inconvenient for them that they’ll leave. But that’ll probably take some time.” She paused for a second, then said, “Miss Julia, do you think we’re right in wanting them out of the neighborhood? It worries me that we may not have the right attitude—you know, being concerned about our own children and not somebody else’s who have no homes.”

  “Oh, Hazel Marie, I’ve struggled with that, too. But it finally came to me that the Lord certainly tells us to help people in need—not only those next door to us but also those who live far off whom we’ll never know. But if, as I believe, He has entrusted us with particular ones to love and care for, then their welfare should be our primary concern. I think we have a God-given duty to put our own first and above all the rest. Or,” I said, lamely wrapping up my minisermon, “so it seems to me.”

  “To me, too,” Hazel Marie agreed. “I just worry so about Lloyd and our little girls, and it seems that those nonprofit people have no regard for anybody except themselves and what they want to do. I just want to be sure that loving my own children like I do is not doing what they’re doing in reverse.”

  I’d never thought of Hazel Marie as a deep thinker, but she was surprising me with the depth of her concerns. “I can’t believe,” I said, “that it’s wrong to love those who were given to us more than we care about those who were not—which doesn’t mean that we ignore their needs entirely, and I’ve tried to make that clear to Madge. I would gladly help them if they wouldn’t insist on moving in next door to your children because, Hazel Marie, I believe that your children were given to me to love, too.”

  “Oh, Miss Julia, you’re making me cry,” Hazel Marie said as she proceeded to do just that. It took me five more minutes to talk her out of her teary response and to finally hang up, even more determined to beat Madge Taylor at her own game.

  Chapter 19

  “Miss Julia!” The preemptory tone of the voice on the phone straightened my back and tempted me to salute.

  “Yes?” I answered somewhat tremulously.

  “I hear you have a dog you want to be rid of.”

  “Well, Mr. Pickens, yes and no. First of all, it’s not my dog to do anything with, and secondly, I expect his owner wants him back.”

  “Old man Jones?”

  “Yes, but Thurlow’s unable to care for Ronnie himself and apparently there’s no one else to look after him. So we’ve been offering temporary hospice care. Ronnie’s about well, though. He has only another day of eardrops to go, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with him then.”

  “I’ll take him. My girls have been crying for that dog ever since you brought him over here. I was just before going to the pound when Hazel Marie told me that Ronnie might qualify as a homeless canine.”

  “Mr. Pickens,” I said, appreciating the irony of his last remark, “you would certainly be doing a good deed to give this fine dog a home. But I’m not sure that Thurlow can let him go—you know how he loves that dog. I do know, however, that Thurlow is worried about Ronnie spending the winter outside in a pen behind the garage where Helen has consigned him. You might mention, if you talk to Thurlow, that in your care Ronnie would continue to be a house dog. If, indeed, that’s the case.”

  “Lord, yes. I can just hear the bawls and squalls from every woman in this house if they thought that dog
was cold. So,” Mr. Pickens went on, “you think he’d let us have him?”

  “I certainly think he’d consider it, especially if you said you’d bring Ronnie to visit every now and again.”

  Mr. Pickens grunted, then mumbled something about written invitations and calling cards coming next. “Okay, but hold on a minute,” he said. “Hazel Marie wants to talk to you.”

  While I waited I glanced over at Ronnie, who was sprawled out in front of the fireplace, where I’d lit the gas fire against the evening chill. He looked so peaceful and comfortable that I had a pang about turning him over to either Mr. Pickens or Thurlow. I’d grown accustomed to his warmth at my feet and his cold nose on my hand, as well as his obvious pleasure in my company as he followed me throughout the house.

  “That dog,” Lillian said, “sure do like you. He smart enough to know which side his bread’s buttered on.”

  Maybe so, but I had begun attributing the attraction to his delight at being introduced to Chanel No. 5—unlike, I’m sure, any odor he’d ever encountered before. Still, I would miss Ronnie, for the only problem he presented was that you couldn’t change your mind and turn around—he was always in the way.

  “Miss Julia?” Hazel Marie said, breaking into my reverie about a dog almost too big to house. “What do you think Thurlow will say?”

  “I think when he thinks about it, he might just be pleased to have Ronnie so well placed. I tell you, Hazel Marie, Thurlow is really upset at Helen for keeping Ronnie outside, but she simply refuses to have a dog in the house. Your family could be the perfect answer.”

  “The girls have been wailing about wanting him, and J.D. just found out that the people fixing up the house next door are worried about dogs in the neighborhood.”

  “What dogs in the neighborhood?”

  “Well, there’re not many, but Mr. Pickerell told us that one of the ladies working over there asked him what kind of dogs are around. She said that a lot of the homeless teens they’ll have are afraid of dogs. And . . . wait a second.”

  She put down the phone, but I could hear her walk across the room, then come back to pick up the phone and the conversation. “Sorry, Miss Julia, I wanted to make sure that J.D. is upstairs putting the girls to bed. Because, see, I hate to tell you this, but as soon as J.D. heard that they were worried about neighborhood dogs, he decided he wanted one. Or rather, he decided to give in to the little girls, who’re the ones who really want one.”

  “You mean he’s going to use Ronnie to demonstrate his unfavorable view of a group home next door? Along with that mile-high fence?”

  She giggled a little. “Yes, and when I suggested that he might be acting a little petty, he told me I should be glad he wasn’t getting a pit bull.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “we’re all excited about maybe having Ronnie, only I’m so afraid Thurlow won’t let him go. So I was wondering if you would feel him out for us—kinda prepare the way for J.D. because you know he can be a little abrupt.”

  A little abrupt? But I didn’t respond to that. I just said, “Well, I’ll bring it up to Thurlow if that’s what you want and let you know what he says. I really think it would be the ideal solution, but if Mr. Pickens is looking for intimidation, he’ll be disappointed in this dog. Ronnie’s a pussycat.”

  “Then he’s perfect for the children, but his size will scare everybody else, and that’s perfect for J.D. Oh, my,” Hazel Marie said, “somebody’s screaming upstairs. I have to go, Miss Julia, but let us know what Thurlow says.”

  * * *

  —

  “Mildred?” I said as she answered her phone. “Would you like to walk with me to Thurlow’s in the morning?”

  “Walk? Why don’t we drive?”

  “Because we both need the exercise, and because it won’t be long until it’ll be too cold for walking, and because it’s only a couple of blocks. Come on, Mildred, and go with me. I don’t think Thurlow’s doing too well, and I don’t want to go by myself. You know how he is.”

  “Well,” she said, “I guess we should, although why we feel any obligation to visit the old coot, I don’t know. But Ida Lee is making some of those miniature lemon tarts that everybody loves. I’ll ask her to pack up a few for Thurlow.”

  “And for Helen,” I reminded her.

  * * *

  —

  Helen met us at the door because I’d done the proper thing by phoning beforehand. Helen was not the most welcoming to drop-in company, and I well understood her antipathy. I didn’t much care for it myself.

  Mildred, panting a little from our stroll to Thurlow’s, handed over a tin of lemon tarts which Helen received with pleasure.

  She took them to the kitchen, and upon her return to the morning room said, “The cook will bring coffee and the tarts upstairs in a few minutes, so let’s go on up. Thurlow is looking forward to seeing you both.”

  The cook, I noted—something besides painters, wallpaperers, seamstresses, furniture men, maid, yardman, male nurse, and who-knew-who-else that was new in Thurlow’s household.

  Chairs were arranged around Thurlow’s bed in expectation of our visit, and as we greeted Thurlow and took our seats, Helen gave Mike, the minder, leave to take a break.

  “How’s my dog?” Thurlow demanded, his eyes bright with either malice or fever—who knew which?

  “Ronnie is quite well and, I assure you, he is thriving. He has the run of the house, but he’s well behaved in every way. In fact, he’s such a gentleman that Lillian has taken to calling him Mister Ronnie. I do think he misses you, though, because he loves to lie in front of the fireplace, just as he used to do here.”

  “Ha! Used to do is the operative phrase,” Thurlow said, casting a sullen glare in Helen’s direction.

  “Now, Thurlow,” Helen said, “we’ve been over this a dozen times. A house, this house, is no place for an animal. He’ll be perfectly fine in his pen.”

  “And some morning in January,” Thurlow said, “you’ll find him froze stiff out there. Which is just what you want, ain’t it?”

  Helen smiled indulgently. “No, Thurlow, all I want is to put this house to rights and to keep it as it should be kept. I declare,” she went on somewhat tiredly, “I don’t know why you’re so concerned about that dog when you have this jewel of a house that seems to mean nothing to you.”

  A young maid entered the room with a tray of coffee and lemon tarts, sent, I supposed, by the cook from the kitchen. Wondering just how large a staff Helen had employed, I tried to add up the ones I’d seen, but lost count when Ida Lee’s lemon tarts were passed around.

  Thurlow ate one, but turned down a second. He was noticeably quieter on this visit than he’d been before, and I almost missed his acerbic remarks that could take your breath away with their outrageous content.

  “Thurlow,” I began, thinking that I might as well take the bull by the horns, “Ronnie will have had the full course of his medications by the end of the day, and as much as we’ve enjoyed having him, I’m just not set up to keep him indefinitely. So—”

  “So you wanta bring him back here to die. Is that it?”

  “Not at all. I was just wondering if you’d consider letting him stay with another family that really wants him.”

  “You mean give him away?” Thurlow’s face reddened with anger. “Is that what you’re sayin’? What do you think I am, anyway? Just give away my dog like he’s a . . . a lemon tart or something?”

  “No, actually I was thinking more along the lines of boarding him with a certain family. He’d still be yours, but he’d have a home with children who love him, and he’d be inside all winter long.”

  “Who’re you talkin’ about? What kinda family wants my dog?”

  “The Pickens family,” I told him. “You know them—Hazel Marie and J. D. Pickens and their children. Mr. Pickens is often away from home for days at a time. He would feel
so much better about his family’s safety if Ronnie were in residence. So, see, they not only want him, they need him.”

  “I’d take him if I could,” Mildred said, surprising me, “but there’re too many bibelots in my house. His tail alone would wreak havoc with my Boehm birds.”

  Thurlow responded with a disdainful glance at her. Then, looking away, he began to pick at the sheet that covered his legs. No one said anything else until Helen said, “The Pickens family could be the ideal solution, Thurlow.”

  “What do you know, woman?” Thurlow yelled at her. “All you care about is this house and spendin’ my money.” Thurlow turned to me and, still red faced and angry, said, “Well, hell. Tell Pickens to come see me.”

  Helen soon ushered us downstairs, subtly apologizing for Thurlow’s crankiness. “He just doesn’t appreciate how decrepit this house had become. Why, mortar had even fallen from between bricks, so I’m having them all rechinked, and the roof was leaking, so it had to be replaced. And that meant, of course, that many interior walls had to be reconstructed because of water damage. It’s just been one headache after another, none of which Thurlow is remotely concerned about. It’s all fallen to me to resurrect and restore.”

  “But you’re good at that sort of thing, Helen,” Mildred said. “I hope it’s not getting to be too much for you.”

  “Oh, no. I love doing it, but I do have to put up with his complaints about every little thing I do. If it were left to him, he’d let the house fall down around him.” Helen walked with Mildred and me down the stairs, then guided us from one door to the next leading off the foyer—the dining room, the sunroom, the library, the den, all with ladders and drop cloths still in evidence. Two people were measuring windows for valences, cornices, and draperies—indications that the last stages of reconstruction and redecoration were under way.