Miss Julia to the Rescue

by Ann B. Ross

  Etta Mae eased our speed down, although we hadn’t been going fast in the first place. Small houses began to appear on each side of the road, which had begun to level off to some extent. To our left, though, the terrain slanted upward, while trees covered the right side of the road. Gradually, with Etta Mae watching our speed, we drove into town. It looked as tired as we were. Hardly anyone was on the sidewalks and only a few cars and trucks on the streets.

  “Goodness,” Etta Mae said. “It’s Saturday night and this place is dead.” She stopped at a blinking traffic light—not enough traffic to warrant a stop light—at what seemed to be the main intersection. “Which way, Miss Julia? You want me to drive around, check the place out?”

  “Yes, let’s do that. Turn left here and let’s see if we can find the sheriff’s office. We have to find a place to stay, too.”

  “Oh.” Etta Mae glanced at me. “We don’t have reservations anywhere?”

  “Well, no. Lloyd said he couldn’t find any motels listed here, so we better look for rooms for rent. Or something.” I belatedly realized that I’d been too anxious to get on the road and had failed to ensure that we had beds for the night. “I’m sorry, Etta Mae. We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  “I’m not worried. We can sleep in the car if we have to. Oh, look,” she said, pointing to a building on the corner. “Is that the courthouse?” She pulled to the side of the street and stopped before a narrow two-story redbrick building that sat flush with the sidewalk. Double doors faced us, while above them the words crayton county courthouse 1869 were carved in a stone pediment. “Not very big, is it? I’m gonna make a right turn here,” and she went on and did so. “A lot of times the Sheriff’s Department is close to the courthouse.”

  She was right. Attached to the back of the courthouse was a one-story cement-block addition with a sign out front that let us know we’d found the sheriff. Or at least his office, because from the looks of it neither he nor anybody else was there. A single light burned above the door, but none inside. A lone patrol car looked forgotten in the shadows of the parking lot.

  “They must not have a very big force,” Etta Mae said, leaning down to look through my window.

  “Maybe they’re all out on patrol. Let’s go on, Etta Mae. I’d like to find the hospital before it gets too dark.” A soft rain was still falling, the kind that seemed to have set in for the night. With the lowering clouds and high mountains around the town, the late afternoon was dark, lit only by a few streetlights and the few car headlights that passed by.

  “I bet the hospital is on the outskirts. They usually are. Oh, look there,” Etta Mae said. “It’s a café. Why don’t we stop and eat, and maybe ask around for the hospital and a place to stay.”

  “That’s a good idea. I could use a stop, and I’m hungry, too.”

  She went around the block, then parked on the side near the restaurant behind four or five other cars. Reaching into the back floorboard, I drew out the umbrella I always kept there. “I only have one, Etta Mae, but we can both get under it.”

  “You use it,” she said. “I don’t need it.” And she dashed from the car and waited under the awning that extended over the sidewalk. All the businesses that we passed on our way to the restaurant were closed, some apparently for the night, others forever. The restaurant seemed to be the busiest place in town, but it wasn’t full. I hoped that Bud’s Best Burgers, Etc. lived up to its name, while wondering what the Etc. entailed.

  At least it was a family restaurant, for I saw a few children seated with their parents when we walked in. Maybe Saturday night was eat-out night and Bud’s Best Burgers was a treat for the whole family. Everybody looked up at us as we stood by the cash register, not knowing whether to sit down or wait to be seated.

  “Jus’ grab any place you want,” a waitress yelled from behind the counter. She wore a white uniform and had her blond hair tied up with a red ribbon.

  We slid into a booth, one of five or so across from the counter. After studying the sticky laminated menus, we both decided on the special: meat loaf, mashed potatos, lima beans and sliced tomatoes. I guessed that was part of the Etc.

  A young lank-haired girl, who kept looking up from her pad to glance at us from under her heavy eyebrows, took our order. “You want coffee?” she asked, a broad twang in her voice.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Ah, miss, we’re just passing through, but we need to stop for the night. Can you recommend a motel or inn where we can get a couple of rooms?”

  She stared at me with her dark eyes, and I wondered for a minute how bright she was. “Ain’t no motels, but they’s cabins for rent all around. For the fishin’, you know.” She took our menus, leaned across the table and stuck them back behind the ketchup bottle, sugar, salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll ask Bud. He might know who’s got some empty ’uns.”

  Well, that brought out Bud himself, a short, overweight man with a toothpick in his mouth, his round body wrapped in a soiled apron. “Say you folks’re lookin’ for a place to stay? How long you here for?”

  “Yes, we are,” I said, although the man had addressed Etta Mae, as most men usually did. “And just overnight, I think.”

  “Well, Pearl Overstreet might have a cabin for you. I ’spect that’s about the only place you’ll find. She don’t usually fill up till late in the season. Go back to the highway and turn left. Keep on a-goin’ and you’ll see her place about a mile out. You can’t miss it. She’s got a bait and tackle shop right in front. Turn in there and you’ll see the cabins behind it. That’ll be your best bet this late.”

  “Thank you so much. And,” I said, as the young waitress slid our plates in front of us, “this looks delicious.”

  It wasn’t bad, not exactly delicious, but welcome after a long day of travel and fast food. I dithered over the tip when we’d finished, not wanting to draw attention by being overly generous, but also wanting to leave good feelings behind us.

  “Just do fifteen percent,” Etta Mae whispered, understanding my dilemma. “That’s probably more than she usually gets, but it’s not too much.”

  Actually, it was the cheapest meal I’d had in a long time, so fifteen percent more hardly put a dent in my wallet. We waved and smiled at the waitress, who did not respond, and left the café with every eye in it following us.

  “Let’s go find Pearl’s cabins, Etta Mae,” I said. “We’ll look for the hospital first thing tomorrow, but right now I am on my last legs.”

  Chapter 14

  As we drove through town, following Bud’s directions to Pearl’s cabins, we passed a dark drugstore, a boarded-up movie house and a convenience store, which, besides Bud’s, was the only downtown business open. On the edge of town, I saw a gas station selling a brand of gas I’d never heard of. Nonetheless, it was open, so I said, “We better stop and fill up, Etta Mae.”

  She glanced over and grinned. “Good idea. We’re almost half empty.”

  “I like to be prepared,” I said rather primly, then smiled at my own picky ways.

  Before Etta Mae could get out to pump the gas, a young, coverall-clad man with a full head of red hair ran out from the station and leaned down to the window that Etta Mae lowered. “Fill ’er up?”

  “Yes, please. Premium,” she said, then turned to me. “I can’t believe it. This must be the only full-service station in the country.”

  While the tank filled, the young man—Junior, from his sewn-on label—quickly cleaned the windshield, then he leaned in toward the window. “Pop ’er hood an’ I’ll check the oil.”

  When that was done and he’d slammed the hood closed, he ran around the car and disconnected the gas pump. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he reappeared at the window.

  “Mighty fine car you got there,” he said, “but she sure takes the gas, don’t she? That’ll be twenty-eight, sixteen.”

  I handed two twenties to Etta Mae, who passed them to him. “Be right back with your change.” And he dashed off, the oily rag flopping
from his back pocket.

  “Industrious young man, isn’t he?” I said. When he returned with the change, I leaned over and asked, “Ah, Mr. Junior? Are we far from Pearl’s cabins?”

  Leaning over with his hands on his knees, he studied us for a few minutes. “No’m, not far. ’Bout a mile or so. Y’all not here for the fishin’, are you?”

  “Just passing through,” Etta Mae said, picking up on what I had told Bud earlier, “but we need to stop for the night.”

  “Well,” Junior said, “they mostly take them that wants to fish an’ stuff like ’at. A few others slip in now an’ then. But it’ll do for the night, I reckon.”

  As Etta Mae thanked him and turned the ignition, he slapped the roof of the car and said, “Y’all be careful now.”

  Pulling out onto the road, Etta Mae said grimly, “He didn’t quite give Pearl a glowing recommendation, did he?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” I said. Then sitting up, I pointed to a sign. “Look, Etta Mae, the hospital’s up that street. Just think, Mr. Pickens is only a little way from us. We could go see him now.”

  Etta Mae took her lower lip in her teeth, then shook her head. “No, let’s wait. I think we ought to check in at Pearl’s first and be sure we have a place to sleep. Then if you’re not too tired, we can come back. Visiting hours are usually till nine, so there’s plenty of time.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “From the way everybody’s talking, Pearl might be our only hope for a bed. Let’s get that settled, then see how we feel.” Actually, at the thought of Mr. Pickens being so near, I was feeling quite rejuvenated.

  The feeling didn’t last long as we passed small clapboard houses, looking dismal and rain sodden, interspersed with trailers, all with blue television lights emanating from their windows. Cars of all stripes and ages, a few up on blocks, filled the yards as well as the driveways. Large yellow plastic toys—tricycles and baby slides—had been abandoned in the yards.

  After almost a mile of this unedifying stretch of road, Etta Mae turned in beside Pearl’s Bait & Tackle and drew up in front of a small office with peeling paint and a listing porch. Several, but not many, other cabins were dotted around under the trees, and as we got out of the car, I could hear the rippling sound of a stream behind the cabins.

  We walked into what seemed to be a one-room cabin and Etta Mae dinged the bell on the counter. A thin, morose-looking man, badly in need of a shave and dressed in overalls, came out of a bathroom. I knew because the sound of flushing followed him.

  “Good evening,” I said, as he approached the counter. “We’d like two cabins, please.”

  “Ain’t got but one. Prob’bly the last empty ’un in the county. Number twelve, down by the creek.”

  “Oh, well. Well, we’ll take it.”

  “Be fifty dollars,” he said, “for one. Sixty-five for two. In advance.”

  Holding my pocketbook below the counter so he couldn’t see what was in it, I handed him the exact amount. “We don’t think it’ll be necessary, but we might want to stay another night. Will that be all right?”

  “Better decide early an’ get it paid for,” he said, turning a form around for me to sign. “These things go fast.”

  I can’t imagine why, I thought but didn’t say. The walls of the office were covered with signs and posters, fishing rods and mounted fish, and other piscatorial paraphernalia. I wondered if Sam, who loved to fish, would be impressed with the place. From what I’d seen so far, I wouldn’t be recommending it.

  Trying to be friendly as he passed a key attached to a wooden paddle across the counter, I asked, “Does Pearl come in tomorrow?”

  He stared at me. “Naw, she’s passed.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Been awhile, so it don’t matter. And ma’am,” he went on, as I realized he’d never given us a hint or even the pretense of a smile, “we don’t allow no cookin’ and no loud parties.” His eyes slid over to Etta Mae, then he glared at me. “And no visitors in the cabins. Just the ones paid cash on the barrelhead right here in the office.”

  “Why, of course,” I said, frowning at the unusual demand. “We’re not expecting any visitors.”

  I had to hurry to catch up with Etta Mae, who’d slammed out of the office and plopped herself in the car.

  “I’m sorry, Etta Mae,” I said as I slid into my seat. “I wish we had better accommodations.” When she didn’t answer, I went on. “He wasn’t very friendly, was he?”

  “Friendly? He was downright rude and vulgar. The idea!” she fumed as she drove past the row of cabins, which I now saw were doubles. Each had a small porch with two doors that apparently opened into two rentable rooms.

  “You know what he meant, don’t you?” Etta Mae said, her temper obviously on the rise. “He thought we were here to entertain men.”

  “No! How could he think such a thing?”

  “Probably because he’s had the problem before.”

  “Oh, Etta Mae, maybe we ought to sleep in the car.” As the full import of his implication sank in, I said, “I can see why he’d think you could do some entertaining, but me? Makes you wonder what kind of women have been here. Maybe I ought to be flattered, but I don’t believe I could make a living at it.”

  She snorted, then began to laugh. I joined in because it was either that or cry.

  Etta Mae parked in front of number twelve, then we got our bags from the trunk and walked up the one step onto the narrow porch. She unlocked the door and felt around on the wall for a light switch that turned on an overhead lightbulb. We would’ve been better off to have left the room dark. Unfinished paneling lined the walls, and one double bed took up most of the space. A small table held a one-cup coffeemaker and a few Styrofoam cups. Two straight chairs were the only seating in the room. A lamp with a crooked shade stood on the only nightstand. The room was damp and chilly, and Etta Mae went immediately to the portable heater and turned it on.

  She glanced into the bathroom and backed out with a grimace on her face. “Tee-ninesy,” she said, “and rust everywhere.” Then she turned around and took in all the amenities, or lack of same, in the room. “No television! And no telephone. Do these people live in the twenty-first century?”

  My heart sank at the sight of the sad little room, especially at the one bed. I’d stayed in a similar place once before, but that had been in Florida and I’d slept in a chair by myself. Having become accustomed to sleeping alone after Wesley Lloyd Springer passed, it had taken months after Sam and I married for me to become used to sharing a bed again. Now I’d have to try to sleep with Etta Mae. Looking around at the crude accommodations, I wondered how I’d make it through the night. One thing was for sure: I was going to do all in my power to get Mr. Pickens out of that hospital tomorrow, thereby making this a one-night stand.

  “Etta Mae,” I said, “I’m not as tired as I thought. Let’s go to the hospital and see what we can find out.”

  “Suits me. The only way we’ll be able to sleep here is if we’re too tired to care.” She started toward the door, then turned around. “Let’s put our bags back in the car. I don’t much want to leave anything here.”

  “Good idea. But leave the heater and a light on so the manager won’t think we’ve left for good. Though he probably wouldn’t care now that he’s been paid.”

  “Yeah,” Etta Mae said as she held the door for me. “Except he might rent it to somebody else if he thinks we’re gone.” She giggled. “I’d hate to walk in and find a couple of strangers in our bed.”

  Driving back toward town, I realized that the rain had stopped, although the street was still wet and the occasional passing truck splashed water up on the car. We both were silent while we looked for the small sign that had indicated the location of the hospital. It was full dark by this time, but I caught occasional glimpses of other signs, mostly for churches that were apparently set too far off the highway to be seen. SHILOH MISSIONARY BAPTIST was one, HOLY GHOST REVIV
AL another and CHURCH OF GOD WITH… was one I didn’t quite catch. We passed the gas station and saw Junior busily cleaning the windshield of a pickup.

  “Turn around, Etta Mae,” I said. “We saw that hospital sign when we were at the gas station, so we’ve passed it.”

  “Dang it,” she said, “I thought I knew where it was. Okay, I’ll turn around here.” And she pulled into a lot that faced a string of open-sided sheds with a large sign above them reading luther’s flea market open daily except sunday. She drove back the way we’d come, passed Junior’s again, then turned left onto an even narrower blacktop street. We climbed steadily, went around two shallow curves and came out onto a flat area with a long white two-story building on our right.

  “This is it,” I said, “though it looks more like a nursing home than a hospital. Turn in here, Etta Mae.”

  “That’s the emergency entrance,” she said. “I see the visitors’ lot farther down.”

  As we parked and got out, I looked around at the well-kept grounds, the lights glowing from the windows, many revealing patients propped up in bed. Groups of visitors were coming and going through the lobby doors. We got out of the car and followed one group, overhearing talk about Grandma and how much longer each of them reckoned she would last. One man said, “I’m gittin’ tired of comin’ up here ev’ry night that rolls around. An’ I’ll tell you this—I don’t mean to miss Dancin’ with the Stars another time.”

  The lobby was full—men, women, teenagers, children and babies—and I think every last one of them was wearing some kind of denim: flat front, pleated, hip-huggers, waist high, boot cut, straight leg, full legged, and bib. Etta Mae fit right in. I thought to myself that I would tell Binkie to put me in some denim stock when I got home. Binkie and Sam, both lawyers, managed my estate, but I occasionally offered some useful advice.

  There was a shoulder-high counter at the back of the lobby, so we headed toward that. Able to see only the top of a beehive hairdo with a headset running across it, I stood on my tiptoes to get the attention of the operator.