by Ann B. Ross
“Four,” I said, then hesitantly passed another sheet of paper across the desk. “I’ve sketched out the room, but of course it’s not to scale. I don’t trust my measuring skills, but you can see there are two tall windows on the south side and two on the east. And on whichever wall you think best, I want a fireplace, and I want one of those big fat chimneys that you see in Williamsburg.”
“No, you don’t want that.”
“I don’t?”
“No,” he said in a knowledgeable, almost a know-it-all, manner, “they’re hugely expensive and nobody does them anymore. What we’ll do is put in one of those ready-made fireplaces that comes in a kit, and all you’ll need is a flue that runs up to the roof. It’ll serve your purpose and save you a mint.”
So this was what Mildred was talking about. “Stick to your guns,” she’d told me, “or he’ll talk you out of getting what you want.”
“But it’s what I want,” I said.
“Believe me, you don’t,” Mr. Caldwell said with such firmness that I had to take myself in hand. “You won’t be able to tell the difference from inside. We’ll use a reeded surround and an Adam mantel on it, and you’ll be pleased with all the money you save.” He busied himself sketching an elevation of one wall with a fireplace to show what he was talking about, hardly bothering to look up to see how I was taking it.
“Mr. Caldwell,” I said, and waited until he’d put down his pen and looked up. “Let’s work it this way: you do what you do best, which is to design a plan of what I want, and I’ll do what I do best, which is to pay for it. And what I want is a Williamsburg chimney because I care about the outside of my house as well as the inside. And because such a chimney would have a greater aesthetic impact than a metal pipe sticking up through the roof.”
He tapped his pen on the desk, staring at me the whole time. I knew what he was thinking: here’s a live one.
“And besides,” I went on to stop that kind of thinking, “I’ve already investigated the cost of the workmanship required to build a huge chimney, so I’m quite prepared to have what I want at a price that I’m willing to pay.”
“That being the case,” he said, suddenly deciding that a Williamsburg chimney was a grand idea, “I’ll have the preliminary plans in a couple of days. When would be convenient for me to do the measurements?”
We decided on a date and a time, and I stood to take my leave. “One more thing,” I said, “because I’ve not worked with an architect before: I will pay you for today’s consultation, but it’s my understanding that you are not fully engaged until you produce a set of plans that meet my approval. Is that correct?”
He assured me that it was, and I left feeling that not only were we now reading from the same book, but we were also on the same page. I didn’t want to have to fight him every step of the way, so it had been necessary and proper that he know with whom he was dealing.
Adam Waites came rolling in the next morning, ladders tied to the roof of the camper shell on his pickup and the inside loaded with the tools of his trade. I watched from the kitchen window as he stepped out of his truck and fastened a work belt around his hips. He was a fine-looking young man, lean but muscular, with a shy reticence about him. He wore jeans that fit—no rear bagging, I was happy to see—and a gray T-shirt with a lion and a lamb printed on it, surrounded by the words ridgetop evangelical campground. As he walked to the back of the truck, I noted his heavy-duty high-top work boots, remarkable for the green patch on each tongue, which had the image of a yellow leaping deer. I recognized it as the logo of a plow and tractor maker. He looked capable and ready for work.
I counted myself fortunate for having reached him at just the right moment, when he was between jobs for that Whitman woman. My intention was to set him to work dismantling Hazel Marie’s room, stripping the wallpaper and replacing it with a soothing, bedroomy paint color—just as soon as I could figure out what that was.
I waited for him at the back door, but Mr. Waites was not singing as he approached. He was humming. I didn’t remark on it as Mildred had, but it was a tune I knew but couldn’t at first dredge up the name of it. Don’t you just hate that?
Finally, it came to me. I’d learned two dozen verses of “This Little Light of Mine” years before when I’d been talked into helping with Vacation Bible School, learning at the same time that I had not been given the gift of patience with thirty-some-odd boisterous five-year-olds. The only good thing that had come out of the experience was being able to say the following year, “Let somebody else have a turn. I’ve had mine.”
Up close, Mr. Waites looked younger than I’d expected—late twenties, most likely—with a clean-shaven face and an open manner. He was pleasant enough, seemingly agreeable to all I pointed out that needed to be done both in Hazel Marie’s room and in the sunroom.
“Let’s build cabinets all across this wall under the windows,” I said as we stood in the sunroom. I pointed to the hand-drawn plan that indicated the number, placement and color of the cabinets I wanted. “I want pullout shelves in some and file drawers in others. Then let’s build bookcases on this other wall all the way to the ceiling. You’ll want to match the crown molding and the baseboard. Will that be a problem?”
“No’m,” he said softly.
I then directed him to the pink room, pointing out what I wanted done. He nodded and went right to work moving Hazel Marie’s furniture to the middle of the room and covering it with a heavy painter’s cloth.
“Don’t worry about the carpet,” I told him. “That’s coming up next. Of course, we’ll have to do something with this furniture to get it out of the way.”
Mr. Waites scratched his head. “I can bring some of my brothers and we’ll move it if you have a place for it.”
“Hm,” I said, thinking. “Maybe we can put it in the sunroom temporarily, then shift it back when you finish in here—what’s left of it anyway, because I’m giving some of it away. All that moving could be a big job. How many brothers do you have?”
“There’s five of us, all sons of The Carpenter.” He glanced sideways at me, perhaps to see if I got the allusion.
“Oh, so you learned your skills from your father?” I asked, deciding not to bite.
He smiled beatifically. “Yes, ma’am, we learned ’em from our earthly father and our heavenly father.”
“Well, how nice.” I knew, of course, that Joseph had been a carpenter and his young Son had worked alongside him. But if Mr. Waites wanted to play on words to test my scriptural knowledge, I would just let it go over my head. As long as he did good work, he could think what he wanted. I’d been around too many scripture-quoting contests to want to engage in one myself.
Chapter 5
It was still quite early the morning I returned home from taking Sam to the Asheville airport. I was feeling a little blue from watching his plane lift off, so I was comforted to find Lillian busy in the kitchen as the coffee made its last sighing perc.
“You get ’em off?” she asked.
“Finally,” I said, pulling out a chair at the table. “I declare, it takes an act of Congress to get on an airplane these days. I’m just glad I didn’t have to go through all that rigmarole. You wouldn’t believe it, Lillian.”
“What all they do?” She set a cup and saucer before me, pushed the cream forward and sat down with her own cup.
“Well, first off, we had to take Emma Sue with us, which put a crimp in our good-byes. Pastor Ledbetter had already arranged to go with the Dillards and they didn’t have room for Emma Sue’s luggage, so she ended up riding with us. And, Lillian, that woman talked the whole way to the airport, and a mile a minute, too. She was so excited she couldn’t see straight, kept saying that she’d known the Lord would prepare a way for her if she’d just be patient. She went on and on about trusting the Lord’s timing, going so far as to tell me that I should exercise more patience about Lloyd moving in with his mother. It was all I could do to hold my tongue.” I took a sip of coffee and tried to exercise a little
patience about Emma Sue. “Actually, though, I’m happy that she was excited about going and I hope she enjoys every minute. I just wish she’d given a little credit to those who made it possible by carrying out the Lord’s will. I mean, he didn’t, himself, leave a bag of money on her doorstep. It had to come through somebody.”
“Yessum, an’ I ’spect I know who that somebody was.”
I smiled. “She thinks it was a group that contributed, which was the way I wanted it so she wouldn’t feel obligated or embarrassed about it. But still, she could’ve expressed some gratitude to whoever was in the group. I’ve just never been comfortable with people who think there’s a direct line between them and the Lord without any third-party help.”
“Preachers is bad about that. Everybody dig down till it hurt to raise they salary, and they act like it found money come down from heaven ’specially for them.”
“That’s the truth,” I agreed. “But, Lillian, that wasn’t the end of it. They almost didn’t let Emma Sue get on the plane. She’d packed some things she wasn’t supposed to, so they unpacked everything right out there in front of everybody, and I mean everything. She was just mortified when they pulled out some feminine hygiene products that hadn’t even been put in Ziploc bags. Which I wouldn’t have known to do, either, but somebody should’ve told her how and what to pack. I can’t imagine what’ll happen when they change planes in New York and a full-body scan has to be done. But the worst of all was the pastor, who tried to defend her while halfway acting like she wasn’t with his group. I really blame him for the whole embarrassing episode.”
“Well,” Lillian said, “I hope the pore little thing have a good time if she ever get there. And if she do get there, Mr. Sam’ll look after her.”
“I expect he’ll have to.” I sat back with a sigh at the thought of his being gone for a couple of weeks. “Why, good morning, Lloyd,” I said, as the boy pushed through the swinging door from the dining room and Lillian got up to go to the stove. “Big day today, isn’t it?”
He groaned. “Last day before exams is always a big day, but I could sure do without it. We’ll be reviewing all day and studying all weekend—finals start on Monday. I wish it was this time next week.”
“Scrambled or fried?” Lillian asked. “I already got some of them little link sausages you like. Miss Julia, which you want?”
Lloyd and I answered at the same time. “Scrambled.”
“Mr. Sam get off okay?” Lloyd asked as he sat at the table to await breakfast. “Y’all sure did leave early.”
“Yes, and we needed every minute of it, too,” I said, able to laugh about it now as I told him about the search of Emma Sue’s luggage, leaving out, of course, any mention of specifics. “I did feel sorry for her because it was such a public search, and of course she was weeping the whole way through it.”
“I guess I would be, too,” Lloyd said, “especially if they went through my underdrawers. Kinda embarrassing. Anyway, I think I’d like to go on one of those trips overseas one of these days.”
“Why don’t you plan to go to a college where they offer a junior year abroad? I might even come to visit if you were gone that long.”
“Huh!” Lillian said, as she spooned scrambled eggs onto our plates. “I like to see you get on a airplane.”
“You just might,” I said, coming right back at her. “Because if I go, you’re going, too.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Lloyd said before she could respond. “I’m not even in high school yet, so we have a long time to figure it out. Besides, I’m going to Chapel Hill if I can get in and I don’t know if they have that junior year.”
“Chapel Hill has anything you want, and you’ll get in, don’t worry about that. You just keep up your grades the way you’ve been doing, stay with your tennis and maybe some volunteer work and they’ll take you. And, Lloyd,” I went on, “let’s put getting your Eagle Scout ranking at the top of the list. That’ll look good on an application.”
“Yessum, but I still have a few more badges to get before I can start my project. It might take another year or so.”
“That’s fine, just don’t let it slide. Starting high school next year is just the time when a lot of boys give up Scouting. I know you’re getting tired of it, but you’re too close to let it lapse now.”
“No’m, I won’t.” He took a last bite, wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. “Thanks, Lillian. I better get going or I’ll be late. Miss Julia, we might get out early today, so I’ll probably be home around two. I could start packing up some of my stuff this afternoon, ’less somebody wants to play tennis. I’ll let you know.”
After he banged out the back door, an almost empty backpack dangling from his shoulder, I sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. He’s going to pack up and leave without a backward look.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Lillian said as she cleared the table. “He’s not gone yet, an’ I ’spect you can come up with a few excuses for him to stay on. If you put yo’ mind to it like you usually do.”
“I guess I could,” I said, agreeing because I’d already thought of a few. “But it wouldn’t be right. Oh, Lillian, I’m just so torn up over this. He needs a mother and a father, and he has both just four blocks away, yet I hate to see him go.”
“I know you do. But jus’ think, a little while back you didn’t have nobody. Now you got four chil’ren, if you count Latisha, who you might as well ’cause she think she b’long here, too. An’ even better, you don’t have ’em all underfoot all day long. I say, count yo’ blessin’s ’cause you got a lot of ’em.”
So that’s what I tried to do for the rest of the morning in between going in and out of Lloyd’s room to look at all the stuff that would soon be gone and to enjoy the boy smell that permeated the room.
I thought of calling around to see if anybody wanted to go to lunch, but I didn’t have the heart for it. I thought of working on that needlepoint canvas, but I couldn’t sit still long enough.
The fact of the matter was that I dawdled all morning, becoming sadder and sadder at the realization that all my days from henceforth would be just like this one: empty of things to do and with nothing to look forward to at the end of each school day.
At just about the end of that particular school day, the telephone rang. Thinking it would be Lloyd calling to say that he’d be on the tennis court until suppertime, I answered it.
There was a lot of static on the line, and my first thought was that Sam was calling from miles above the ocean or, with a heart-stopping chill, that someone was calling about a disaster of some kind.
So it took me a second or two to concentrate on a vaguely familiar voice. “Miss Julia?”
“Yes?” I heard more voices in the background, low and constant, like a radio that needed to be turned down.
“Sam…?” the voice said.
“I can’t understand you. You sound like you’re in a barrel. Who do you want to speak to?”
More static. “… need to speak to Sam.”
“He’s not here. He’s on his way to the Holy Land. I can have him call you when he gets back, but it’ll be awhile. Who is this, anyway?” I waited, listening to what sounded like rushing wind or maybe falling water. Then it hit me. “Mr. Pickens? Is that you? Are you all right? Where are you?”
I heard “Sam” again and maybe “Coleman,” but I couldn’t be sure, although I was holding the receiver so close that it was hurting my ear. Then, as clear as a bell, I heard another voice, heavier and harsher, say, “He can’t talk no more.” And the connection was broken.
“What in the world?” I said, then hung up the phone and stood there trying to make sense of the strange call.
Hearing Lloyd come into the kitchen, I wandered out to see him, still thinking over what more and more seemed to have been a call from Mr. Pickens wanting some kind of help from Sam. Which was strange to begin with, because Mr. Pickens knew Sam was off walking where Jesus walked, at least he should’v
e known because that was all we’d talked about for weeks. And, yes, Mr. Pickens himself had left on a case—who knows whose footsteps he was walking in— a week or so before Sam flew off, so maybe he’d gotten the dates mixed up. But it was an unusual circumstance, to say the least, for him to need help from anybody at any time and the more worrisome because of it.
Chapter 6
“That was strange,” I said as I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen where Lloyd stood by the counter, eating a banana while watching Lillian smear peanut butter on graham crackers.
“What was?” Lloyd asked.
“That phone call I just got. I think it was Mr. Pickens, but the connection was so bad I could only pick up a few words. He was calling for Sam, I think.”
“J.D. called?” Lloyd asked, the banana stopped halfway to his mouth. “Mama was expecting him home three days ago, but she’s not heard from him. What did he want?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I couldn’t get much out of him. There was too much interference on the line. I heard him say ‘Sam’ and maybe ‘Coleman,’ but I’m not sure about that.”
“Where he at?” Lillian asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and the odd thing about it was that somebody else—a different voice—broke in and said, “He can’t talk no more,” which was mighty poor grammar, and hung up. I feel as if I should be doing something, but I don’t know what.”
“Call him back,” Lillian said.
“I can’t. He didn’t tell me where he was.”
Lloyd’s eyes had gotten bigger as we talked, then he seemed to shake himself and put his mind to work. “Anybody else call since he did?”
“No. I just hung up a minute ago.”
“Then do the Return Call thing. You can make the last call reconnect. It might even clear the line.”
“You do it, Lloyd. I might mess it up.”
“Okay,” he said, laying aside his half-eaten banana and going to the phone book under the kitchen phone. “I better look up the directions to be sure.”
