by Ann B. Ross
I was stunned. Mildred Allen, the grandest lady in town, wanted to have a pig pickin’? But then again, I thought to myself, how perfect would it be to present Mr. Kessler with a whole roasted pig as our idea of a cultural feast?
“And listen, Julia,” Mildred went on before I could say anything, “if you want to have something more sedate inside the house, you can. People can just wander back and forth between Tina Doland and the Crooked River Boys until they reach their particular comfort level. I tell you, this will be a party to end all parties, and not one soul in this town is going to think that Horace Allen has stabbed me in the heart.”
I was finally able to get off the phone after we decided on a date for the party and after she told me she’d have Ida Lee telephone a few personal invitations. Even there, of course, my idea of a pseudo-grand social occasion began its downward spiral. We should’ve had engraved invitations sent out at least three weeks ahead of time. But as far as Mr. Kessler would know, our party had been planned for weeks and wouldn’t be at all a last-minute affair thrown together for his benefit.
Of course, it was turning out to be more for Mildred’s benefit than for Mr. Kessler’s. If she wanted to have a musical-soiree-cum-pig-pickin’, though, who was I to complain? It would certainly give Mr. Kessler a taste of Abbotsville culture, although it might come more in the form of culture shock than anything else.
I couldn’t have been better pleased if I had planned it all myself.
Chapter 27
“Well, Sam?” I sat down beside him on the sofa after supper and after Lillian had left and after Lloyd had gone upstairs with homework on his mind. I had been anticipating this time alone with Sam all day, in spite of the fact that I’d had a gracious plenty of other things to occupy my mind. During the afternoon Etta Mae and I had made our plans for the soiree, engaged Tina Doland to make a special appearance and, being pleased with the prospect of what we were doing, laughed whenever we looked at each other. Etta Mae had been elated when I told her about Mildred’s pig-pickin’ plans, but Lillian had shaken her head, saying over and over, “Y’all done lost yo’ mind.” Lillian was more set in her ways and determined to do things in the appropriate manner than I ever was.
All along, though, the niggling thought of Sam and Helen driving to Asheville together stayed in the back of my mind. Where were they, what were they doing and when would they stop doing it? I kept reminding myself that I had married an affable and obliging man and had no one to blame but myself when those virtues were put to use in the service of somebody else. In contrast, Wesley Lloyd Springer, my late first husband, would never have gone out of his way to be helpful to anybody, and I’d thought the less of him for it. Of course, if I’d thought any lesser of him, I wouldn’t have thought of him at all.
But that was neither here nor there as far as my current situation was concerned. I was ready for Sam’s amiability on Helen Stroud’s behalf to come to a screeching halt.
“Well?” I said again.
Sam folded the newspaper and turned toward me. He smiled and said, “Well what?”
“You know what. How did the afternoon go? Did Helen meet with that lawyer? What all happened?”
He picked up my hand and threaded our fingers together. “It was a long afternoon of hand-holding. Metaphorically only, I assure you.” He squeezed my hand. “To tell you the truth, Julia, I might’ve made a mistake in the beginning by offering my help. I felt sorry for Helen because none of Richard’s problems were of her making, and I thought a little support from a friend would be appreciated. But she may be becoming too dependent on me.”
I could’ve told him that two days ago, but all I said was, “Didn’t she like that lawyer?”
“I don’t think she knows what she likes. He gave her good advice, pretty much what I’d already told her, but it’s as if she’s lost all sense of herself. You know, I’d always thought Helen was a strong woman, capable and independent-minded. But she’s not, at least not in this situation. It surprises me how clingy and helpless she seems to be.”
“That surprises me, too. I guess Richard was her foundation and now that he’s apparently out of the picture, or will be if he goes to prison, she has to have somebody else to lean on. And it looks like that’s you, Sam, but I have to tell you that I am not comfortable with her making you his substitute.”
Sam’s forehead wrinkled and he leaned his head back against the sofa. “Neither am I, Julia. For one thing, it’s not good for her.”
I snatched my hand out of his. “For her! It’s not good for you, first of all, and second of all, it’s not good for me. I don’t like it that you’re always in her company and I don’t like the way you jump whenever she calls. In fact, I don’t like anything about it, and I think you ought to put a stop to it. She’s got a lawyer now. Let her lean on him.”
“I may be in too deep,” Sam said. “I’m not sure how to get out of it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you how. You can just be too busy. You can have other appointments. You can be doing something with me. There’re all kinds of ways to get out of being at her beck and call. And I’ll tell you something else, though I doubt it’ll matter to you, but people are beginning to notice and to talk. So just think about the position you put me in anytime you feel the urge to run to her aid.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow at me, a smile beginning at the corner of his mouth. “And what about my position when somebody says that you’re running around town with Arthur Kessler?”
“That’s different! And just who is carrying tales about me?”
“I’m teasing you, Julia.”
“Well,” I said, somewhat mollified, “I’m only doing it for the good of the town and you know it. The idea of thinking I feel sorry for that man the way you feel sorry for Helen, there’s just no comparison at all. I don’t even like him. In fact, I’m trying to get rid of him, while you, well, you just keep encouraging Helen.”
“Not anymore though. She has a lawyer now to look after her interests, so I can bow out. Why don’t you get her involved in the soiree? She’s a good organizer and maybe what she needs is something else to think about.”
“Well, I would, if she’d answer her phone. I’ve left I don’t know how many messages and she never returns my calls. But I’ll write her a note. That way, she can’t say I didn’t try.” I scrooched up close to him, pleased and reassured that he’d had enough of Helen and her problems. “What she really needs, Sam, is to take a few lessons from Mildred and, I guess, LuAnne, too. Both of them are saying good-bye and good riddance to their husbands, although I’m not sure they really mean it. But still, they’re taking hold and going about their business instead of falling to pieces like Helen’s doing.”
“Lot of husbands missing, aren’t there?”
“There sure are. But I’ll tell you this, Sam Murdoch, if you decide to take off I might just come after you.”
“You might, huh?” Sam grinned and put his arm around me. “To bring me back or to beat me to death?”
“It depends on how I’m feeling at the time.” I leaned my head against his chest and listened to the strong beat of his heart. “The way I feel now, I’d bring you back.”
He rubbed his face against my hair and pulled me closer. “Tell you what, let’s not waste that feeling.”
I got up the next morning wondering why I’d ever worried about Helen alienating Sam’s affections. I didn’t have a thing to worry about with that man, no matter how much she depended on him. So, bright and early, I called Mr. Kessler to see if he was free to visit a few people around town. He seemed eager enough and asked specifically to meet some natives of the area. The way he said it put me off, because it sounded as if he expected to view a bunch of aborigines in their native habitat. And if that’s what he wanted, I could certainly give it to him.
I called Etta Mae immediately afterwards. “Etta Mae, would your grandmother be up to having visitors this morning? Mr. Kessler wants to meet some natives.”
She gigg
led, and it so early, too. “Sure, she’d love to see him. But I have to tell you, my granny is not too with it these days. She’s as sweet as she can be and I love her to death, but she says exactly what she thinks when she thinks it.”
“That’s perfectly all right. But, Etta Mae, I don’t want her to think that we’re putting her on display or making fun of her in any way. And I don’t want you thinking it, either.”
“Oh, I don’t. If he wants to meet a native, she’s certainly one and no different from a dozen others I could name. She was born and raised in this county, and the only time I can remember her leaving was when I took her to the beach a few years ago. It was the first time she’d seen the ocean and all she said was, ‘That’s more water than anybody needs. Let’s go home.”
I asked Etta Mae to drive my car since she knew the county better than I did, so Mr. Kessler sat up front with her and I was relegated to the back seat. On our way to Hattie Wiggins’s house, Etta Mae began to prepare Mr. Kessler for what he’d see.
“My granny still lives in the house she came to as a bride, some, oh, I don’t know, maybe sixty-five years ago. My great-granddaddy Wiggins built it, but it’s been added onto several times so it’s kinda crookedy. She has an electric range I helped her buy, but she still uses her wood stove half the time. And one time when we were having a heat wave, I went by and she had the refrigerator door standing wide open. She said she didn’t much like how it took up so much room, but it was hard to beat when it came to cooling down the kitchen.” Etta Mae laughed. “I have to warn you, Mr. Kessler, she’s a pistol.”
Mr. Kessler settled back in his seat and smiled complacently. “Sounds like the salt of the earth.”
We traveled a few more miles with little being said, while I thought to myself that Mr. Kessler was not the easiest person in the world to converse with.
But after a while he half turned toward the back seat and said, “And how is Hazel Marie? I haven’t seen her lately.”
“She’s away,” I said. “Out in San Francisco seeing the sights. She’ll be back in time for the soiree.”
“She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”
I saw Etta Mae’s eyes snap up to the rearview mirror to glance at me, as I tried to think how to best explain Hazel Marie. But then I wondered why explain at all. The unusual relationship between Hazel Marie and me could be another nail in Mr. Kessler’s coffin.
“No,” I said blandly, as if the relationship was perfectly normal, “Hazel Marie is my first husband’s almost second wife, and Lloyd is their child.”
Mr. Kessler’s head whipped around, a look of astonishment on his face. “What?”
“It was one of those, you know,” I said with a wave of my hand, “off-the-books arrangements.”
“And she lives with you?”
“Oh, yes. Ever since Mr. Springer passed, we’ve been the best of friends. We have so much in common, you know.”
Etta Mae glanced again in the rearview mirror and I could see her eyes sparkling. I hoped she wouldn’t laugh out loud and spoil the moment.
Mr. Kessler apparently mulled over my answer for a few minutes, then he said, “If you don’t mind me saying, that sounds a little polygamous.”
I’d thought the same thing myself, especially when I’d first learned of Wesley Lloyd’s extracurricular activities. But my purpose now was to make Mr. Kessler think we were a bunch of ingrown and inbred unsophisticates, unlikely to be thought of as your ideal neighbors. “Well, not exactly,” I responded, “because Mr. Springer didn’t actually marry her before he passed. And, you know, it takes all kinds. People around here learn to make do with what they have. I decided I wanted to help raise that child, so it made sense to pool our resources and raise him together.”
Another few minutes elapsed while Mr. Kessler thought about this, but he couldn’t leave it alone. “And you all get along?”
“Like a house afire. When we’re all together, you won’t find a happier bunch of people. Why, there’s Mr. Pickens, who’s at our house more often than not. He’s Hazel Marie’s steady boyfriend, although I think he’s a little more than that, but we don’t talk about it. I’ve been trying to get them legal for the longest time, since I think there’s a law in this state against cohabitation, but Hazel Marie didn’t get caught when she was doing the same thing with Mr. Springer so she’s not worried about it now.”
Etta Mae ran the car off the road, spraying gravel everywhere, and had to swing it back on.
“And,” I went on, “there’s Lillian and Latisha, who’s her great-granddaughter. They’re at our house half the time, and I’ll tell you this, whoever happened to hire Lillian if she ever left me would have to take Latisha, too. Lillian would never go where that child wasn’t welcome. They’re both part of our family. That’s the way we do things in the South. At least in this part of the South.”
Mr. Kessler didn’t have another word to say, but Etta Mae broke the silence as we passed a brick ranch house perched on a rise to the left of the road. “That’s Boyce and Betty Sue’s house. Boyce is Granny’s last living son and he tries to look after her.” Etta Mae laughed. “When she’ll let him. Right now, she’s mad as thunder because they put in an above-ground swimming pool. Says it’s a waste of money since there’s a perfectly good pond down in the pasture for whoever wants to strip in public.”
Etta Mae slowed as dust billowed up around the car, then she turned down a rutted drive toward her granny’s house.
Chapter 28
“It sure needs scraping,” Etta Mae said, spinning the wheel as my car, bought for the Florida trip and now turned into an off-road vehicle, lurched along the ruts of the long dirt drive. “Boyce is supposed to keep up Granny’s place. At least that’s the arrangement.” Etta Mae’s voice took on an edge. “He lets things go too long.”
Granny Wiggins’s house sat a goodly way from the gravel road, squatting beneath a cluster of huge oak trees in the middle of what looked to be an acre or two of grass and weeds. A sagging fence enclosed a pen near the barn, and chickens wandered around the yard, scratching out a living.
As we approached, I could see a garden laid out in rows along the side of the house, and behind that several tilted out-buildings in bad need of paint, as was the house. Corn stalks were about a foot high in the garden and stakes for bean runners were already set out. The house took my attention as Etta Mae pulled the car under one of the trees and switched off the motor. We sat for a few minutes looking around at the display on the front porch. Clay pots, plastic pots, Maxwell House coffee cans and Crisco lard cans filled with ferns and geraniums and begonias lined the railing and the steps.
“Your grandmother certainly has a green thumb,” I said, for lack of any other comment to make.
“She sure does,” Etta Mae agreed. “She takes cuttings everywhere she goes. I caught her snipping a few at Home Depot one time, and nearly died. I thought they’d arrest her for shoplifting or something. She’d even brought some damp paper towels to wrap them in. Which showed prior intent, I guess. But she crammed them in her pocketbook and walked out of there, telling me to stop worrying because the plants needed thinning anyway.” Etta Mae couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “The cuttings all rooted, too. You’re probably looking at some of them now. Well, let’s go in before she wonders what we’re doing.”
As we opened the car doors and began to step out, I was struck by the lack of grass up close to the house. Too shady, I supposed, noticing the raked lines in the hard-packed dirt under the trees and around the front steps. But beyond the house site, green pastureland rolled away on all sides, broken occasionally by clusters of trees in the distance. Far away and surrounding the valley were the Blue Ridge mountains with a few white clouds scuttling over them.
The three of us stood for a minute enjoying the scenery and the warm breeze ruffling through the trees. An old tire swing hanging from a limb swayed to and fro.
“We live in a beautiful part of the country,” I murmured, then regrette
d calling Mr. Kessler’s attention to the fact.
He stood, eyes narrowed, gazing off in the distance, then slowly turned in each direction, surveying the prospect. “How much of this does your family own?” he asked Etta Mae.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Granny has about a hundred acres, I guess. My great-granddaddy staked out this whole valley, but, well, hard times came and she’s down to this.”
Before he could respond, the screen door banged open and a tiny white-haired woman came barreling out onto the porch, her face squinched up like she was getting ready to run us off. Her hair was up in a bun, except for what was flying around her face, and a pair of glasses sat crooked on her nose. She had on a pink housedress dotted with blue flowers and a white apron over that. Tennis shoes, huge and clunky in comparison to her skinny legs, were on her feet with thick stockings rolled down around her ankles. She came to a stop at the edge of the porch and put her hands on her hips, staring down at us and looking for all the world like a hen ruffling her feathers.
“Whoever you are,” she yelled from over the railing, “I don’t want any.”
“Granny,” Etta Mae said, “it’s me. I brought some friends to see you.”
Granny squinted down at her, then broke into a beaming smile that revealed a too-perfect set of teeth. “Why, Etta Mae, honey, come on up here and give me a hug. And bring your friends, too, but don’t expect me to hug any strangers.”
That was fine with me, since I didn’t care for such familiarity. Mr. Kessler followed me up onto the porch, but he seemed just a bit hesitant about doing it.
