by Ann B. Ross
Hazel Marie cocked her head to the side, considering her handiwork, then said, “Binkie, what do you think? My Joy or your Giorgio?”
“She could wear either. Whatever you think.”
Hazel Marie reached for a bottle and said, “The Joy, then. But I warn you, Miss Julia, don’t get too close to J.D.; this stuff makes him wild.” And she giggled.
Then she dabbed perfume behind my ears and on my throat before I could tell her that Estée Lauder’s bath powder was already doing the job.
“Enough, Hazel Marie,” I said, getting to my feet. “I have things to do. Lillian, do you need help with your dress?”
“No’m, I got it right here, an’ I’m fixin’ to get in it soon’s we get Miss Binkie in hers.”
“Well, I’m going downstairs and try to do something about that mess outside. But first, I’ll make sure that Coleman’s here. Thank you, Hazel Marie, for your help. I just hope I’m recognizable.” I started out of the room, holding up my gown, but stopped as I saw Binkie sitting in the open window. “Binkie, get out of that window! People’re going to see you and they’re not supposed to until you come down the stairs. And you’re not even half dressed!”
“Oh, shoo, Miss Julia. I’m having too much fun watching all those people out there, and I think I see that miracle they’re talking about.”
“Where?” Hazel Marie said, dropping a brush and heading for the window.
“Where?” Lillian said, running behind her with her dress half zipped.
“Well, tell me, too,” I said, following suit. “I’d like to see some real evidence.”
“Okay,” Binkie said. “Look real close at that wall, right between the middle windows. See all those white lines on the bricks? If you start on the top level and follow the lines on the left side down past the second story and on down to the first, you’ll see that they form sort of a half-profile of a woman’s face. Now go back to the top and follow the lines on the right side, and you’ll see what looks like a shawl or a cowl, or maybe it’s her hair. Look where the face should be, and there’re your eyes, nose and mouth.”
“Oh, my Lo-o-rd,” Lillian said, her eyes popping out of her head. “I see it! Sweet Jesus, I see it plain as day!”
“I do, too,” Hazel Marie said, her voice choking with emotion. “You think we ought to pray or something?”
“We ought to pray for some sense,” I said, not wanting to admit that I’d begun to believe in something on the wall, even though I couldn’t make out a face for love nor money. “I don’t see a thing but some mighty poor construction work. I declare, you’re all as bad as those people in Atlanta who saw Jesus in a plate of spaghetti on a billboard.”
Lillian lowered her voice and said, “Lotsa people saw that, and the Reverend Oral Roberts saw Him astraddle of a hospital, big as you please. It don’t do to question ever’thing, Miss Julia. You miss a lot, if you do.”
I rolled my eyes. There was a lot I didn’t mind missing.
“Yes,” Hazel Marie said, “and I heard that eight thousand people showed up to see Jesus’ image on a garage door. I think it was in California.”
“California.” I sniffed, still trying to make out what they were seeing and failing on all points. “What do you expect?”
Binkie turned a mischievous face to me. “Well, what about the Mother Teresa cinnamon bun? I’ve seen a picture of it on the Internet, and it looks just like her.”
“Oh, Binkie, quit encouraging them. Now get out of that window and get dressed. Look, some of the guests’re beginning to arrive. Wouldn’t you know Mildred Allen’d be the first one, and more than an hour early? Wants to look things over, I expect.” I started out of the room. “Hazel Marie, if Little Lloyd’s ready, send him on down so he can begin seating people.”
I closed the door on the dress-strewn, perfumed air of the room and hurried to tap on Coleman’s door. Without waiting for an answer, I stuck my head in just enough to get a glimpse of his brief-clad bottom. Considerably relieved to see even that, I quickly withdrew, murmuring, “Sorry, just making sure you’re here.”
Then I hastened downstairs, intent on putting an end to miracle-watching, at least until after the wedding. But that was before I saw Sam’s awestruck face.
“What’s the matter with you, Sam?” I said. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen the woman on the wall, too.”
“No, Julia,” he said, coming over to take my hand. “I’ve just seen the woman on my heart.” His smiling eyes searched my face, my hair and my attire.
I turned away, uneasy with such close scrutiny. “Oh, Sam. Don’t get carried away.”
He leaned close and whispered, “I’d like to carry you away.”
Before I had to answer, Mr. Pickens raised his eyebrows and gave me what we used to call the once-over. “Sam,” he said, “is this woman yours or is she for the taking?”
Just then, Miss Mattie Mae Morgan struck up a resounding chord and launched into the pre-wedding music with plenty of extra trills and rumbling bass notes. Just as well, because I could pretend I didn’t hear Sam when he said, “Oh, she’s mine, all right. Keep your distance, Pickens.”
Chapter 32
Just then I was struck dumb by the entrance of Etta Mae Wiggins from the Hillandale Trailer Park, her arm draped through the crook of the arm of a tall, tan-skinned man who could give Mr. Pickens and Coleman, both, a run for their money in the looks department. Miss Wiggins was dressed fit to kill in a black sundress, barely held up with more of those spaghetti straps Binkie was so enamored of, with sequined white flowers across the bodice. It ended a good deal north of her knees and, as far as I was concerned, was totally inappropriate for the occasion. I mean, black? For a wedding?
“What is she doing here?” I whispered to Sam and Mr. Pickens.
Mr. Pickens turned to look, then he waved to the couple, and answered, “That’s Bobby Lee Moser from the Delmont sheriff’s office, and I’d guess that’s his date with him.”
“Etta Mae Wiggins,” Sam said, taking my hand again and running his thumb over it. “You remember her, don’t you, Julia?”
“I remember her, all right.” Thinking I’d have to make the best of it, but somewhat reassured by Sam’s present lack of interest in her. Or so it seemed.
I said, “More people’re coming up the walk, and it’s more than an hour before the ceremony. Where’re the ushers? Where’s Little Lloyd?”
“Here I am.” And there the child was, as handsome as he could be in a miniature dinner jacket and black trousers with satin stripes down the sides. “What do I do?”
“Just go to the door and escort people to their seats. Hold your arm for the ladies like I showed you, and remember, bride’s guests on the left of the aisle and groom’s on the right. Mr. Pickens, you need to get on the job, too.”
“Come on, sport,” Mr. Pickens said, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “We can do this.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Pickens,” I said, plucking his sleeve. “Who’re those people standing around on the front porch?” All I could see were broad-shouldered men with mustaches and military haircuts clustered by my wisteria vine.
“They’re all deputies, Coleman’s friends,” Mr. Pickens said. “Probably keeping an eye on the miracle-watchers.”
As he and Little Lloyd walked toward the door, Miss Wiggins flounced over to Sam and me. I stiffened as she approached, thinking that if she said one word about that trailer park, I was going to pinch her curly head off.
“Oh, Mrs. Springer,” she gushed. “I’m just so thrilled to be here. I couldn’t believe it when Bobby Lee asked me to come with him. Oh, this is Bobby Lee Moser; he’s an old friend.”
“How do you do,” I said, offering my hand to the smiling, but silent deputy, which you wouldn’t know unless you’d been told, because of his dress suit and tie. His suit was a summerweight charcoal, his shirt a blinding white against his tanned complexion and his tie a conservative red with a gold pattern.
Very nice, I thoug
ht, until he was close enough for me to make out the gold designs—tiny handguns all over the thing. A dangerous man, if I was any judge, of the ilk of Lieutenant Peavey.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Springer?” Etta Mae said, her eyes darting around, taking in everything. “I’d love to help, if I can.”
“No, thank you,” I told her, wanting to say that I’d had all the help from her that I could afford. But she was a guest in my home, so I refrained. “Everything’s well in hand . . . except, oh my goodness.” Panic overtook me at my lack of foresight. “Flowers,” I gasped. “I forgot the flowers!”
“Lord, Julia,” Sam said, “you’ve got flowers everywhere.”
“The bouquets and the boutonnieres. For the bridal party.”
“Where are they? I’ll get them,” Etta Mae said, slinging the chain of her purse over her shoulder.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Wiggins. They’re in the refrigerator in the kitchen. Mr. Pickens and Little Lloyd and Sam get the pink rosebuds, and, well, you’ll see the bouquets for Binkie and Hazel Marie. And Coleman, don’t forget his. Everybody’s upstairs, if you don’t mind running them up, but don’t let Coleman see Binkie.” As Etta Mae eagerly hurried off to the kitchen on her errand, I suddenly clasped Sam’s arm. “Oh, Sam,” I cried, “the photographer! Where is he? Or she? Or whoever Hazel Marie got. Oh, my goodness, what if we don’t have one?”
“It’s a he,” he said, “and he’s here. I saw him a minute ago lugging in his cameras. Said he had to walk a mile from where he had to park.”
“Just so he’s here,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I hope he’s competent.”
Sam just smiled and, if I hadn’t been struck with another thought as Miss Wiggins started up the stairs with a box of bouquets, I’d’ve taken note of it.
“Let’s go up with her, Sam,” I said. “I want to pin Coleman’s boutonniere on and have a word with him. And you’re his best man. You should be up there helping him.”
We went upstairs together, waylaying Etta Mae to get the rosebuds for Coleman’s and Sam’s lapels. As we went toward Coleman’s room, we heard Binkie and Hazel Marie welcoming Etta Mae with squeals over the bouquets.
Sam tapped on the door, then opened it. “Coleman? You decent?”
“Yeah,” Coleman answered, as we walked in. “Hi, Miss Julia, Sam. How’s it going downstairs?”
I declare, I’d seen a bait of good-looking men that day, but Coleman took my breath away. So handsome in his wedding apparel that set off his broad shoulders and blond hair—in spite of the sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Coleman,” I said, “Binkie’s a lucky girl. I just want to wish you both a happy life together.”
“Thanks, Miss Julia. Is she all right? She’s not going to leave me at the altar, is she?” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Binkie’s having the time of her life,” I assured him. “Although she is paying entirely too much attention to that apparition on the wall over there. Hold still now, I want to pin this rosebud on your jacket.”
Coleman got that far-off look he’d had the night before, as I began sticking the pearl-headed pin through his lapel and the stem of the flower. “It’s still over there then?” he asked.
“Apparently so. I haven’t seen it, myself. But people are still flocking around, looking at it and kneeling and crossing themselves,” I said, unpinning the flower and going at it again. “You were absolutely right when you told me they were holding some kind of religious vigil. But Sam knows the truth of it. Tell him, Sam.”
So Sam went through the scientific explanation again, intriguing Coleman enough to make him forget for a while to worry and sweat over Binkie’s previous intransigence.
* * *
“Now, Coleman,” I said, suddenly fearing that science and reason would overcome his faith in a miracle, which after all was what had set this wedding in motion again. “It doesn’t matter what it is—seepage or shoddy bricklaying or handwriting on the wall—if it works, we just accept it and go on with our business.”
“That’s what I aim to do,” Coleman said. “Though I don’t mind admitting it shook me up last night when I saw that woman as clear as a bell.” He frowned, thinking about it. “Couldn’t see it so well when I came in a while ago, though.
“Oh, well,” he went on with a smile. “It’s done the job so far, if it’ll just hold out awhile longer. And listen, Miss Julia, don’t worry about the crowds; they won’t bother us. This is the happiest day of my life, and I don’t mind sharing it. Besides, what better time to see a miracle than on our wedding day?”
“You’re as bad as Sam, Coleman, with all that tolerance,” I said. Then picking up the other boutonniere, I turned to Sam. “Hold still now, and let me get this pinned on you.”
While Sam bent his head to watch me as I pushed the pin through fabric and flower, I bit my lip with the effort. “Careful, Julia,” Sam said, smiling. Then, sniffing, he said, “My, you smell good.”
“That’s this flower you’re smelling,” I said somewhat sharply, reminded of what Hazel Marie’d said about the perfume she’d been so free with on my person. Then, my mind switching back to more immediate concerns, I whirled around. “Coleman! What about your car? Will you be able to get through that mass of people when you and Binkie’re ready to leave? Sam, that’s your job, to see that they have a getaway car. And what about your suitcase, Coleman? Did you pack for your honeymoon?”
“All taken care of, Miss Julia,” Coleman said, reassuring me considerably. “Sam put my suitcase in the car this morning, and we parked it where nobody’ll think to look.”
“But how’re you going to get to it? Coleman, I’ll tell you,” I said, getting more concerned by the minute. “I’ve heard of some terrible things being done to grooms in bygone weddings—things like putting a ball and chain around their necks and throwing away the key, or carrying a groom off and leaving him to walk for miles to get home. Now, I know all those deputies down there are friends of yours, but friends’re the worst kind for mischief such as that. There’s no telling what they’d be capable of if they got their hands on you. I mean, there’re some dangerous-looking men among them, especially Lieutenant Peavey and that Deputy Moser with handguns all over his tie.”
“Julia, Julia,” Sam said, in that soothing way of his. “We’ve got it all arranged. A special car with a special driver will pull up to your front walk when Binkie and Coleman’re ready to leave, and it’ll take them right to their car. Give us some credit, woman, we’ve thought of everything.”
“Well, all right. Now all I have to worry about is if I’ve thought of everything.”
Chapter 33
“I’d better go see about those girls.” Then, overcome with the high seriousness of what he was about to enter into, I turned back to Coleman. “Coleman,” I said, smoothing his lapel and giving his bow tie a tweak. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed having you in my house, and how much I appreciate all you’ve meant to me, just by being here.” I snatched a Kleenex from the box on his bedside table. “This is a momentous time for you, a highlight of your life, but I want you to know that I’m always here for you. You’ve been like a son to me, and, well, I guess I hate to see you go.” My eyes began to fill in spite of my relief at getting him and Binkie married.
“Julia,” Sam said, putting his arm around me. “Remember, now, this is what you’ve been working toward for so long. Let’s be happy for them.”
Coleman moved closer and displaced Sam. He put both arms around me and pulled me close. “Don’t cry, Miss Julia. I’m not going far, you know, and I plan to be around so much you’ll think I’m still living here.”
“Well, I know, Coleman,” I said, wiping my eyes and wondering if Hazel Marie’s mascara was the waterproof kind. “But I’m just trying to be a mother to you, and mothers’re supposed to cry at weddings.” I straightened my shoulders. “Well, enough of that. Sam, what time is it?”
“Getting close to three-thirt
y.”
“Oh, my goodness, we’re running out of time. I’d better check on Binkie. Sam, you stay here with Coleman and keep him entertained. At a quarter till, you two go down the back stairs and wait in the kitchen. Then a minute or two before four, come out to the living room and take your places in front of the arch. Pastor Petree will already be there, so he’ll make sure you’re in the right place. Coleman”—I sniffed as my eyes teared up again—“this is one of the happiest days of my life.”
I left then, pulling the door closed behind me, to be greeted by a blast of chords from the blessed hands of Miss Mattie Mae Morgan at the piano downstairs. I headed down the hall to my room where the female contingent of the wedding party was congregated. Giggles and laughter from Binkie and Hazel Marie and Miss Wiggins blended with an unfamiliar voice giving instructions to stand here, to smile or to look this way. As I reached the door and looked in, I was stunned at the scene before me. Clothes, stockings and shoes were strewn over the bed and every chair; open cosmetics cases on the dresser overflowed with one beauty aid after another, a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice and soft drinks sat in the corner, and Binkie was still in her robe and bare feet.
That was all bad enough, but the photographer was a redheaded man wearing baggy shorts and a tee shirt. And work boots of all things. There he was in my bedroom, like it was the most normal thing in the world to be in the presence of women in various stages of undress, and not a one of them turning a hair about it. Except Lillian, who was flapping a robe in front of Binkie. The whole unsuitable scene stopped me cold.
While I stood at the door, watching, the man hopped around, giving orders and putting hands on first one and another. “A little closer,” he said. “Okay, that’s good.” Then a snap, flash and whir of the camera. “Now let’s have the bride sit at the dresser, while the bridesmaid fixes her hair. Look back this way. Good.” And another snap, flash and whir.
