Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  Early one morning as the odor of Old English furniture polish drifted through the house, the phone rang with what I thought would be another acceptance. So far there had been no regrets, and I answered with my list of invitees in hand so I could check another name.

  “Miss Julia?” the caller said. “It’s Lynette, Lynette Rucker. I hope you’re well this morning.”

  Ah, yes, the new preacher’s wife, I thought, then replied, “I am well, thank you. How are you, Lynette?”

  “Oh, I’m okay, I guess. But I’m just calling to let you know that I won’t be able to come to your tea next Sunday, but Robert and I both will be at Mrs. Allen’s party.”

  Uh-huh, I thought, just as I’d expected. “I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll miss you.”

  “Well,” Lynette said, hurrying to explain, “Robert thinks we should attend Madge Taylor’s tea, and, unfortunately, it’s at the very same time as your party.”

  As if I hadn’t known and planned it that way, I thought, but said, “We all have to make choices on occasion. And then live with them.”

  “Oh, I know, but Robert just feels so strongly that we should support what Madge is doing, and I just hate that I have to miss your party. But he’s committed to helping the homeless, especially the young people, and you know how seriously he takes his ministerial vows, and of course it’s incumbent on me to support him and his ministry.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, thinking to myself how young she sounded, although she wasn’t all that young.

  “I just wish,” she went on, “that you and Mrs. Allen hadn’t chosen the same day as Madge’s tea—she’s very upset about it and wishes you had checked with her first.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said again as calmly as I could at the outrageous suggestion. “But perhaps Madge was the one who should’ve checked with us.” Which of course wouldn’t have done her any good, because her tea was the reason Mildred and I were having our parties in the first place. But Lynette didn’t know that.

  “Oh, well, I guess she didn’t think of it. Anyway, thank you so much for the invitation. I hope you’ll keep me on your list for the next time—I’ll be sure to come then.”

  Making no promises, I let her off the hook with a few pleasant remarks and hung up. Lynette’s turning down my invitation was no surprise, so I felt no disappointment in the choice she’d made. She’d probably have more regrets in the long run than those she’d expressed to me.

  The only thing that caused my blood pressure to rise was learning that Pastor Rucker planned to have it both ways—go to Madge’s tea and attend Mildred’s party. It was my party that he’d decided that his wife should forgo, indicating where I ranked on his list of people one should not offend.

  Wondering if his choice indicated that my social standing in town was slipping, I knew that in spite of the many problems and run-ins I’d had with Pastor Ledbetter, he would’ve never risked publicly offending me.

  Perhaps it was all part of the aging process, none of which I liked. I had begun to notice that people in the service industry—waiters, retail merchants, and the like—had a tendency to overlook me in preference to younger customers. In fact, there’d been times when I thought I might have been invisible. It never happened with people who knew who I was—the same deferential help that I’d come to expect was always offered by them. But others would briefly glance my way, notice the hair and the face, and turn their attention to someone else.

  The worst, though, were those who approached me as if I were slightly dense, hard of hearing, and partially blind. Some acted as if I needed special care, calling me “honey” or “dear,” as if I were a child.

  Well, I was off on a tangent, and all because of having one person turn down a party invitation. Maybe I really was getting childish, but the worst was to come and it came soon after Lynette’s phone call.

  It was Mildred who called and her first words were “Julia? Are you sitting down?”

  “No, but I will. What’s going on?”

  “I just had a call from Madge Taylor. I think she was hinting for an invitation to my party because she told me how disappointed she was that your party’s at the same time as hers. As if, you’ll notice, that she’d gotten an invitation but had to regret. She just said that the Homes for Teens was having a drop-in at the same time, then went on to say it would probably be over by five or so. Then waited for me to ask her to come on to my house.” Mildred stopped, leaving me hanging, just as she’d probably left Madge. “I didn’t. I just said it was too bad that everybody’s so busy these days.”

  “I tell you, Mildred, that woman has more nerve than anybody I know. Of course she wanted an invitation to your party.” Then I went on to tell her of Lynette Rucker’s phone call. “I really think that she would’ve preferred coming here, but they just couldn’t let Madge down.”

  “Well, actually, that wasn’t all I wanted to tell you,” Mildred said. “Madge saved her ammunition for a parting shot. You won’t believe this, but she told me that the Homes for Teens board of directors is having a house tour as their spring fund-raiser. And, Julia, she said that Helen had just agreed to let Thurlow’s house be the featured attraction.”

  It was a good thing I was sitting down. All I could think of was that this was retaliation for that ill-advised intervention we’d staged.

  Chapter 29

  Heartsick, I buried my face in my hands after hearing of Helen’s treason. She had been as outraged over the devaluation of the neighborhood by the Homes for Teens as everybody else who was being affected. Thurlow’s house, situated on an entire city block, wasn’t all that close to the Cochran house, but it was certainly in the vicinity. And Helen had recognized that one group home in close proximity was like a camel’s nose easing under the tent. If you didn’t put your foot down right away, you’d end up with the whole camel in your lap.

  So, as protective of Thurlow’s house as Helen was, it was hard to believe that she’d throw her support to something that would degrade its value. But obviously she had, and furthermore, I knew that she knew how much more harmful a next-door group home would be to the Pickenses.

  It was a direct slap at me, because she also knew how protective I was of them. For Helen to go to such extremes as to support something she, herself, disapproved of was indicative of how deeply we—I—had offended her. I wanted to tell her that an intervention hadn’t been my idea, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I’d participated, and she’d found a way to return like for like—I’d hurt her, so she’d hurt me.

  She couldn’t have found a more effective way of getting back at me. Thurlow’s house on a house tour would be the major event of the year. Everybody was already fascinated by the changes Helen was making—Sam had told me that it was the main topic at the barbershop—so they’d be eager to see the interior. The house tour would be a huge success, funding the Homes for Teens for who-knew-how-long. We’d never be rid of them, and I’d have to admit to Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens that it had all been my fault.

  There was nothing to do but plod on, do the best I could, and wait for Sam to help me through this revolting turn of events.

  * * *

  —

  But events kept turning at a dizzying speed, as Sunday morning proved to the point of making my stomach turn along with them. When Lloyd and I took our seats in our usual pew, I glanced through the bulletin to check the order of worship as I normally did and found it full of inserts. There was an announcement of a special speaker on Wednesday night, another one about the meeting of the Women of the Church on Monday, and another listing the dozen or so local nonprofits that the finance committee, in its questionable wisdom, had selected to receive donations from the church. Scanning the list to see how our gifts and tithes were being allocated, I was stunned to see the words Homes for Teens and the figure $2,000 beside it.

  I couldn’t believe it! Had Pastor Rucker not told the
committee of my stance against it? Had he not told them that Madge and company were in violation of the law?

  I glared in the direction of the pastor, but he was sitting behind the podium, keeping out of sight until it was time to lead the service.

  I just sat there, trembling with outrage, knowing that my concerns—legitimate concerns—had been totally disregarded. The fact that the Homes for Teens was defying the rules meant nothing to the leaders of my church. Did they not realize that by supporting them, the church was now in the position of aiding and abetting an illegal act? And making every member—including me—an equal partner in that act?

  It was all I could do to sit through the sermon, the hymns, the collection, and the doxology—much less the passing of the peace, of which I had little to pass—without publicly denouncing the inane decision to support a lawbreaking enterprise.

  I sat through the entire service trying to preserve my equanimity while steaming inside. I imagined the pastor reading the letter I’d sent reiterating my concerns, then tossing it aside with a dismissive smile. Poor old woman, he probably thought, she doesn’t understand that our mission is to love and accept all people. But, oh, I understood, all right. I fully understood the stupidity of thinking that some amorphous concept of indiscriminate and all-inclusive love would overcome wrongdoing in its many and diverse forms.

  When the service was finally over, Lloyd and I filed out with the rest of the congregation. Instead of going through the center door of the narthex, where I would’ve had to shake the pastor’s hand, I led Lloyd out through a side door. He was anxious to get home, so I sent him on ahead while I picked my careful way to the sidewalk, avoiding the groups of people milling around outside, greeting one another. I was in no mood for conversation—until I realized that Kenneth Whitman was right in front of me.

  Tall and distinguished, Kenneth was one of the most courteous and well-respected men in town. He was an elder in the church, and one of the few who seemed levelheaded enough to be trusted. When he turned and spoke to me, I took the opportunity.

  “Ken,” I said, “I see that the church is determined to support the Homes for Teens in spite of being informed that they are in noncompliance of the zoning ordinance. It seems to me that we, of all people, should never give aid and comfort to breakers of the law. I’m having a hard time understanding why the leadership of the church has chosen to ignore what they’re doing.”

  Throughout my rush of words, he gave me his full attention, smiling in his kindly way and nodding his head. “Uh-huh,” he kept saying encouragingly. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

  “Well, Miss Julia,” he said, breaking into words as I finished my spiel. With a gentle pat on my shoulder, he continued, “We’ll just have to pray a lot, won’t we?”

  As more people emerged from the church, I agreed, then thanked him and turned away for home, feeling relief for having spoken and feeling, also, that my words had been well received.

  Halfway home, though, it came to me what had actually happened. His “uh-huhing” had not been expressions of agreement as they’d seemed at the time. They’d been instead merely expressions of encouragement, allowing me to vent my feelings without revealing any of his own.

  Almost stumbling on the sidewalk, I recognized what had actually happened—I’d been patronized.

  Oh, Ken Whitman had been smooth—he’d neither agreed nor disagreed with what I’d said. He’d made no attempt to refute or support any point I’d made. How accustomed to hearing from irate members he must’ve been to have handled me with such artful tact! I knew no more of his own views than when I’d first opened my mouth. Except, of course, I did, for he’d obviously been one of the supporters of the church’s gift.

  I wanted to hide my head for being so naïve as to think that my opinions mattered. The whole episode had been demeaning—I’d been accorded great courtesy but, in the final analysis, discounted.

  Well, so be it. That church could get along quite well without me, as I could without it. The First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville was not the only game in town, and, if it came down to it, I could choose another place of worship.

  Feeling vindicated in my anger, now that I understood exactly what my opinions were worth, I went home determined to pursue my own way. Sam would soon be home, Thanksgiving loomed, and so did a day of parties, all of which filled my plate to overflowing. The church could wait, but it wouldn’t be forgotten.

  * * *

  —

  At the top of my preparty list was meeting Sam at the airport on the Monday before Thanksgiving, after which I didn’t give much thought to a looming party on the following Sunday. I was so glad to see him and have him back that it was all I could do to refrain from pouring out all my anguish about a group home springing up in our midst and about an intervention gone so horribly wrong, and, if need be, having to find a new church to go to.

  But with remarkable self-control, I listened, asked questions about his trip, and allowed him to talk and show me his photographs for almost three days straight. He was full of the sights he’d seen and the history he’d learned, so, as a good wife should, I saved my tales of woe until he began to repeat himself.

  It was late on Thanksgiving Day that he finally ceded the floor to me, asking if anything interesting had happened while he’d been away. We were alone in the library, a small fire burning in the fireplace, and both of us full of the turkey dinner served by Hazel Marie, but cooked by James, at her and Mr. Pickens’s house. We would have them for Christmas dinner this year, but being with them for Thanksgiving had opened the door for a discussion of the Homes for Teens, because that’s all that Mr. Pickens could talk about. When he dropped the bombshell that both Mr. Pickerell and Jan Osborne were thinking of selling—apparently they’d had offers even though they’d not listed their houses for sale—I’d lost my appetite. Did that mean he was thinking of doing the same?

  “Tell me,” Sam began as we settled on our Chippendale sofa beside the fireplace, “about the house that Pickens is so exercised about. Who’s behind it, and just what do they plan to do?”

  So I told him about Madge and her crew, about the illegality of the location, about the inaction of the zoning board and the city attorney—as well as the seeming inaction of Binkie, whom I’d not heard from in a timely manner—and about the church’s donation to Madge’s project, a clear indication of having no respect for the law. Then I told him about Thurlow and Helen and how sick I was over our arrogance of sitting in judgment of her, and how it had boomeranged on me. And I told him how Ronnie had ended up with the Pickens family, which of course Sam had noticed when Ronnie had pushed between us to get to Mr. Pickens’s side on our way to the table.

  “My goodness,” Sam said, stretching out his legs, “things seem to pile up when I go away, don’t they?”

  “Yes, and I hope you intend to stay home for a while because I’m tired of fighting city hall and everybody else by myself.”

  “Well, you’re not by yourself now. I’ll talk to Binkie tomorrow—no, I guess it’ll be Monday with everything closed tomorrow. Let’s just rest over the weekend, then we’ll see what can be done.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said, with a sideways glance at him, “but there’ll be no rest for the weary this weekend. I’m having a party Sunday afternoon for about forty ladies, and you and I have to put up the Christmas tree first thing tomorrow. Lloyd is coming over to help, but I need you to bring up the decorations from the basement. We have to have the house—and you—in full party mode by Sunday morning.”

  So then I had to tell him about the double parties that Mildred and I were having, as well as exactly why we were having them. In the telling, though, I was afraid he’d think the less of me for deliberately spoiling Madge’s tea, which of course was exactly why I was doing it.

  “I’m not very proud of myself,” I admitted, “but Mildred and I decided we just couldn’t let the t
own assume that the Homes for Teens, or whatever they’re calling themselves now, is worth their time and money. We wanted to make a statement to express our displeasure and our determination not to support them in any way at all.” I paused to allow him to express his displeasure if he had any. “You may feel differently and, if so, you can join those who’ve called us biased, unchristian, and selfish. Or you can support them yourself as the church has seen fit to do.”

  Sam smiled. “You amaze me. There’s nothing biased, unchristian, or selfish in expecting others to obey the laws. And if that area is not zoned for a group home—which sounds like what it will be regardless of what they call it—it shouldn’t be permitted. I’d probably have pushed the legal angle a little more if I’d been here, but I can still do that. So I say to you ladies—have at it.”

  “Good!” I said, relieved that Sam understood my need to do something, even if it was slightly on the petty side. “Let’s go to the basement and bring up some boxes.”

  Chapter 30

  By noon the next day, we had the tree, which I’d had delivered to the garage the day before Thanksgiving, standing in the front windows with several strings of lights already glowing on it. Lloyd had helped Sam bring it in and get it into the stand, while I’d untangled the lights.

  Now it stood, looking about half dressed, waiting to be draped with tinsel ropes and hung with ornaments. It was the first time I’d put up a Christmas tree in November, so that was another thing to lay at Madge Taylor’s feet. It would probably be a scrawny, needleless memory of itself by the time Christmas morning rolled around, and that would be another black mark against her, too.

  By evening, which came so early this time of year, the tree was finished, electrified candles were in the windows, and silver trays, awaiting party food, were arranged on the dining table. At one end, we’d placed the large container, heated by sterno, and a ladle for serving oyster stew. The silver coffee urn was on the sideboard and my silver punch bowl waited on a round table, both with cups ready for filling. I’d had second thoughts about serving the champagne punch that I’d once had when Etta Mae was on the verge of marrying well. She hadn’t quite made it, but that’s another story.