by Ann B. Ross
Mildred was properly awed, and I could almost see her beginning to think of redoing her own house—something she was often inclined to do anyway.
After a little more inconsequential conversation about the house, we neared the front door and our leave-taking.
“Julia,” Helen said as she opened the door, “I do hope Hazel Marie knows what she’s getting into with that dog, though I wouldn’t want to discourage her. It would certainly ease Thurlow’s mind to have Ronnie taken care of. Maybe then he’d show a little appreciation for what I’m doing.”
“Let’s just hope it works out,” I said, and soon afterward, Mildred and I took our leave.
On the walk home, we had little to say, processing, I supposed, the situation we’d just left.
Finally, Mildred said, “Julia, I didn’t get a good feeling about what’s going on in that house. Those two may have made a mutually agreeable contract at one time, but Thurlow seems to be getting the short end of the stick. Maybe we should begin to think of staging an intervention.”
“For who? Whom, I mean—Thurlow, Helen, or Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens for wanting Ronnie?”
“Why, for Helen, of course,” she said. “That woman is so house-proud that she can’t see straight. Listen, Julia, I know what things cost—I’ve redecorated my house so many times that I know what I’m talking about. Helen has obviously already spent a fortune, and she’s far from finished. I think an intervention is what she needs—for Thurlow’s financial sake, if for no other reason. He’s well-off, that’s for sure, but Helen could be close to scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
So upon that stunning note, I went home thinking that the Ronnie problem might soon be settled, but another, stickier one might have just popped up.
Chapter 20
The idea that Helen might need an intervention to point out the error of her ways occupied my mind to the extent that I was able to put aside worries about the arrogance of the Homes for Teens people—at least for the afternoon. If Mildred could look around on one visit and be able to count the cost, the situation was serious indeed.
What if Helen was actually spending Thurlow into the poor house? What if she was truly taking advantage of a sick old man? Would she do that? I couldn’t imagine that she would, but I knew that she had an inordinate interest in old houses and the restoration thereof. She loved to remodel and decorate, and she was good at it, there was no doubt about that. And there was no doubt that she was providing the care that Thurlow needed. The question was, just how much was that care costing him?
I had no idea and no idea of how to find out. All of those concerns had to be put on the back burner, though, when the Pickenses showed up just as Lloyd and I were finishing supper. They all piled into the kitchen, the little girls running squealing to Ronnie, who lumbered to his feet from his place in the corner. He endured their little hands all over him, his tail thumping against anything within reach. That dog loved attention.
“Thurlow’s letting us take him,” Hazel Marie told me, although I sensed a whiff of apprehension in her words. She knew as well as I did that it’s usually the woman of the house whose duty it was to look after any and all pets.
Mr. Pickens stood leaning against a counter, a pleased expression on his face as he saw the delight of his little girls in what he had wrought. “Yeah,” he said, “Thurlow put me through the third degree as to the care and feeding of this valuable animal. I feel like I’ve been cleared for a highly sensitive government job.”
“You want to take him tonight?” I asked.
“Lord, yes. There’d be no sleeping if we didn’t.”
“Well,” I went on, “we still have some dog food you can have, but, Hazel Marie, Lillian’s been cooking for him, too. She can tell James what she fixes—whatever it is, Ronnie loves it. You can take that comforter, too. Oh, and, Mr. Pickens, he needs to go out first thing in the morning, then again after he eats, maybe once in the afternoon, then after supper, and finally right before you go to bed.”
With a grin at his wife, Mr. Pickens said, “You taking notes, honey?” Hazel Marie rolled her eyes as he laughed. Then he said, “Okay, girls, let’s get going. See if you two can bring the comforter. Lloyd, where’s the dog food?”
As they began to collect the essentials, I noticed Ronnie carefully ease away from the little girls and sidle up to Mr. Pickens. Ronnie sat down beside him and leaned against Mr. Pickens’s leg as he alertly watched the preparations for his leave-taking. Mr. Pickens’s hand dropped to Ronnie’s head, and that dog’s eyes closed as a look of absolute bliss crossed his face. A man’s dog, I thought again.
Lillian, Lloyd, and I stood at the back door watching as the four of them plus Ronnie got into the huge car, the little girls up in their car seats in the second row and Ronnie sprawled out in the rear space.
Lloyd said, “Look at that. Ronnie’s just leaving without a backward glance.”
“That’s right,” Lillian said. “Mr. Ronnie leavin’ like he hadn’t been treated like a king or something here.” Then, as we watched Mr. Pickens back out of the drive, she said, “I hope James know how to treat a dog.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said, referring to Ronnie, not James. “But I think we’re all going to miss him.”
“Well,” Lillian said, “I’m not gonna miss havin’ to step ’round him all day long. He almost make me trip up a dozen times, but he do be good comp’ny when y’all are gone.”
* * *
—
“Miss Julia, you’re not going to believe this.” That was the way Hazel Marie greeted me the next afternoon when I dropped by to see how Ronnie was doing with his new family. Or rather, how Ronnie’s new family was doing with him.
“I hope you know,” Hazel Marie went on as we walked into her living room, “that J.D. did not want a dog. Especially one that’s as big as a horse. He had just come around to considering a little lap dog—one that the girls could carry around—when the possibility of Ronnie came up. But it wasn’t until he heard that a dog might disturb the people next door that he decided Ronnie would be perfect. And now,” she went on as she tiredly pushed back her hair, “they’re inseparable. That dog makes every step J.D. makes, lies down and watches when J.D. is working outside—letting the girls crawl all over him—and lying at J.D.’s feet whenever he sits down. He rides with him, too, sitting up like an actual person in the passenger seat, and curls up in J.D.’s chair when he’s not here. I’ve never seen anything like it. But the worst thing is that Ronnie seems to read J.D.’s mind. Every time somebody gets out of a car next door to work on that house, Ronnie stands right at the edge of our yard and barks his head off. You ought to see them scurry into the house. And J.D. just laughs. When I suggested that letting him bark like that wasn’t being very neighborly, J.D. said that being neighborly wasn’t his intent and that Ronnie was simply earning his keep. There’s no telling what they think of us.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Hazel Marie,” I said, secretly delighted with Ronnie’s understanding of a guard dog’s duty. “Those people haven’t exhibited one iota of concern about the damage they’re doing to you, so if Ronnie is letting them know they’re not wanted, well, then I say, more power to him.” Then, becoming more aware of irritating thumping sounds, I looked around for the source. “Is that your washing machine?”
“Oh, no,” Hazel Marie said, “it’s just Lloyd and a friend who came home from school with him. J.D. put up a basketball goal out back, and they’re playing.” She shrugged. “It’s monotonous, but you get used to it.
“Anyway, as far as the neighbors are concerned, I’m afraid they might sue us or something. Or call the dogcatcher or complain to the police or who-knows-what.”
“They’re not going to do anything. They’re in comtempt of the law themselves, so they won’t want to call attention to what they’re doing. And, by the way,” I went on, “do you see much of Mad
ge Taylor? How often is she over there?”
“Every day, seems like. She comes early and stays most of the day, receiving things that people bring by for the house or overseeing the workmen who’re in and out.”
“Does Ronnie bark at her?”
“Worse than at anybody else. So far, though, he hasn’t left our yard—he just stands out there at the end of the fence and barks until her car is gone. I mean, it’s not as if he’s about to attack her or anything, although who knows what J.D. will think of next.”
“Your husband’s not going to cross that line, Hazel Marie. He may make a nuisance of himself, but to my mind that’s the least those do-gooders deserve. Do you know that Binkie has sent them two letters advising them that neither a group home nor a group foster home is permissible in this area? And they’ve not even had the courtesy to acknowledge receipt, much less send a response.”
“Oh, me,” Hazel Marie said. “That house and what they’re doing just burdens me so bad. It looks like we’re going to be stuck with it forever. Can’t Binkie do anything?”
“Well, I had a long talk with her the other day, asking the same thing, in fact. She’s talked with the city attorney and he says he can’t do anything until they actually begin operating. At that point, he’ll tell them that what they’re doing is impermissible, which is, I think, a legal term.”
“Why,” Hazel Marie said, her voice rising, “by that time, nobody will have the heart to make them move!”
“I think that’s exactly what they’re counting on. They’re going to present an accomplished fact—complete with a houseful of pitiful teenagers—and have the members of all seven churches up in arms at the selfishness of a few unhappy neighbors. It is the most cynical plan I’ve ever heard. But, then, they are the Christians and we aren’t.”
I took a deep breath to regain my equilibrium, having been carried away with expressing my outrage at Madge Taylor and her cohorts in their open scorn of the law.
“Well, I could just cry,” Hazel Marie said, and looked as if she’d start any minute, “every time I think of what they’re doing to us. You know what I think? I think they simply don’t care. They’re so taken up with doing what they want to do that nobody else matters.”
“I couldn’t agree more, and I told Binkie as much. But, Hazel Marie, don’t give up hope. Even if they appeal to the goodness of the city attorney’s heart, I’m not sure he has one, or that any lawyer does. They do what they’re paid to do, even defending clearly guilty clients. So the thing for us to do is be prepared to appeal to the commissioners if they get around the city attorney. Which means, in turn, that we’ll be reviled from every pulpit in the county and prayed against by every church member.” I stopped, reconsidered, then went on. “Well, everyone except those who’ve had the same thing happen to them. And with all the nonprofits that’re proliferating throughout the county, that may be more than we realize. In other words, we may not be alone in this fight even though our supporters may be only a silent minority for the time being. Not many people want to speak out against children, which is another thing Madge is counting on.”
* * *
—
As I bade Hazel Marie good-bye and walked across the porch, Lloyd and his friend approached the steps from the side yard, Ronnie tagging along with them.
“Hey, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just visiting your mother. How was the basketball game?”
“Oh, we weren’t playing, just shooting baskets.” Then, turning to the undersized boy with him, he said, “This is Freddie Pruitt, Miss Julia, and he can make three-pointers all day long.”
The boy ducked his head, but glanced up to smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
I declare, the boy put me in mind of Lloyd a few years ago—short, skinny, ill at ease, but anxious to please. And as the last name registered, I realized that this was the boy Lloyd was tutoring. But, not wanting to cause him embarrassment, I made no reference to it.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Freddie,” I said. “Well, you boys have a good time, but don’t get too hot and sweaty. You’ll catch a cold before you know it.”
“No’m, we won’t,” Lloyd said, patting Ronnie’s head as the dog pushed between the two boys to get a whiff of me. Dogs use their sense of smell to identify people, you know.
Freddie knelt to put his arm around the dog, murmuring, “Hey, boy, how you doin’?” Then he laughed as Ronnie licked his face.
“Well, I’ll leave you two with it,” I said, thinking again of the affinity between boys and dogs. “I must be getting on home.”
Chapter 21
I went home satisfied that Ronnie was well situated and earning his keep by scaring his neighbors and pleasing his new master. But after my conversation with Hazel Marie about the progress of the Homes for Teens in turning the neighborhood into a nonprofit complex, I was more distressed than ever. I could, however, at times put aside my outrage at their defiance of the law—specifically those times when I fell to my knees in prayer and placed the problem in the Lord’s hands.
That respite usually lasted about five minutes. Then I’d start worrying it to death again.
My spirits rose considerably, though, when Sam called from Germany. He was full of what he’d seen and where he’d toured and how he missed me. I missed him, too, but I did not unburden myself on him. There was nothing he could do from wherever he was, so I kept my peace.
“I’m in Aachen, honey,” he said, “and this morning I saw Charlemagne’s cathedral, although it was more his palace chapel than a cathedral. But imagine! It was built in the late eighth century and it’s still standing. You should see it, Julia, it’s octagonal in shape and there’s a—I don’t know—a balcony or mezzanine or something that runs around the interior, and Charlemagne used to sit up there above the west door and look down on the priests who were celebrating Mass. And he’d conduct the service, Julia! Using hand gestures, he’d point to one priest after another to read the Scriptures, offer a prayer, preach, or whatever. And cut them off if they went on too long. Can’t you just see it? It was marvelous, honey. I can’t wait to show you the pictures.”
“I can almost see it the way you describe it. But what kind of name is Charlemagne? I’ve always wondered about it.”
“Well, I guess it’s the French form of his name,” he said. “In Latin, it was Carolus Magnus, Charles the Great—the Great having been earned during his life. But magna in Latin can mean ‘big,’ ‘tall,’ ‘noble,’ ‘great,’ and so on. And apparently Charles was tall and he was certainly an exceptional warrior—leading dozens of campaigns while putting together his empire. But the Franks seemed to like adding a descriptive word to names. Some of Charlemagne’s descendants were Charles the Fat, Louis the Blind, and Charles the Bald.”
“Oh, the poor things. But, listen, I can add a few descriptions to your name—Sam the Handsome, Sam the Kind, and, especially, Sam the Sorely Missed. Hurry home, sweetheart.”
* * *
—
When the mail came, I took the stack of ads, bills, and flyers into the library to go through and discard three fourths. Have you noticed how pleas for Christmas donations seem to come earlier and earlier each year? And not just pleas, but strong suggestions of how much they think you should give them. I declare, they’d begun showing up in my mail before I’d even bought trick-or-treat candy. Now here it was barely past the first of November, and you’d think there was a race to be the first heartstring-plucking solicitation you received.
What they didn’t know was that I considered none of them until the last of the Thanksgiving turkey had been turned into hash.
But in the midst of the current stack, I came across a small, square pink envelope with my name and address written in cursive script—no return address, though. An invitation to something, I thought, and also thinking that it was a little early
for Christmas parties. But some people liked to claim a date before the highly social people of Abbotsville filled their calendars.
So maybe I should start thinking of having something for Christmas, I thought, as I held the envelope and considered the possibilities. Maybe a dinner party or a reception of some kind or, well, who knew? I wasn’t presently in the mood to plan anything festive.
I opened the envelope and withdrew one of those fill-in-the-blanks invitations. This one had pictures of little kittens sipping from teacups. Who in the world would send such a cutesy thing? I soon found out.
You Are Invited!!
To a Housewarming Tea
ON
Sunday, November 26th
2:00–4:00 p.m.
AT
329 Jackson Street, Abbotsville, NC
Come help us celebrate the Opening of the first
Home 4 Teens (H4T)
RSVP
Mrs. T. Calvin Taylor
987-555-2239
I jumped to my feet, spilling the pile of unwanted mail onto the floor, and stomped to the kitchen.
“Lillian,” I said, waving the tacky pink missive in the air, “this is the most flagrant violation of good manners I’ve ever seen! Madge Taylor knows I don’t want to celebrate the opening of that house! And she knows I don’t want her celebrating it, either! She’s just rubbing my face in her lawbreaking victory over the neighbors and the zoning board. A tea! Have you ever heard of such a thing? It’s a deliberate affront to decent people who just want the laws obeyed and their neighborhoods protected!”
“Ma’am?” Lillian said, frowning at my agitation. “What you rantin’ an’ ravin’ about?”
