by Ann B. Ross
Mr. Pickens finally came awake enough to help get himself out, but only when Lillian crooned through the trunk, “Come on now, Mr. Pickens. I got a fine roast beef an’ some gravy an’ mashed potatoes, like you like, an’ a great big choc’late cake jus’ waitin’ on you.”
The poor man, unshaved, bent over and trying to pull down his hospital gown—which created a draft in the rear—was nearly driven to the ground when Hazel Marie flung herself on him. On top of that, he was confused as to where he was and how he’d gotten there, mumbling and half laughing in between whatever he was saying. Addled in his head, it seemed to me.
“Etta Mae,” I said, sidling up to her, “I would’ve thought he’d be coming out of his daze by now. They must’ve given him a dose and a half.”
She nodded, watching as James and Hazel Marie guided Mr. Pickens up the steps onto the porch, with Lloyd right behind them. “Yeah, and I’m wondering if they’ve kept him sedated the whole time. I don’t know, Miss Julia, but Dr. Hargrove ought to see him as soon as he can.”
“That’s going to be right away,” I said, “and he better not tell us to take him to the hospital. Mr. Pickens needs to get in bed and stay there until his system is cleared out. He’s had enough moving around for a while.”
She agreed, then said she wanted to look at his bandage again.
On our way into the house, she was having second thoughts. “Maybe we should’ve taken him directly to the emergency room—let them look at it.”
“If he needs to go, we’ll call an ambulance. I don’t want to get him in and out of that car another time.” I looked at Etta Mae’s watch, which I was still wearing, and saw that it was after three o’clock. “Take a look at him, Etta Mae, then let’s get home and go to bed.”
That was quicker said than done, because by the time she’d checked the bandage and I’d taken her to her trailer in Delmont and gotten myself back home, there wasn’t much time left for sleeping. But I went straight to the big downstairs bedroom and fell into bed after only a brief and hurried toilette. I’d left instructions with both Hazel Marie and Lillian to call Dr. Hargrove at six o’clock even if it woke him up.
Right before sleep overcame me, I started laughing as I recalled Mr. Pickens’s reaction to having his bandage checked. Hazel Marie and James had led him to the bed, where he’d sprawled out on his stomach, heaving a mighty sigh of relief. At that point, Etta Mae had turned back the covers and lifted his bandage to check for bleeding. His head popped up off the pillow and his hand swatted at her. “Get away from there,” he yelled. “That’s private!” Which just goes to show how confused he was, because no telling how many people had had their hands on his privates since the day he’d been shot.
Then I had to laugh again, recalling Lillian’s skeptical look at what I was wearing. “What you doin’ in that getup?” she’d asked, looking up and down at Etta Mae’s white scrub suit that had served me so well in the Mill Run hospital.
“Don’t ask,” I’d said, glancing down at my high waters, which revealed stockinged ankles between the end of the scrub pants and my stacked-heel Ferragamos.
Before long, though, I was sleeping like the dead, but was awakened too early by an awful racket banging somewhere in the house. Thinking the worst, I crawled out, put on a robe and stormed out to see what was happening.
“It’s that carpenter,” Lillian said as I got to the kitchen. “He start in hammerin’ back in the sunroom, buildin’ them cabinets and shelves you wanted. He worked all day Saturday, too, but not yesterday, it bein’ Sunday. He got all that pink wallpaper off in the bedroom.”
“Oh, my word, I’d forgotten about him.” I dropped into a chair by the table, wondering if I should go back to bed or try to stay up. “Did you get any sleep, Lillian?”
“Yes’m, some. I jus’ got here. I got the babies fed so Miss Hazel Marie could sleep in. She happy as a lark, now she got Mr. Pickens back.”
“How was he when you left?”
“Still sleepin’. But Dr. Hargrove say he on his way, an’ I ’spect he there by now.”
“And Lloyd? And Latisha? They get off to school?”
“Yes’m. Here your coffee.” She set a cup before me, and I decided I might as well stay up. “Now tell me what all you an’ Miss Etta Mae get up to while you gone.”
So I did, recounting everything that had happened, from attending a snake-handling service to becoming a kitchen aide worker, which accounted for the scrub suit I was still wearing when we arrived home. One might say that it had been a most unusual weekend for someone who was accustomed to slow and gentle days measured by respectable activities.
Lillian was wide-eyed at the telling, asking over and over about “them snake people,” unable to understand how anybody could believe that fiddling with serpents was an act of faith.
“It’s in the Bible,” I told her, “somewhere, I’m not sure where, but the few verses may have been a later addition. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Who want to add something to the Holy Bible?” she demanded. “They’s enough in there already to keep me busy all my life tryin’ to live up to it. I don’t hold no truck with anybody wantin’ to put something else in. ’Specially something about snakes.” She shuddered.
“Well, you and me,” I agreed, getting to my feet. “I better get dressed, Lillian, and try to make it through the day. I declare, I feel as if I’ve been gone a week with all we’ve been through. And,” I went on, “I’ve got to talk to Coleman because that West Virginia sheriff is sure to be looking for Mr. Pickens. And maybe Etta Mae and me, as well.”
“Y’all in trouble with the law?”
“Well, yes, I guess we are. Which reminds me, I better talk to Dr. Hargrove, too. We’ll make a case for Mr. Pickens getting poor treatment in the Mill Run hospital—being overly sedated or something—whatever we can think of that would require an immediate transfer to better facilities. No judge would hold us responsible under such dire circumstances.”
“No judge ’round here anyway,” Lillian said.
After dressing, I called Hazel Marie to get the latest word on Mr. Pickens’s condition.
“Dr. Hargrove just left,” she told me. “He was amazed at J.D.’s wounds. Said he’d never seen anything like it and J.D. was lucky it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. I couldn’t look, but I could picture it, bless his heart. Anyway, he started him on an antibiotic, but wouldn’t give him anything for pain. He told me to give him nothing stronger than Tylenol if he really needs something.”
“Is he awake?”
“Who? J.D.? About half awake, I’d say. I’ve told him twice how he got home, but he doesn’t remember anything about last night.”
“My goodness,” I said, wondering how something so deeply etched on my memory could be blanked out of his. “What about his wounds? Etta Mae was afraid one of them had opened up. You know, when he fell off the seat.”
“He fell off the seat!”
“Well, see, a deer crossed the road in front of us and Etta Mae had to slam on the brakes. Mr. Pickens tumbled off the backseat. He thought he’d fallen off the bed.”
“Oh, my poor baby. Anyway, Dr. Hargrove cleaned it and put on a fresh bandage. He said he thought it’d be all right.”
“That’s good. Now listen, Hazel Marie, if a certain Sheriff McAfee from Mill Run, West Virginia, happens to call, just refer him to Coleman. Don’t tell him anything else, not even that Mr. Pickens is there, or anything.”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then she said, almost whispering, “You think he’ll try to get J.D. back?”
“He might. But if he does, we’ll put Mr. Pickens in our hospital under our sheriff’s orders, and give Sheriff McAfee a taste of his own medicine.” Try as I might, I couldn’t see that lanky sheriff sneaking through our hospital as a kitchen aide worker.
Chapter 25
After tracking Coleman down to let him know we were back and had Mr. Pickens where he belonged, I had to go into detail about
how we’d sprung him from Sheriff McAfee’s clutches.
“You did what?” Coleman asked in some amazement.
So I told him again, then asked, “Now, Coleman, the big question is this: What’s that sheriff going to do? Will he try to extradite him? Will he arrest me and Etta Mae? And by the way, Mr. Pickens was not under arrest. I specifically asked if he was, and was told by Sheriff McAfee that he was not, so we did not aid and abet an escape. It’s important to remember that in whatever dealings you have with him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course, you. I figure you’ll be the one he’ll contact—he knows where to reach you. I think the best recourse would be to firmly remind the sheriff that Mr. Pickens left of his own free will and will happily return to testify when and if he is needed. At least I assume he will—you can never tell what Mr. Pickens will do. You might also remind Sheriff McAfee that by that time Mr. Pickens should have all his marbles back in place and be able to testify because he’ll no longer be so heavily medicated he doesn’t know up from down.”
“What?”
I was beginning to wonder about Coleman by this time. “Let me put it this way,” I said, taking it slowly so he could follow my line of thought. “Etta Mae thinks they kept Mr. Pickens under heavy sedation. We know they kept him isolated, and we know they tried to keep us away from him. That to me smacks of unlawful imprisonment. Or something. So I think when that sheriff calls you, which he surely will, you ought to at least intimate that he is in big trouble, which I won’t mind bringing down on his head.”
“Ah, well, let me think about it, Miss Julia. First thing, though, I ought to talk to J.D. Get his take on what happened.”
“Good idea. And lots of luck making sense of what he says. But go on and see for yourself what they did to him. Actually, that reminds me: I’m going to talk to Dr. Hargrove about defrocking whatever doctor took orders from a sheriff who’s never been to medical school. I think steps should be taken against him. And I think I’d better get Binkie on board for me and Etta Mae. It never hurts to have a good lawyer on hand.”
“Okay, you do whatever you want about that and I’ll get my ducks in a row for when the sheriff calls.”
After that satisfactory call, I went upstairs to see what Adam Waites, one of the carpenter’s sons, was doing. The sunroom was in a mess, I can tell you that, with a table saw set up in the middle of the room, lumber stacked around, and sawdust everywhere.
“Mr. Waites,” I said, as he removed his safety glasses, “tell me how you’re progressing.” From all the noise he’d been making, I’d thought he would’ve been further along than he was.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Murdoch. It’s a beautiful day that the Lord has made, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it is,” I said, waving away the distraction. “Now, catch me up with what you’re doing.”
And what it amounted to was the building of the framework for the cabinets under the windows.
“Now, right here,” he said, pointing to the middle window, “I thought I’d build a desk, then …”
“No, Mr. Waites, no built-in desk. Sam needs room to spread out, so I’m putting a table desk in here for him. Just build a straight wall of cabinets like the ones I drew out for you on the plan. Please don’t add anything extra without checking with me first.” Mildred hadn’t warned me that Mr. Waites would have ideas of his own, but now that I knew, I’d have to watch him carefully. “And one other thing, we’ll need to have a number of electrical outlets for the lower cabinets and around all the walls. You know, for his printer and copier and telephone and all the other gadgets he has.”
“Have to get an electrician for that.”
“Of course. I assumed you’d know who to get, so get him when you’re ready.”
Mr. Waites studied the wall for a minute. “Sure would be a good place for a desk. You want to go ahead and pick out the stain you want on the cabinets?”
“Mr. Waites, Adam,” I said, trying for patience and about failing to get it. “No stain on the cabinets. See, right here on the plan, it says white. I want white cabinets. That means paint—good paint that won’t chip. Enamel of some kind.” Then, feeling quite efficient for my forethought, I went on. “In fact, the cabinets have been ordered and delivered. They’re stacked up in boxes out in the garage, just waiting to be brought in and installed.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I knew that. I’ll bring my brother to help me get them in.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, then looking at me with a sheepish expression, he said, “Just got my mind on too many other things, I guess.”
“Well, let’s get it on this job. Although,” I said, not wanting to be too hard on him, “if you’re having trouble at home or something, I’m sorry.”
“No’m, I’m all right. The Lord will see me through.”
Thinking to myself, Let’s hope He will, I wondered if I’d been remiss by not employing Mr. Caldwell, the architect, to design and supervise the remodeling of the sunroom as well as the new library. But what was done was done, and I left feeling less than fully confident in Mr. Waites’s ability to follow directions.
Then right after lunch, Mr. Tucker Caldwell himself showed up at my door right on time, although with all that had happened over the weekend, I’d forgotten he was coming. Which will teach me to check my calendar now and then.
“I’ve come to measure your room, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said as I ushered him in.
This was the first time I’d seen him without his desk intervening and I was surprised at what a small man he was. Standing next to him, I saw he barely came to my shoulder, although in spite of his stature he gave off a sense of busy competence. He wore a brown suit with a red bow tie, which I could’ve told him did not add a whit to my confidence in him—reminding me, as it did, of another small man’s affinity for bow ties.
I took him back to the large bedroom, pointing out the two possible sites for the fireplace with the Williamsburg chimney I wanted. He went right to work with a large metal tape measure, jotting down in his tiny handwriting the figures that he’d use in drawing a blueprint. I stood in the middle of the room next to the bed, watching as he worked with prissy efficiency. And gradually I began to realize that something was different from my first impression of him. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, for there was nothing unusual about his attire or his heavy glasses or the way his thick hair flopped over his forehead. But something was different. Perhaps, I mused, I just had not known him long enough.
“I think we’ll need bookshelves, too,” I reminded him. “Tall ones, all the way to the ceiling on the fireplace wall, with maybe cabinets underneath. Let’s use mahogany or cherry or something along those lines. Remember, Mr. Caldwell, an English library is the look I want.”
He nodded as he drew the room’s outline on his pad. “I know what you want. I’ll use a dark warm wood around the entire room with panels outlined by thin molding. Deep baseboards and crown moldings with dentils, too. I’ll bring samples of the wood to show you and an elevation of each wall before we begin installation. And you might as well call me Tucker.”
“Thank you,” I said, but did not offer my first name to him. I believe in keeping a professional distance, at least until an employee has proved himself. It’s awfully difficult to complain to or reprimand someone who views himself as your friend.
“You want to keep this Oriental rug?” he asked, as I stepped out into the hall to get out of his way.
“No, it has to go. It suffered a soaking not too long ago, and even though I’ve had it cleaned, I’d prefer carpet instead.” As I considered the old, but not particularly valuable, rug, I couldn’t help but recall Hazel Marie standing in the middle of a huge wet spot on the rug that frigid night her babies had been born.
Tucker Caldwell walked out into the hall, making me step back farther, and eyed the hardwood there. “Looks like the same. Sometimes in these old houses, the hardwood floors don’t match from one room to the next.”
“My house is
not that old,” I assured him, although because it wasn’t a series of cantilevered modern boxes with solar panels on top he probably thought it was.
“Be a shame, though,” he said, “to put carpet over this fine wood. I say we keep the wood and get a new rug.”
“And I say that my feet get cold. Besides, the floor will still be there under the carpet. Now, Mr. Caldwell, I mean, Tucker, what do you think? Where would you put the fireplace?”
“I’m thinking the east wall,” he said, walking back into the room. “It’s a little hard to visualize with the bed in the way and that wall of closets. That’ll have to go. But if we put the fireplace on this wall over here, it’ll be the focal point and the first thing you see when you walk in.”
“Perfect, and exactly what I was thinking,” I said, pleased that he was seeing things my way and not going off on a tangent of his own.
He stood next to the bed, gazing around the room, looking up at the high ceiling and back around all the walls. “Take out those closets,” he said as if he were thinking out loud, “and I’ll have a symmetrical room with almost ideal proportions.” Then, whirling around so quickly he almost startled me, he said, “Ordinarily, I don’t like to copy what’s already been done, but this room lends itself to replicating a typical Williamsburg library. Maybe you’ve seen them?”
“Yes, I showed you a picture…”
“Yes, indeedy,” he said, rubbing his hands as if becoming more and more pleased with the idea. “Now, Mrs. Murdoch, you leave it all to me, because I can assure you that you will like how it turns out. And don’t worry about its being too traditional or old-fashioned. The Williamsburg look never goes out of style.”
I stared at him, hardly believing what I was hearing. “I know,” I said. “I was the one who suggested…”
“So that’s it. I have what I need, so I’ll be going. Oh, by the way, do you have a preference for a builder?”
“Well, Adam Waites is doing some work for me upstairs, and I’ve mentioned the possibility of his doing this room, too.”
