Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  “Well, you know Freddie Pruitt?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, he just found out that he’s going to be living there, and he wants to be happy about it, but he can’t because J.D.’s fence sorta tells him something. I mean, he’s happy because he’d live next door to me, but he can’t be real happy because Mrs. Taylor has told the boys that they have to steer clear of the neighbors. That means us. I mean, even me, and Freddie’s afraid he’s gonna fail algebra.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I said, just done in at Madge for warning the boys about their neighbors. And done in as well because they were actually moving boys in, getting themselves more firmly established, without yet knowing what the commissioners had up their sleeves.

  “And I know,” Lloyd went on, “that J.D. won’t like it if I invite Freddie over, even to study, because that’ll open the door to all the other boys, and first thing you know, we’d have all of ’em in and out all day long. Maybe. I mean, I can see the problem. I don’t want to hurt Freddie’s feelings, but I don’t want to make J.D. mad, either.”

  I rubbed my forehead, wishing I could wring Madge Taylor’s neck for putting this boy in such a situation. “I can see the problem, too, honey. When is all this taking place?”

  “Freddie said they’ve been having meetings at the DSS, learning the house rules and getting to know each other. And the last he heard was they’d move in a week or so after the commissioners give ’em the go-ahead.”

  Another indication, I thought but didn’t say, that Madge had known all along that she’d have no problem with the zoning.

  “And Freddie said,” Lloyd went on, “that he hopes it’s sooner ’cause he thinks his aunt is tired of him.”

  “Oh, that poor child,” I said, a wave of sympathy sweeping my heart. “But back to your quandary, here’s a suggestion, at least for the time being. Since Mrs. Taylor has warned the boys—wait, how many will there be?”

  “Freddie said six, maybe seven.”

  My eyes rolled back at Madge’s escalation of the numbers, but I didn’t say anything. “All right. Since she’s warned them about the neighbors, let that be your guide about inviting Freddie over—you’re just following her suggestions so he won’t get in trouble with her. Then you can keep tutoring him at school or at the library. And, Lloyd,” I went on, “we’re hoping to learn more about what’s going on very soon. Just be patient a little longer. There’re a few of us who’re looking into what can be done. We’re just waiting to see what the commissioners do about the zoning.”

  But, I thought, sooner or later the fur was going to fly because Mildred and I were making plans to pool our not inconsiderable resources. And it was to that end that she and I came to an agreement when she ended her conference call.

  Chapter 40

  Tuesday night in early December and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was cold and getting colder with a blustery wind that pushed itself inside sleeves and around necks, to say nothing of up one’s skirt. But the commissioners were meeting at the courthouse and, as much as I hated leaving our warm house, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  The room was full when we trudged upstairs to the commissioners’ meeting room. I looked around and had a sinking feeling because so few neighbors were there. There was no sign of Mr. Pickerell or of Jan Osborne or even of the Winsteads. As two of the three were on their way out of the neighborhood, and the third was wavering, I guess it no longer mattered to any of them what the commissioners did.

  I smiled at Hazel Marie and tried to at Mr. Pickens but he had such a scowl on his face that I doubted he could’ve smiled back. Helen Stroud was there, and thank goodness she greeted me from across the room with a small nod. And Callie Armstrong, who didn’t live close to the property in question, but who took every opportunity to leave her husband babysitting, waved at us. Binkie and Coleman Bates were seated near the front and so was Mildred, who was getting to wear her full-lenth mink coat that night.

  But the rest of the room was filled with known Madge supporters and a lot of people I didn’t know—all, I assumed, from the seven praying churches.

  Sam and I found seats on folding chairs that had been brought in to accommodate the crowd. And quite soon, four of the five commissioners entered from the back and took their high-backed seats at a slightly elevated semicircular desk in the front of the room. A microphone was situated in front of each one, and a standing microphone faced them for the use of speakers from the floor.

  By the time the meeting was called to order, the minutes read and approved, and several announcements made, I was more than ready for the main attraction. But just as I covered a yawn, Pete Hamrick, who was the vice chairman and in charge because the chairman claimed to have a bad cold that night, made an attempt to ease the tension in the room.

  “We are aware,” he began, “that the majority of those present tonight are here about a zoning variance. I will remind you that it’s the zoning board that has the authority for those decisions—”

  “Why’d we elect you, then?” somebody shouted from the back row.

  “Yeah!” somebody else loudly agreed. “The zoning board’s appointed, and you appointed ’em! We want accountability!”

  In spite of Pete Hamrick’s attempt to calm the waters by saying that the commissioners could offer only an airing of our differences, nobody believed him. So he opened the floor for discussion.

  It just about got out of hand. Those of us who wanted to speak had put our names on a list beforehand, but things got so rowdy that some were not called, and others who had not asked to speak stood up and spoke anyway. I had my statement written out but was never able to get to the microphone, which was just as well for I’d had my say at the intervention staged on my behalf, for all the good it had done. I had changed no one’s mind then and didn’t expect to now.

  Sam spoke eloquently on the historic importance of the area in question, reminding the commissioners that some of the nearby houses were eligible to be on the historic register and deserved protection from inroads by incompatible entities.

  Binkie nearly brought the house down when she pointed out that a change in the zoning of one stable neighborhood meant that no other neighborhood was safe. She was greeted by groans and calls of “Not true” from a contingent of church members I didn’t recognize, but by whom I was outraged at their lack of courtesy. Binkie gave as good as she got, though, for she turned to the room and asked, “How many of you catcallers live under homeowners’ association covenants that protect you from this?”

  Pete Hamrick, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights, had to gavel the room to quiet.

  I held my breath when Mr. Pickens stood up and walked to the microphone, where a long-winded, repetitive speech on the need for public housing was being given by a slender, bearded man whose time had already been called. Others waited behind him, but he kept talking, accustomed, it seemed, to being given the floor whenever he wanted it. Mr. Pickens simply stood beside him, looked long and hard at him, and held out his hand.

  After a glance at Mr. Pickens’s face, the bearded man stuttered, “I yield to this gentleman here.” And a few of us clapped.

  Hardly knowing how or what Mr. Pickens would say, I was both surprised and impressed when he presented his argument in a calm but forceful way. And the whole room quietened as he spoke.

  After introducing himself as one of those who would be most affected by a variance, he began telling them why. “Number one: The zoning board has confirmed that a group home is impermissible in its current location. In addition, the city attorney is authorized to close it down for noncompliance the minute it begins operating. So if the board of commissioners intends to override the zoning board, why do we have any zoning ordinances at all?

  “Number two: Jackson Street, which runs in front of the Cochran property, is too narrow for the increase of traffic that a group home
will create. We’ve already had to ask for NO PARKING signs to be put up on one side of the street, yet two-way traffic is still difficult to maneuver.

  “Number three: There is not enough on-site parking on the property in question. Two cars are all that the driveway will accommodate, one of which will belong to the houseparents. All other cars will have to be parked on the street, taking up spaces in front of neighboring houses.

  “Number four: The house in question has three bedrooms and two baths, yet we have it on good authority that they’re taking in seven teenagers and two houseparents. They’ll have to either cram nine people into bunk beds or put pallets on the floor. And nine people, plus the number of visitors in the form of counselors, tutors, family members, and friends using the bathrooms, will result in a steady strain on an antiquated sewer system. As the next-door neighbor, I can testify to the likelihood of tree root encroachment in the sewer line. I’ve already had to replace mine to the tune of several thousand dollars.

  “Number five: Considering the number of people that will be living there, our quiet, residential neighborhood will suffer an increase in noise—talking, shouting, slamming of car and house doors, music or what passes for music, and screeching of tires.

  “Number six: The word is out that there is a plan behind the plan for a group home—that a certain corporation has its eye on our entire block. And that the request for this variance is just the opening move for a complete rezoning of the area. If you are aware of such a plan, it’s incumbent on you to disclose it.”

  This caused a stir among the listeners, as people looked at one another, wondering what he meant. One of the commissioners—I couldn’t see who it was—said, “Stick to the subject.”

  Mr. Pickens replied, “That’s what I’m doing. So, to sum up, with the number of cars going and coming and blocking driveways, the lack of parking space on the property itself as well as on the street, the overcrowding in the house which creates a fire hazard, the resulting overuse of the sewer system, and the possibility of being rezoned commercial or worse, I suggest with respect that instead of overruling the zoning board and granting a variance for the Homes for Teens, the board of commissioners denies that request and declares the proposed use of the Cochran house a public nuisance.”

  He turned and walked back to his seat beside Hazel Marie, whose face couldn’t have expressed more pride in her husband. I thought that some of the rude, outspoken people who had already raised their voices in protest would do the same to Mr. Pickens, but nobody did. Instead the room remained quiet—subdued, in fact, until, one after another, those in favor of granting the variance gathered their courage and spoke, either angrily denouncing anyone who would deny a child a roof over its head or sobbing, as one woman did, because heathens were hindering the work of the Lord.

  My land, if I’d not known better, I’d have thought that those opposed, which included me, were the most hard-hearted and selfish, even demented, people on earth.

  * * *

  —

  Shivering in my heavy coat as the car heated up, I was quiet as we drove away, but Sam wasn’t. He sneezed all the way home.

  “Are you getting sick?” I asked, searching for a Kleenex in my pocketbook.

  “Might be,” he said, sniffing. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.”

  “Well, so does mine, but not because of a cold coming on. I just couldn’t believe some of those people. The whole thing was like being in a room with Madge multiplied.”

  Sam laughed, then sneezed again. “Pickens did well, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. I didn’t know he had it in him to control his temper as he did.” Glancing at him, I went on, “There’s some Robitussin in the medicine cabinet.”

  He turned into our driveway, then said, “I don’t need cough medicine, but an aspirin or two might help.”

  When we got inside and had divested ourselves of scarves and coats, Sam said, “Well, what did you think?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. What really happened in there?”

  After hearing from more people than had signed up to speak, Pete Hamrick had called for a motion to delay a decision on the Cochran house not only until the commission had a full contingent but also until they could consult with the zoning board. To the many shouts of disapproval, a motion was quickly made and seconded, and the commissioners had all but run from the room.

  “My bet,” Sam said, “is that they’ll go into a closed session, make their decision, and blame whatever it is on the zoning board. Then they’ll bury it among other things on the agenda in a small announcement in the newspaper. Whatever they decide, they’ll get some blowback. Which is probably why the chairman wasn’t there.”

  “Well, I wish they’d voted tonight, because if they approve the variance, Mildred and I have plans of our own.”

  Sam smiled. “Care to tell me what they are?” Then he had another sneezing fit.

  “You go take some aspirin while I fix you some hot tea with honey. Then you’re going to bed, and I won’t be far behind.”

  “Okay, but tell me what you and Mildred are up to.”

  “All right, but don’t tell anybody. If the vote goes against us, we’re thinking of forming a holding company or . . .” I stopped and reconsidered. “Or we’ll just do it on our own, but somebody needs to outbid whoever is buying the other houses—you know, the Pickerells’ and the Osborne house. And you may not know this, but the Winsteads have caved because Marie Winstead said she’d cleaned that huge house for the last time, and she was moving to a townhouse with or without Hal.

  “So that means that we have to step in right away before their closing dates. That’s why we’re so anxious about what the commissioners will do. But I’ll tell you this, Sam, the fact that they didn’t make a decision tonight does not bode well for us.”

  “But what,” Sam asked, “would you and Mildred do with three empty houses?”

  “We just figure that if that property is so valuable to a secret buyer, then it ought to be valuable to us as well.”

  “My word, Julia,” Sam said, staring at me. “Do you two know what you could be getting into?”

  “Well, no. But that’s never stopped us before.”

  “But, honey, you’ll still have the Homes for Teens to deal with.”

  “I know, but if the commissioners grant a variance for them, then that opens the door for another one. We haven’t yet decided what we’ll do, but it’ll be something that Madge and her crew will not like.”

  Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head, then he sneezed again. “And have you figured out what you’ll do when you run afoul of J. D. Pickens?”

  “Wel-l, not yet, but if we’re able to run Madge off, which is what we hope to do, I figure he’ll thank us in the long run.”

  Chapter 41

  “I knew it!” I said, slapping the newspaper down on the table, just missing the cup of coffee that Lillian had slipped in front of me.

  Sam had handed the paper to me, folded to the small article at the bottom of the front page, as soon as I’d come to the breakfast table.

  “At least,” I went on, my heart filling with disappointment, “I should’ve known it when the commissioners stopped the proceedings the other night without a vote. They didn’t have the courage to vote in public. They probably hoped we wouldn’t notice it in the paper and . . .” I snatched up the paper and scanned the article. “Did you see this? Sam, the vote was five to zero—every last one of them voted to grant the variance! I can’t believe this! Not a one of them has a grain of sense.”

  Lillian, between wild swings of my arms, slid a plate of eggs and bacon before me, then quickly stepped back.

  “Well, now, hold on, honey,” Sam said, his voice hoarse with whatever he’d come down with. “Look, they didn’t actually grant the variance that was asked for. What they did was grant a conditional-use pe
rmit.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Well, it allows an otherwise nonpermitted use of a property—a use that’s not covered by the zoning laws.”

  “That sounds like a variance to me.”

  “No,” Sam said, a far-off, thinking look on his face. “Actually, it opens the door to a wider use than a specific variance would have—just what I was afraid they’d do. I’d have to see exactly how it’s worded, but it could cover the entire block. See, Julia,” he said, turning to look directly at me, “a conditional-use permit is based on the commissioners’ determination that the new use would be in the public interest.”

  “I expect,” I said with some bitterness, “that Madge could make a case that providing a home for homeless children is in the public interest.”

  “I’m sure she could, but don’t you see? There’re a lot of other things that could be described as in the public interest as well. Think about it, honey, that block could accommodate a county office building, a strip mall, a school, an auditorium for cultural events. I can think of a number of things that the commissioners could defend as being better for the town than individual ownership of a few houses.”

  “Oh, my word,” I said, the possibilities multiplying in my mind. “That sounds like a government takeover of the entire block! Is that what’s going on?”

  “No, it’s not an eminent domain situation—at least, not yet. But it does seem that those Ridgetop people have more in mind than one little house for a nonprofit organization.”

  “But, Sam, even if they do have more in mind, what about the Pickenses? They’d still have to be dealt with—they’ll still be a holdout.”

  “Not,” he said, darkly, “if their property is condemned as standing in the way of the public interest.”