Miss Julia Paints the Town

by Ann B. Ross

  Chapter 43

  By late afternoon, cars began to arrive at Mildred’s and line both sides of Polk Street and Jefferson, too. Families with skipping children, dating couples walking arm in arm and groups of teenagers streamed down the sidewalk toward Mildred’s house.

  Inside our house, we were all busy getting ready. Lillian had come from Mildred’s to dress Latisha, having brought her party dress from home that morning. She had the child dressed in a pink, hand-smocked dress with a big bow in the back and layers of petticoats underneath.

  “You mind yo’ manners now,” Lillian said as she tied the last tiny pink bow in Latisha’s hair. “An’ I want you to keep this new dress clean.”

  I’d walked in just as she said it. “That’s wishful thinking, Lillian. Children will be running all over the place, getting covered with dirt.”

  “Not me,” Latisha said. “I already know what I’m gonna do. I’m goin’ swimmin’ in that big ole swimmin’ pool that lady’s got.”

  “No, you not!” Lillian said, clasping both Latisha’s arms and making her look her in the eye. “You stay away from that swimmin’ pool, you hear me? Miss Julia,” Lillian went on, worry lining her face, “what if somebody fall in that thing?”

  Latisha piped up. “I’m not gonna fall in, I’m gonna jump in, right in the middle of it.”

  “Oh, my,” I said, suddenly as concerned as Lillian. “I wonder if anybody’s thought about the pool. Surely Mildred’s had it covered or the gate locked or something. Every child there will be fascinated with it.”

  “All taken care of,” Hazel Marie said, breezing into the kitchen and bringing with her a whiff of Joy perfume. “Mildred’s got two lifeguards on duty. Red Cross trained and everything.”

  With that worry taken care of, we began to make our way to the site of the parties. As was everybody else in town, it seemed. People were milling around the front door, while others headed straight for the back of the house where chairs and tables had been scattered around under the oak trees that shaded the yard. Dotted here and there were #2 washtubs filled with ice and cold drinks, there for the taking, and many were doing just that. I caught a glimpse of a large, striped tent with a wooden dance floor set up across from the poolhouse and heard the Crooked River Boys beginning to warm up.

  Lillian grabbed Latisha’s arm as the child started to dash off. “You come back here. You got to say hello to yo’ hostess ’fore you go runnin’ off.”

  “Walk with me, Latisha,” Lloyd said, holding out his hand. “Let’s go in the house first. You wanted to hear that lady sing, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about her.” And she walked docilely beside him as we waited our turn to get inside.

  It was a relief to walk into the air-conditioned house, since the short walk had us all sweltering. Mildred, in a long, flowing caftan and her signature diamond brooch, stood by the door, greeting her guests.

  I knew I was glowing from perspiration, but she was glowing from something else entirely. “Julia,” she said, drawing me close, “you’ll never guess. Horace is home!”

  Quickly grasping that he had not told her that I’d had an earlier sighting than she, I said, “Why, that’s wonderful, Mildred. Where was he all that time?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, almost purring with happiness. “All that matters is that he’s home again. The poor darling was scared to death that I’d be mad with him. That’s why he stayed away so long. But he’s home now, and I’m so happy. We’ll have a real celebration now.”

  I murmured something in response, but all I could think was that Horace had worked his charms on her again. If it’d been me, I would’ve wanted to know where he’d been and why he’d been there. I couldn’t think of a single explanation that would justify the misery he’d put her through, and as far as I could see, his unexplained absence and subsequent return created more cause for interrogation than celebration.

  Feeling pushed from behind as others edged inside, I thought of the celebrated return of the prodigal son that Pastor Ledbetter had referred to in our most recent talk. He must have made the same point to Mildred, which, from her obviously warm reception of Horace, she’d taken to heart. In this instance, though, it was a case of the return of the prodigal husband celebrated with a fatted pig or two instead of a calf.

  As we moved deeper into the foyer, Hazel Marie kept twisting around to see if Mr. Pickens was there. “He said he’d meet me here, but I’ll bet he’s outside.”

  “He probably is, and Sam, too,” I said, thinking that I’d soon be headed that way myself. I needed to locate Etta Mae so we could both be on the lookout for Poochie Dunn before he found those tubs in the backyard. Mildred was a faithful Presbyterian, but she could be wishy-washy on the subject of temperance and I knew that some of those tubs would be holding more than ice-cold Cokes and Grape Nehis.

  I came to a dead stop in the doorway of the living room as Tina Doland, standing beside the piano, strained for more high notes than her voice was able to hit with any accuracy. Several people were sitting around listening attentively, some with frowns on their faces, but all I could do was admire her flower-spattered chiffon gown for a minute and turn around to leave. It was always a wonder to me why any soloist would choose “People” to sing in public.

  Latisha lingered in the doorway, seemingly entranced with Tina’s efforts. Then she turned to Lillian. “Great-Granny, that lady need help.”

  Lloyd doubled over in a laughing fit, and it was all I could do to keep a straight face. Hazel Marie said, “Maybe we should go out back.”

  “Good idea,” I said, and started winding my way through the crowded foyer toward the large sunroom off the kitchen, the others following close behind. Passing the dining room, I glanced at the heavily laden table, surrounded by guests who were filling plates from the trays and epergnes and chafing dishes displayed upon it. Floral arrangements on the table, the sideboard and the hall tables reminded me of the usual elegance of all Mildred’s entertainments. And partaking of all that food and elegance was none other than Brother Vernon Puckett reaching across the table for two ham biscuits to pile on top of an already full plate. I quickly turned away, not wanting to catch his eye. I might’ve felt inclined to issue another divine instruction and really upset his apple cart.

  “We stoppin’ off here,” Lillian said, keeping a grip on Latisha’s arm and pushing through to the back hall that led to the kitchen. “Ida Lee countin’ on me to help out.”

  “Well, not me,” Latisha said.

  “Yes, ma’am, you, too,” Lillian told her. “I want you where my eye on you every minute.”

  I delayed her with a hand on her arm. “Don’t stay in the kitchen all evening, Lillian. This party’s for everybody and that includes you.”

  The first person I saw as we went into the sunroom was Horace. He was holding court with a number of ladies from the garden club and the book club. I declare, he was a changed man from the last time I’d seen him. In fact, he’d reverted to his former dapper self, as if his absence from home had never occurred nor had a load of birdshot ever been aimed in his direction. He was wearing a pair of white trousers with white buck shoes, a navy blazer with brass buttons and, would you believe, an ascot. He stood casually talking with one or the other of the women around him, one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing with a cigarette in an onyx holder. He had quickly and easily assumed his former social position, thereby assuring that no one would ask any uncomfortable questions. He was back home with apparently no recriminations or penalties, which would’ve made me ill if I’d thought about it long enough.

  But after speaking with Mildred and seeing the joy in her eyes, I had little wonder that Horace was pleased with himself and with his ability to satisfy any lingering concerns that she might have. I just shook my head and tightened my mouth. People ought to be held accountable for what they do, else they’ll just keep doing it.

  But that’s her problem, I thought to myself and went straight o
n through the sunroom and out onto the back lawn. There must have been a couple of hundred or more people milling about, some sitting in chairs nursing cold cans of something while others walked from one group to another, talking and laughing together. Young people and children were swimming and jumping into the pool, shouting, “Watch this!” and “Look out!” The Crooked River Boys were strumming and sawing away under the tent, sweat streaming down their faces, while Robert and James and a number of men, Sam and Coleman among them, lifted the pigs out of the pits and carried them to the oilcloth-covered tables. As Robert took a cleaver and a huge fork to begin chopping the roasted meat, guests swarmed around the tables, ready to dig in.

  The sinking sun blazed long rays through the trees and across the lawn, as the sultry air filled with the aroma of roast pork and the sound of hungry people. I stood on the wide steps of the patio, sweeping my gaze across the hordes, looking for Etta Mae and the first sight of Poochie Dunn. I wanted to catch him as soon as he arrived to remind him that silence is golden, and in this case, automotively imperative.

  “There’s J.D.,” Hazel Marie said, pointing toward a group standing around a washtub. “You want us to fix you a plate, Miss Julia?”

  “Not yet, thank you. You run on, I’ll wait for Sam.” As she left, I turned to Lloyd, who seemed unable to decide whether to eat, swim or just wander around to see who all was there. “Lloyd, I want you to help me find Etta Mae, if you will. I need to talk with her, so if you see her, tell her to find me.”

  “I’ll go look for her now,” he said, his decision of what to do first made.

  I stepped away from the house and began walking across the lawn, speaking to first one and the other as I went. There were any number of people I didn’t know, perhaps some who’d come from surrounding towns. Blanket invitations as Mildred had issued seemed to have brought them out in droves. I didn’t linger with any of them, but it was easy enough to learn the general topic of conversation—the destruction of the courthouse. Everywhere, people were talking about the loss and murmuring against Arthur Kessler.

  My eye was taken by one or two single men who were overdressed for the occasion and who seemed to be observers rather than participants. Gray suits and ties do tend to stand out at a pig pickin’, and I wondered if they were some of the agents investigating Richard Stroud. How nice, I thought, that they could enjoy our town’s hospitality, but how strange if they thought he’d show up here.

  Then, almost walking up on several of the county commissioners talking together in a tight group, I veered in the other direction, surprised that they had the nerve to show their faces. I noticed with some satisfaction that other people were avoiding them as well. They were an isolated group at the party, and so they would be on election day, too, if I was any judge of the general atmosphere.

  Hearing my name called, I turned to see Emma Sue Ledbetter tiptoeing across the thick grass as quickly as her high heels would permit.

  “My goodness,” she said as she came near, “every time I put a foot down in this grass, I mire up to my ankles. I may just take these things off and go barefooted. How are you, Julia?”

  I thought I’d been doing fairly well until I saw her. For the first time since I’d known her, she was in a revealing frock. A sundress with no straps at all and with a hem above her knees. The only redeeming feature was a filmy stole across her shoulders, the ends of which she clasped modestly over her fronts.

  I tried not to stare or to express my shock. “I’m fine, Emma Sue. How are you? You look…lovely.”

  “Do you like it? It’s the first dress I haven’t made myself in years. Just bought it right off the rack, but to tell the truth, I’m a little nervous about it.” She reached under the stole, grasped the top of the bodice and jerked it up. “It keeps sliding down on me.”

  “Well, it’s perfect for the occasion. So summery and, ah, cool-looking.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to pretend with me, Julia,” she said as her eyes became suspiciously red-rimmed. “I know it’s inappropriate for a pastor’s wife, but that’s why I wanted it. I don’t plan to be a ministerial adjunct all that much longer.”

  Chapter 44

  “Emma Sue,” I said, a note of concern in my voice, “what have you done?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Julia,” she said, with a delicate sniff. “I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve just put my foot down, that’s all.”

  That didn’t reassure me, as I recalled a certain Poker Run motorcycle race in which she’d also put her foot down, her defiance of Pastor Ledbetter’s wishes nearly giving him a stroke.

  “Look over there,” she went on, pointing across the lawn where the pastor sat alone almost hidden by the drooping limbs of a crepe myrtle. “See him? He’s over there, sulking like a two-year-old because he’s not getting his way. Whenever my feelings are hurt, he tells me how unattractive it is to mope around. But that’s exactly what he’s doing, and it is unattractive. I’ve told him so, too.”

  Not wanting to get in the middle of a marital disagreement, I carefully asked, “Would this be about his call to Raleigh?”

  “Well, what else?” she said blithely, trying to act as if she didn’t care. But a certain frantic look in her eyes betrayed her. “Julia, I told him. Listen to what I said and see if you don’t agree. I reminded him of the advice he always gives to seminary students. He tells them that whenever a minister thinks he’s received a call, but his wife hasn’t, then the minister can be sure that the call is not from God. And I told him that I’ve had absolutely no communication from anybody.” Her eyes darted from one side to the other. “Don’t you think that would be enough to make him at least think twice about going to Raleigh?”

  “Yes, I would, Emma Sue. Especially since you’re so adamant on the subject.”

  “He’s not seen adamant yet,” she said with renewed determination. “If he’s so bound and determined to pick up lock, stock and barrel and move across the state, then that’s just what he can do. I’m staying here. I told him that, too.”

  “Oh, Emma Sue, you can’t mean you’re divorcing him!”

  “Of course not, Julia. You know we don’t believe in divorce. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I’m just not going to live with him. He can go to Raleigh if he wants to, but I’m staying here in my own house.” Her eyes narrowed as she lowered her voice. “Then we’ll see how bad that new church wants him when he shows up without a wife.”

  “Well,” I said, hardly knowing what to say, “I’ve heard of couples who live apart but never divorce, so I guess it could work.”

  “It’ll have to because that’s what I’m going to do. And, Julia, when you look at it, it’ll be perfect. I’ll stay in our house here, and when he’s ready to retire, he can move back. Thank goodness we bought our house and didn’t accept a church-owned manse. And we did it that way, Julia, only because Larry said we’d stay on in Abbotsville after he retired. So all I’m doing is holding him to his word.” She jerked her bodice up again. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, but I can’t imagine that he’s happy about it.”

  “Oh, he’s not, believe me. He’s so used to making all the decisions that he’s just miserable now.” She sidled closer to me and whispered, “Julia, do you think the church would hire me? I mean, pay me a salary to keep doing what I’m doing?”

  “Lord, Emma Sue, if we paid you for what you do in that church, we couldn’t afford you.” Emma Sue taught Sunday school, organized activities for the youth, led the Bible study in our circle, worked in the kitchen when we had covered dish suppers, fed and put up guest preachers, visited newcomers, the sick and the bereaved, held a minor office in the Presbytery, set up vacation Bible school for the little ones and held an open house every Christmas for the entire membership.

  “I wouldn’t ask for much,” she said wistfully. “Just enough to tide me over. Keeping two households will be expensive.”

  “The only thing I see wrong with it is if Pastor Ledbetter leaves, we�
�ll have to call another preacher. And if that preacher has a wife, which he’s bound to have or we wouldn’t call him, then that wife would be expected to take your place. I’m not sure the deacons would be willing to pay you for what they could get free from her.”

  “They’d better not count on that,” she said. “Things have changed since we came along. The young wives today already have jobs or professions. They’re not so willing to be unpaid help in a two-for-one deal.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, and more power to them,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what, Emma Sue. If you want to apply for the job you’re already doing, I’ll write a supporting letter for you. And Sam will speak for you, too, I’m sure. He admires you so much.”

  “He does?” Tears welled up in her eyes, surprising me for being so late in coming. Emma Sue was known for crying at the least little thing.

  “Everybody does. You may feel unappreciated, but you’re not. We all know what you do, and I, for one, think that the pastor is foolish if he goes off and leaves you.”

  As I searched my pocketbook for a Kleenex to hand to her, I felt an obtrusive presence beside me. “Good evening, ladies,” Arthur Kessler said, glancing briefly at us, then sweeping his gaze across the milling crowd. He removed a folded handkerchief from his ecru linen jacket and mopped his forehead. He’d dressed for his idea of a southern soiree and was now suffering from it. I saw the tail of the tie he’d removed sticking out of a pocket. “Lovely evening for a wingding, isn’t it?”

  “It’s hardly a wingding,” I said coolly, as Emma Sue clutched her stole closer and turned aside to blot her eyes.

  “Well, whatever you call it,” he said, not the least abashed. “I’m always interested in local customs, so this is a treat for me.”