by Ann B. Ross
Mr. Pickens’s head snapped up. “I’ll take him. I’d like to, in fact, if it’s all right with Hazel Marie.”
My heart warmed toward him even more. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Since she’s been under the weather, we don’t bother her with little decisions like that. And Lloyd will be thrilled. He’s missed you, Mr. Pickens.”
He bent his head to shuffle through his notes, mumbling, “I’ve missed him, too.”
“I’ll have Lloyd make a list of what he needs so you won’t forget anything. Walmart is probably the best place to go and, believe me, I am delighted to let you have it.”
With our plans made for the morrow, Mr. Pickens prepared to leave. I drew him aside in the kitchen while Sam was gathering his notes and files.
“Mr. Pickens,” I said, “I’ll have Lloyd ready to go about nine o’clock, so if you’ll just pull up outside I’ll send him right out. There’s no need for you to come in. That way you’ll save some time.”
He gave me a sick sort of half-smile. “And that way she won’t know I’m taking him, right?”
“Well, the thing of it is, she’s supposed to avoid emotional upsets. And in spite of your thoughtfulness in keeping your distance, your presence just seems to set her off. But I assure you, I am not telling her any stories. I’m just not telling her everything. So you go on with that boy and have a good time with him. He needs you, Mr. Pickens.”
“If you’re sure then.”
“I am sure. You don’t need to worry about it. People in Hazel Marie’s condition are known to be somewhat erratic in their emotions, and we have to make allowances. Hormones, you know.”
“Okay,” he said, the frown between his brows deepening as his black eyes bored into mine. “But tell me this, Miss Julia. Just what exactly is wrong with her?”
Well, there it was—the perfect opportunity to tell him and be done with it, my decision about Sam doing it notwithstanding. I opened my mouth to do just that when Lloyd walked into the kitchen.
“You leaving, J.D.?”
“Yep, it’s been a long day. But I’ll be back in the morning. Nine o’clock on the dot, so you be ready.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Where’re we going?”
“To Walmart,” I intervened. “To get your supplies since Sam has some work to do. Now, Lloyd, let’s not bother your mother with our little arrangements of who’s going with whom, unless she out and out asks, of course. I wouldn’t want you to tell any stories.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, but his eyes flitted from one to the other of us.
He knew there were problems between his mother and Mr. Pickens, and he probably suspected that there was even more going on than he knew. He was too smart not to have figured that out, and if we let things go along as we were doing he would soon figure out what that more was.
All the more reason to clear the air once and for all. Enough of hiding things from those who needed to know. Enough of walking on eggs for fear of upsetting somebody. Enough of being afraid to open my mouth.
And to that end, I opened my mouth and said, “Mr. Pickens, sometime tomorrow afternoon when you’re back from Walmart and Sam’s gone to Asheville, Lillian wants to talk to you.”
Chapter 36
As soon as Lloyd came downstairs the next morning, I had my plans laid out for the day. Pursuant to those plans, I suggested that he go to the pool or find someone to play tennis with after Mr. Pickens brought him home. “I want you to enjoy the last Saturday of summer,” I said, for I, myself, had some big fish to fry that afternoon and didn’t want him around to witness whatever the outcome might be.
I watched as Lloyd hurriedly ate breakfast, excited about his forthcoming shopping trip with Mr. Pickens. My heart ached at how much the boy cared for him. “Tell Mr. Pickens,” I said, “that he’s welcome to have lunch with us, unless the two of you want to eat downtown.”
As soon as Mr. Pickens’s rumbling car turned in the drive, Lloyd went scurrying out to meet him. I was pleased that Hazel Marie was still sleeping and unaware that her son was consorting with the enemy. If she asked, I told Lillian to just say that Lloyd was getting his school supplies and leave it at that. I don’t believe in upsetting anyone unnecessarily.
Having gotten everybody settled to my satisfaction, I slid into Sam’s car beside him, fastened my seat belt and took note of my handsome husband in one of his summer suits—seersucker with blue stripes, set off with a handsome tie. Sam always dressed well and to the season, making me proud to be with him. My only request soon after we married was that he forswear bow ties. They had been Wesley Lloyd Springer’s trademark adornment, and it would’ve suited me never to have to look at another one again. Not long after making that request, I noticed that James began sporting bow ties even when he was mowing Sam’s lawn.
I made myself comfortable as we started out, anticipating a nice drive with Sam and a pleasant visit with the judge’s daughter.
“So,” Sam said, as he pulled the car onto Polk Street, “Emma Sue’s throwing a surprise going-away party for Hazel Marie.”
“Yes, and it’s a surprise to me that you remember.” I reached over to touch his arm. “You were half asleep last night when I told you about it.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what all I remember.” He smiled and released one hand from the steering wheel to hold mine. “How’re you going to handle it?”
I sighed. “It’s brought me right down to the wire. What I’m going to do is make sure that Mr. Pickens knows everything there is to know before Monday night and pray that he’ll take matters into his own hands. And, to that end, Sam, I want you to be prepared to tell him if something else rears its interfering head and Lillian’s not able to.”
“Lillian?” Sam’s eyebrows went straight up to his hairline. “Why is she telling him?”
“Well,” I hedged, “she’s better at these things than I am, although not as good as you. See, Sam, I’ve thought it all out. Hazel Marie let it slip that she really wants him to know, and Lillian and I were going to do it this morning while you and Lloyd went to get his supplies. But then this visit to the judge’s daughter interfered. So after thinking about it, I decided it’d be better for all concerned to wait till this afternoon and let you do it. But then your trip to Asheville came up. I kept having to change my plans, because, see, it can’t be done when Lloyd’s in the house, so I have to work around him. There’s no telling what Mr. Pickens’s reaction will be, or Hazel Marie’s, and I don’t want him anywhere around while it’s going on. It could be traumatizing.”
“Um-hmm, I see.” He kept driving, making the turns out of town into the countryside and onto Staton Bridge Road. After a while, he said, “What’re you going to do if it doesn’t work the way you want it to?”
“Don’t say what am I going to do, Sam. Ask what we’re going to do, and the answer is: I don’t know. Every time I think about it, which is just about all the time, I get so distraught I can hardly stand it.”
“We can count on Pickens, Julia. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe, but can we count on Hazel Marie? I tell you, Sam, half the time she doesn’t know what she wants or what she’s doing.” I took my lip in my teeth, thought for a moment, then said, “How would you feel about moving?”
He gave me a quick glance. “Away from Abbotsville?”
I nodded. “Far away. Where nobody knows us or where those babies came from. We could do it, Sam, and it would keep us all together.” I stopped, bit my lip again, and went on. “A new church, new friends, new everything. A lot of people do it when they retire, and we could, too.” I took a Kleenex from my pocketbook, feeling a fullness in my eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, though, I wouldn’t choose Florida.”
Sam squeezed my hand. “That boy means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
“More even than I realized,” I said, “until the possibility of losing him came up. But, Sam, the only thing that holds me back is you. It’s an awful lot to expect you to leave the town where yo
u’ve lived and worked for so long, and where everybody knows you and respects you. This is your home, and I would hate to ask that of you.”
“Julia,” he said, “my home is wherever you are. If it comes down to it, we’ll do whatever we have to.”
“Oh, Sam,” I said, glad I had a Kleenex in hand since I was right before about needing it. “You are, without a doubt, the finest man in the world.”
“Well, hardly,” he said, patting my hand. “But it’s not going to come to that. Look ahead five or six years when those babies will be starting school. They’ll have been absorbed into the community by that time and nobody’ll think a thing about it. Oh, every once in a while, a few busybodies might do a little whispering, but it won’t affect them or us. The way things are going these days with all the odd-couple adoptions and test tube babies and surrogate mothers and who-knows-what-all, they’ll have more than enough to occupy their minds. At least,” Sam said with a smile, “we’re getting ours the old-fashioned way.”
“Thank goodness for that, I guess. Still,” I went on, “it comforts me to know that you’d be willing to move if it comes to that.”
Sam glanced at me with a smile. “What about Lillian? How would you get along without her?”
I did need the Kleenex then, and not just one but the rest of them in my pocketbook. Unable to answer, I just sniffed and wiped and blew and cried some more.
“Honey, listen,” Sam said, “I think you’re jumping the gun. We’re not moving anywhere, so you’re not going to lose Lillian or your friends or your home. Why, just think, what would you do off somewhere without Pastor Ledbetter and Emma Sue to keep things lively?”
I had to laugh in spite of the flow of tears. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Am I succeeding?”
“A little,” I conceded. “I know I tend to jump to the worst that could happen, although when you come down to it, maybe the worst has already happened.” I dried my face. “Who would’ve thought just a few weeks ago when everything was going so well that we’d be in this situation today? And Mr. Pickens could fix it all with only a word or two if he’d just do it. That’s why he vexes me half to death.”
“Hold on, Julia,” Sam said as he slowed the car and leaned over the steering wheel to look out the window. “I think we’re about there. Help me look for the mailbox.”
I not only looked at the names on the widely spaced mailboxes as we passed, I looked at the surroundings as well. It was farm country with small patches of vegetable gardens, lots of open pastureland, and some acres of gnarled and stunted apple trees. The houses that I could see were small and set far off the road, usually hemmed in by large trees and fronted by sweeps of well mown lawns.
“Wait, Sam. I think we just passed it.”
He stopped the car, looked in both directions of the empty road and slowly backed up to a black mailbox on a leaning post. The stick-on letters, BA N E, were on one side with one letter obviously unstuck and gone. The rutted, once-graveled drive on our left had weeds and wild oats growing on the center hump. The fields that stretched on each side of the drive were full of the same wild oats, left to go to seed.
Sam turned in and drove carefully up the drive as the car dipped and swayed, and weeds swished along the sides and bottom of the car. Fully half a mile in, we came to the typical ring of shade trees and shrubs that enclosed a two-story, once-white house and a few ramshackle outbuildings.
When the car stopped in front of the narrow porch, I sat and took in what might have once been the judge’s pride and joy. Square posts, imitating columns, held up the two-story roof of the porch. The windows were placed symmetrically on the facade, but they were too small and narrow to carry the attempt at Georgian architecture. And, would you believe, there was an abundance of Victorian gingerbread along the roofline? Whoever had designed the house had certainly not known what he was doing. But that was just my opinion.
“Well,” Sam said, turning off the ignition, “let’s see if she’s home.”
“You didn’t call her?”
“Unlisted.” Sam opened the car door, then hesitated. “I don’t see a car.”
“How about a dog?”
He grinned. “No dog, either.”
I got out and walked with him up three steps onto the concrete floor of the porch. “Somebody needs to get out here with a broom,” I whispered, noting the dirt that had been blown up against the house, as well as the twigs and leaves scattered across the porch.
“Nobody’s home, Sam. People in the country always come to the door as soon as they hear a car, and nothing’s stirring around here.”
“Let’s knock and see,” Sam said and proceeded to do just that, rattling the screen door with his fist.
All was quiet, except for the rustle of a breeze through the surrounding trees. I looked up at the high ceiling of the porch and nudged Sam. “Is that a dirt dauber or a wasp nest up there?”
Sam glanced up. “Dirt dauber, I hope.”
We both turned as the front door opened some few inches. It was dark inside compared to the bright sunlight where we were, so it was hard to see the woman peering out at us.
When she didn’t speak, Sam in his smooth and easy way took the initiative. “Miss Baine? I’m Sam Murdoch and this is my wife, Julia. I wonder if we could visit with you a few minutes? I’m writing a history of Abbot County, and your father was such an important personage that I’m thinking of devoting an entire chapter to him. I’d like to talk it over with you, get some personal anecdotes, and so on. It’s my intent to show every reader just how influential he was in making Abbot County what it is today.”
I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but it seemed to work. Miss Baine continued to stare out at us for a minute or two longer, then she opened the door and stepped back. “You can come in,” she said.
We walked into a dark hallway, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. The hall was a room-sized square with wide, uneven pine boards on the floor and a staircase on the right side. One spindly-legged table stood against the left wall with a framed picture of a grim-faced woman above it. An old-fashioned coatrack, complete with a hazy mirror, suffering from dust or old age, was on the other side. It was loaded down with raincoats, men’s hats, and umbrellas.
As we followed Miss Baine into a sitting room, or perhaps it was called a parlor, I got my first good look at her. She was a sight. You couldn’t miss that hair. It made her look like a wild woman, for the iron-gray strands had no bounds, falling around her face and down her back. It had ripples or crinkles in it, as if it had been plaited and only recently brushed out. The amazing thing about it was that it seemed full of static electricity, and in this humid weather, too. Every time she moved, a fuzz of hair floated up around her head like a halo, or like she was in touch with one of those scientific exhibits in a museum that stands your hair on end. From the intense look in her eyes, it was my guess that she was generating all that electricity herself.
She wore a man’s white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the shirttails hanging out. Below that was a black, gauzy skirt that reached her ankles and, below that, bare feet.
The parlor she led us into was filled with ornate Victorian pieces that would’ve been remarkably improved by some reupholstering. Maroon velvet covered the Duncan Phyfe sofa, every uncomfortable chair in the place, and draped the sides of each of the two windows. A small woodstove rested on a square of tin in front of the fireplace. Above the fireplace in the place of honor, so to speak, a large oval, wooden frame dominated the room. In it was a life-sized photograph, hand-tinted in washed-out colors, of the face of a frowning, hulking man. His eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows, as if to condemn whomever they lit upon. The judge, I judged, and shivered.
“You can set,” Miss Baine said abruptly, taking the center of the sofa herself and leaving the stiff chairs to us.
The room was hot, airless, and obviously rarely used. Sam took out his handkerchief and muffled a sn
eeze before saying, “We appreciate the chance to speak with you. I knew your father, worked with him when I practiced law, but I was never close to him. If you . . .”
“Nobody was close to him but me,” Miss Baine interrupted. “He didn’t suck up to everybody who come along, wantin’ this and wantin’ that. He was a great man. A smart man, smarter than all them lawyers and things that drove him out.”
Sam was quick. “I think you’re probably right. I think . . .”
“They’s no probably about it. He was done in by all them folks that don’t do nothing but tear down and whip up on and run people off. The judge oughta been governor of the state and he woulda been, but they wouldn’t have it, would they? Oh, no, get rid of the judge, they said, and they banded together and run him out.”
I was struck dumb by her tirade, which was just as well since I didn’t want to tangle with her. All the time she spoke, her angular face betrayed no emotion at all. Her voice did, though, for it was filled with bitterness and pent up resentment. Her brown eyes stared at Sam as if he’d been a ringleader in running her father out of office, when in fact the county voters hadn’t needed a ringleader. They’d put up with the judge’s arbitrary rulings long enough and had done the job by themselves.
“Well, Miss Baine,” Sam said soothingly, “your father served long and well on the bench, and the county owes him a debt of gratitude. I want to see that he is properly recognized, which is why . . .”
“The judge,” Miss Baine pronounced, “is right up there in that picture.” She waved her hand at the portrait above the fireplace but didn’t move her eyes from Sam. “I don’t never move it. He watches over this place. He built it, and he takes care of it, like he always done. Can’t nobody tear him down no more. They already done all they could do and it didn’t ‘mount to a hill of beans. They all just jealous.”
This woman is crazy, I thought and glanced around to see how far I was from the door.
