by Ann B. Ross
“Please tell him that I am expecting him to be here in the morning,” I said as calmly as I could under the circumstances, considering that I was speaking with his mother.
“Lillian,” I said as she prepared to leave after cleaning the kitchen, “would you believe that Adam is working late? But it’s a settled fact that he’s not doing it where he’s supposed to be doing it.”
“He put in a good long day here,” she said. “Wonder where else he’s workin’.”
“I can guess,” I said bitterly. “He’s at that Whitman woman’s house, I just know it, working night and day for her.”
“Yes’m, maybe so, but ’member he been workin’ Saturdays for you an’ not many folks do that.”
“You’re right,” I conceded, trying to be fair about it. “Maybe he’s working tonight so he can finish her job and be back here in the morning.”
With that hope, I joined Lloyd on the front porch, where we waved to Lillian as she left. It was still hot, but a nice breeze had come up and as dusk settled in, I settled myself in a wicker rocker. Lloyd, wearing a polo shirt and khaki long shorts, was sitting on the front steps so he could take note of the few cars passing along the street. My view was partly blocked by the wisteria vine that grew around the porch.
We’d often spent the last hours of the day on the porch, enjoying the company of each other and discussing whatever came to mind or whoever happened to pass by.
“Remind me, Lloyd,” I said, “to have those crepe myrtles trimmed back this winter. They’re about to take over.”
“Okay. They sure filled out this year, didn’t they?”
“Yes, and the boxwoods ought to be pruned, too.” That was the kind of thing we talked about as I gently rocked on the porch and he stretched out his skinny legs. Unless, of course, there was some worrisome matter that was weighing on our minds.
“Mr. Sam’ll be back in about a week?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Yes, and I’m counting the days. I can’t wait to hear all about the trip and, well, just have him back again. I miss him.”
Lloyd nodded. “I do, too. But I was wonderin’, I mean I kinda thought I’d stay on here while he’s gone. You know, not move to Mama’s yet.”
“Why, Lloyd, that would be fine,” I said, thinking, More than fine.
“Well, Mama doesn’t like to stay by herself at night, so I thought you might not, either.”
“Well, I don’t. I’ll certainly sleep better with you here, if it’s all right with your mother.”
“Oh, it is. When I told her I was gonna stay on till he gets back, she said she should’ve thought of it herself.”
I rested my head against the rocker, a smile on my face as I thought that maybe Lloyd was having a problem with his move, just as I was. I certainly wanted what was best for him, but what was best for me kept getting in the way. It wasn’t that I was glad the boy might have a troubled mind about where he should live, I was just grateful to have him a few more days.
We both looked up as a little red car slowed at the stop sign on the corner, hesitated for a minute, then reversed itself to park at our curb.
“That’s Etta Mae,” Lloyd said, standing up and waving as she got out of the car.
Still in one of her colorful scrub suits, she came bouncing up the walk. “Hey, Lloyd,” she called, then as she approached the steps and saw me, “And Miss Julia. I was just passing by and saw y’all sittin’ out here and thought I’d stop and see how you’re doing.”
“Come on up and have a seat,” I said. “We’re glad to see you.”
“I’ll just sit here with Lloyd.” She sat down on the top step, then swung around to lean against one of the pillars on the porch. “I had to be over this way today, so I stopped by to see how J.D.’s getting along. I could tell he’s a whole lot better, because he wouldn’t let me check his bandage.” She threw back her curly head and laughed. “He is so modest.”
Lloyd began telling her how Mr. Pickens couldn’t walk, sit or lie on his back and how Hazel Marie kept trying to rub his back to keep him still. “I’m just gonna stay with Miss Julia till things calm down over there.”
“I don’t blame you,” Etta Mae said, and they laughed together. “So school’s out for the summer? You going to be doing anything special?”
“Just a lot of tennis, I expect,” he said. “I think they want me to help with some clinics again this year. You know, with the little guys.”
They went on talking in this manner for some while, and even though it was pleasant to sit in the lengthening dusk and listen to them, I had noticed something that was unsettling me.
Etta Mae, as long as I’d known her, had had pierced ears, always adorned with earrings of various sizes and designs. She usually wore fairly simple ones—small hoops or studs—when she was working, but I realized that she’d begun to branch out a little with things that dangled or sparkled. I’d often looked askance, though I would never have said anything, at the little bells or stars or reindeer that she wore on her ears around Christmas. More recently, though, she seemed to have earrings that celebrated every holiday that rolled around—dangling hearts on Valentine’s Day, shamrocks on St. Patrick’s Day, and once, when we were in Florida, she’d come out with little green frogs on lily pads. Her patients, she’d told me, those shut-ins that she took care of, enjoyed seeing what she’d have stuck in her ears each time she visited.
“They’ll say,” Etta Mae had said, “ ‘Turn this way, Etta Mae, and let me see what you have on today.’ It’s something they look forward to, so I try to come up with the cutest earrings I can find.”
Hazel Marie loved earrings, too, and she had a number of nice gold ones and some pearl ones as well as a pair of diamond studs. Hazel Marie wasn’t given to wearing anything outrageous, except when it came to the length of her skirts.
But here we were resting at the end of a busy day, conversing and enjoying one another’s company, while I grasped the arms of my rocker tighter and tighter, and tried to calm the dreadful fear that Etta Mae somehow had gotten mixed up with that bunch of body alterers I’d met that afternoon. For not only was she wearing a little silver crescent moon in each lobe, but she also had tiny stars stuck in three separate holes running up the curve of her right ear.
Chapter 32
Now, I am not against piercing one’s ears for decorative purposes. Obviously, because my own were pierced, but only once to a side. I think that when you go beyond one hole in each ear, you’re teetering on the edge. On the edge of what, you may ask, and I say on the edge of too much, which is my opinion and my right to hold it.
Still, I probably wouldn’t have had such a reaction to Etta Mae’s superfluity of holes if I had not seen those prolifically perforated employees of Agnes Whitman, and Agnes Whitman herself.
The fact of the matter was I was worried about Etta Mae. I didn’t want to see her mixed up with some outlandish cult and end up with a safety pin in her eyebrow or with her beautiful skin covered with hearts and flowers and Harley-Davidson insignia. But even as I told myself that the posssibility of that happening was just too far-fetched, especially to someone as levelheaded as Etta Mae Wiggins, the thought of staid, reliable Adam Waites being lured away from his job sprang to mind. I came to the realization that Agnes Whitman was a force that would have to be reckoned with.
Which immediately reminded me of another force—Sheriff Ardis McAfee—who sooner or later would also have to be reckoned with.
“Well,” Etta Mae said, standing and reaching over to ruffle Lloyd’s hair, “this is nice, but I better be going. Been a long day.”
“Oh, Etta Mae,” I said, walking over to her, “I haven’t even offered you anything. Have you had supper?”
“Yes’m, I had something at McDonald’s between patients. I usually get through in time to fix a decent meal, but today’s been busy.”
“Yes, and you went out of your way to see about Mr. Pickens, which was thoughtful of you. But you need to take
care of yourself and eat right so you can fight off viruses and flu bugs and bad influences.”
She glanced at me with a quizzical expression, but then laughed and said, “I probably need a keeper. See y’all later.” And she walked out to her car.
As we watched her drive away, Lloyd asked, “What kind of bad influences?”
“Oh, you never know what you’ll come up against. There’re people who’ll talk you into anything if you’re not strong enough to resist.” I was going to leave it at that, but decided to ask his opinion. “Did you see those extra earrings Etta Mae was wearing?”
“Yeah, they looked pretty cute, didn’t they?”
My word, I thought as I sank back onto the rocking chair, bad influences just kept rippling on and no telling how far they’d go.
I rocked for a while without answering, then said, “When Etta Mae and I found ourselves in a snake-handling service, I noticed that those snakes were left alone until just one person got the nerve to pick one up. Then everybody else began to crowd around to get one, too. What I’m saying, Lloyd, is that most people don’t think for themselves. They simply follow a leader or a fad or what have you. And along those lines, have you seen the girl who runs the cash register at the drugstore? I was in there last week, and I couldn’t understand a word she said.”
“Oh, you mean the one with a stud in her tongue?” Lloyd said, and then laughed. “I’ve seen her, and she does lisp pretty bad.”
“I don’t know what comes over people to make them do a thing like that, and I hope Etta Mae stops with what she has. Enough is enough, I always say. But at least she hasn’t marked herself up for life with tattoos.”
“I kinda hate to tell you this, Miss Julia, but Etta Mae already has a tattoo. Just a little one, though. At least that’s all I’ve seen.”
I stopped rocking. “Where does she have a tattoo? I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, it’s on her back, kinda.”
“You must be mistaken, Lloyd. I’ve seen her in sundresses and there’s nothing on her back.”
He squinched up his face, then mumbled, “It’s lower than that. Hardly anybody would ever see it.”
“So when did you?”
“Remember when we went to Florida that time? I went swimming with Etta Mae in the hotel pool and I saw it then. It’s just a little tiny butterfly nobody’d ever see unless she had on a bikini. Which she did.”
“Well,” I said, dismayed at learning what was under Etta Mae’s clothes. But if she’d had it when we were in Florida, it couldn’t be the handiwork of Agnes Whitman. Which gave me some comfort. “Well, maybe she was young and didn’t know it wouldn’t come off. Maybe she regrets it now, and maybe she ought to wear a one-piece bathing suit from now on.”
As the streetlights began to glow, I gathered myself to go inside, then decided that I couldn’t leave the subject without adding a moral.
If I should ever be so full of myself as to declare a teachable moment, this would have been the perfect time for it. But I don’t see myself as a puffed-up teacher strewing pearls of wisdom before the less astute. Lloyd, however, was still young and needed guidance, so I preferred to call these times learnable moments, especially since nine times out of ten I learned something as well. Someone, long ago, said that he didn’t know what he thought until he wrote it. That’s the way I am, except I’m never sure what I think until I say it.
Now, I certainly don’t mind saying what I think I think, even though I might change my mind as I’m saying it. I could never, however, set myself above anyone in order to pronounce from on high something they needed to be taught.
Well, actually, I guess I have done a little of that in the past, but not knowingly and not without being sure I knew what I was talking about.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t let this teachable or learnable opportunity pass without subtly making my views known, so I did.
“I hope, Lloyd, that you will steer clear of snakes wherever they are, and I hope you will never come home with holes punched in your ears or nose or tongue. And I hope and pray that you’ll never go to one of those parlors where they jab ink under your skin that will be with you for the rest of your life.”
Lloyd stood and stretched himself, yawning as he did so. “No’m, I’m not about to get mixed up with snakes. And you don’t have to worry about me sticking pins and such in my face, either.” Then with a glint in his eyes and a sideways glance at me, he said, “But what about a girl with a belly button ring? Can I come home with one of them?”
“Oh, you,” I said, standing and opening the screen door. “Let’s go in and see what those tacky Housewives are up to.”
“Okay, but I think a soccer match is on. Maybe in Portugal or somewhere.”
Chapter 33
After a restful night, morning came but Adam didn’t. When breakfast was over and Lloyd had left to run errands for his mother, I walked upstairs to the sunroom and surveyed the chaos, determined to hold myself in check. There was no use whining and stomping around because work wasn’t progressing on my timetable. The situation was what it was, and I had to put up with it.
I took one look around the sawdust-covered room and walked out. It was a mess, not even half done and so full of building material that I could barely get in the door. So instead of wasting my time fretting over Adam’s disloyalty, I put my mind on the full day ahead of me, meeting with my new decorator and making selections to transform Hazel Marie’s dream room into an appropriate setting for Sam and me.
As I surveyed her room, I was somewhat mollified. It wasn’t so bad—the pink wallpaper had been stripped off, the walls had been primed and the carpet was gone. It was ready for a new decorative scheme, except, I suddenly realized, for her bathroom.
What had I been thinking? There could be no new decorative scheme with a pink soaking tub, pink basin with gold trim and a pink commode that Hazel Marie had had to special order because pink had gone out of style a few decades ago. Thank goodness her decorator had drawn the line and talked her into using ivory-colored travertine tiles on the floor. The tiles on the shower and tub surrounds were another matter—less than pink but not quite ivory.
“Lillian,” I said as I went back to the kitchen, “I don’t know where my mind has been. I completely overlooked Hazel Marie’s bathroom—it’s as feminine as her bedroom was, and something will have to be done. There’s no way that Sam will be satisfied much longer with a pink tub and commode.”
She leaned down and slid a skillet into a cabinet. Straightening up, she said, “I ’spect Mr. Sam be satisfied with whatever he get.”
“Well, yes, I guess he would. But I can’t very well decorate the bedroom in blue or green or whatever and leave all that pink in the bathroom.” I sat down at the table. “Maybe I should’ve left everything the way it was, even without any masculine touches. It’s all getting to be too much, especially since I’ve lost my carpenter.”
“No use cryin’ over spilt milk, so why don’t you go on an’ do what you got to do an’ first thing you know, he be up there sawin’ an’ hammerin’ again.” She wiped off the counter with a sponge, then went on. “You s’posed to go see that decoratin’ lady today?”
“Yes, and I better get ready. She’s over in Asheville.”
“Then why don’t you jus’ go on an’ see the plumbin’ people while you at it, an’ see can they order you whatever Miss Hazel Marie got upstairs, only in a different color.”
“White, and that’s a good idea. They can look up their records and order the same model numbers. Then the fixtures will fit perfectly without tearing up the walls or the floor.” I sat back in the chair, relieved. “Shoo, Lillian, you ought to go into the construction business. That’s the most practical and easiest suggestion I’ve heard yet.”
Then, as I visualized a sparkling white bathroom, my relief spurted away. “Oh, my word, I wasn’t thinking of the tile on the shower wall and around the tub. To take that off and replace it will be a major undertaking. There’ll be til
e dust all over the house and the way Adam is going—or not going—it’ll be Christmas before it’s done.”
“Miss Julia,” Lillian said, somewhat sternly as she came over to the table and put her hands on her hips. “You jus’ thinkin’ up things to worry about, an’ they’s no need for it. You jus’ pick out something to go with them tiles an’ let ’em stay on the wall.”
“Well, I guess I could. I mean, maybe the decorator could work with them. They have just the barest tinge of pink to them, what I’d call blush, maybe. Maybe we could find a fabric for the bedroom with that color in them.” I sat up in my chair with a renewed interest in decorating. “Brown! Shades of brown from very light to maybe a deep chocolate. That would be masculine enough for anybody, and it’s as far from pink as you can get. Lillian, you ought to be in the decorating business, too. I declare, you come to my rescue every time.”
“No’m, not ev’ry time, but I figure when you can’t climb over something, you have to go ’round it. And while you gettin’ ready, I think they’s some leftover tiles out in the garage. I’ll find you one to take so you can match it up to whatever yard goods you find.”
So that’s what I did, and it all worked out beautifully. I drove home from Asheville some four hours later, having spent most of the time with a lovely young decorator who not only listened to me, but also mainly agreed with me. It was a most refreshing experience after dealing with an architect and a carpenter with minds of their own.
Ms. Allie Parker had immediately understood my concern about blush-colored bathroom tiles in a master bedroom suite for both a master and a mistress, but she wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d been about brown.
