Miss Julia Knows a Thing or Two

by Ann B. Ross

  Chapter 7

  As soon as I clicked off the phone, it rang again and this time it was Etta Mae returning my call.

  “Hey, Miss Julia!” she said, sounding as carefree and breezy as she always did. “I was so glad to get your message. How’re you doing? How’s Mr. Sam and Lillian? I’ve been meaning to call and check up on you, but you know how it is. I stay so busy that all the things I want to do just drop by the wayside and, first thing you know, weeks and months have come and gone.”

  “We’re all fine, Etta Mae,” I said, finally getting a word in edgewise. “And I apologize for letting the time get away from me, too. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you, and I’ve had you on my mind lately, so I just thought I’d call and see how you are. I hope I didn’t interrupt your schedule, though.”

  “Oh, no. No, you didn’t interrupt anything. In fact, I’m on my lunch break now, heading for McDonald’s for a McRib sandwich. They don’t always have them on the menu, but they’re really good. Oh!” she said, breaking into her own flow of words. “Why don’t I swing by and pick you up? We can have lunch together—my treat—and get caught up with each other.”

  “Well,” I said, not exactly thrilled at the thought of a drive-through lunch, much less of letting someone who might soon be jobless pay for it. But I had long ago learned to occasionally allow someone else to host a meal instead of always insisting that I be the one who treats—it makes for a more equitable relationship. “I’d love to, Etta Mae. Come right along. I’ll be waiting.”

  After telling Lillian that I wouldn’t be sharing the tuna salad she’d made, I slipped on a light jacket and waited by the front door. The little red Mustang that Etta Mae drove soon slid to the curb, and I hurried out.

  Getting into the low-slung car was a feat in itself, but I managed, wondering as I closed the door what the appeal of small red cars were for people as different as Etta Mae Wiggins and Horace Allen.

  “How are you, Miss Julia?” Etta Mae exclaimed, as she headed the car toward the south end of Main Street. “I’m so glad you were free. This is just making my day.”

  Delighted that I could so obviously and easily please her, I settled back to enjoy our time together. Glancing now and then at her as she drove, I could see little change since I’d last seen her. Her blond hair might’ve been slightly longer—she had it gathered in a ponytail so it was hard to tell. She wore a scrub suit and sneakers, her usual uniform, although she avoided white in favor of various colors. The one she was wearing was navy blue with a green cardigan over it against the chilly late November day. As she turned the car into the McDonald’s lot and pulled into the drive-through lane, she gave me a quick glance.

  “I hope you don’t mind eating in the car,” she said. “It’s quicker and a whole lot quieter than going inside.”

  “This is fine,” I said, although eating in a car wasn’t my usual idea of a ladies’ lunch. “I’ll enjoy it.”

  Etta Mae gave our orders to a disembodied voice—two McRibs, two medium Cokes, and two small cheesy bacon fries. After receiving our order from the second window, she whipped the car around to park in the side lot.

  “If it gets too cold, let me know,” she said, cracking our windows. “I’d rather eat inside, but you can’t hear yourself think in there this time of day.”

  “Lots of customers?”

  “Yeah, all under five. Moms pick up at preschool and bring ’em here for lunch. They go crazy, yelling and crying and spilling and throwing things. It can get dangerous.” Etta Mae laughed. “Some McDonald’s have an outdoor play area like the one over near the airport, but not this one.”

  “That sounds like a good corporate idea,” I said. “At least the mothers can eat in peace.”

  “Or a good way to work up a picky eater’s appetite and sell more hamburgers,” Etta Mae said, as she leaned around to the back seat. From the conglomeration of medical supplies, newspapers, extra pairs of shoes, raincoat, a couple of sweaters, and stacks of folders and papers, she pulled out two towels.

  “Spread this over your lap, Miss Julia,” she said, giving me a towel and keeping the other one. “McRibs can get messy.”

  Then she emptied the two console cup holders of tissues, change, and receipts, placed our drinks in them, and handed me a straw, a McRib sandwich, and a container of dressed-up fries. It was my first meeting with everything but the Coca-Cola, but I will have to say that the Tete-a-Tete Tearoom’s famous chicken salad couldn’t hold a candle to the zesty taste of what she had ordered. Everything was delicious, and the towel was a welcome replacement of a paper napkin.

  “So tell me how you’ve been,” I said between bites. “How’s your love life going?”

  “Oh,” she said airily, “don’t ask. I’ve decided that I’m snakebit when it comes to men, so the thing for me to do is steer clear and look after myself.”

  I smiled. “That’s not a bad way to go. I’m Presbyterian enough to believe that what’s meant to be will be, regardless of what we do. And when it comes down to it, we all have to look after ourselves.”

  “I guess,” she said in a pensive tone. “I keep thinking I ought to get out of Delmont, go to a big city like Charlotte, maybe, and try my luck there.”

  “Oh, I’d hate for you to move away, but there’re probably more opportunities in a bigger city.” But, I thought, more opportunities for what? Trouble, most likely, but far be it from me to give advice. I’d given that up.

  “Well,” she said, wadding up the sandwich wrapping, “looks like I’ll have to do something sooner or later. Lurline Corn is trying to sell the business, so that means my job is on the line.”

  “Oh, really? That surprises me,” I said, although of course it didn’t. “I’d think that anybody who bought the business would keep the employees—they’d be considered an asset, especially you with your training and experience. Actually,” I went on, “what does she have to sell if not the employees and the contracts with patients?”

  “Good grief,” Etta Mae said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But you’re right. That’s really what the business is, isn’t it? Of course she does have that little house on Main Street in Delmont which she uses as her office. That’s where she keeps patient records, makes out our schedules, interviews potential patients, and does payroll and all the tax stuff, so I guess that would be part of the business, too.” She glanced at me and smiled. “I think I’m feeling better.”

  She reached for the key in the ignition, but pulled back before turning it. “I just thought of something. There’s a rumor that the Dollar Store is looking for a place to build in Delmont, and Lurline had an appointment with a real estate agent a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was to maybe list her home, but now I’m not so sure. If she can’t sell the business, she could sell where the business is. Maybe I don’t feel so good.”

  “Why is Lurline selling in the first place? What’s she planning to do?”

  “Move to Florida!” Etta Mae said with vehemence. “She’s been poor-mouthing so long that I believed her when she said she was just barely making ends meet. Instead, she’s looking at half-a-million-dollar condos with amenities in Orlando—so that, she says, she can go to Disney World any time she wants to.” Then with just a touch of bitterness, she added, “And she knows that’s my favorite place in the whole world.”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Any day, Lurline says, but she’s been saying that for weeks. I think she’s trying to scare us all into quitting so she won’t be expected to give us severance pay. So maybe she’s planning to sell the property and just close the business.” Etta Mae sucked down the last of her Coke, rammed the empty cup into the sack, and said, “I’d quit right now if I had something else lined up. Then I wouldn’t have to hear her talk about Florida.”

  “Have you tried the hospital? A doctor’s office? Or some of the health service nonprofits? Sam sa
ys there’re a lot of assisted living facilities around. You could check those out.”

  “Miss Julia,” she said, leaning her head back, “I’ve tried every one of them, and they all pay next to nothing. Not that I’m doing that well with Lurline, but at least I can pay my bills. But that’s only because of seniority or longevity or something, and because I’ve threatened to sue her if she didn’t pay a living wage.” She gave me a twisted smile. “I know I wouldn’t get very far with that, but Lurline always worries about her reputation and she knows I’d put it in the paper and talk about her all over the county.

  “Ah, well,” she said, then heaved a long sigh, “I haven’t starved so far, so I guess things will work out some way or another.”

  I busied myself with cramming my cup and wrappings into the bag and folding the towel in my lap. Then I waited a second or two before making a proposition that I had no business making since I hadn’t discussed it with anybody else who would be affected.

  “As it happens,” I began, “Mildred Allen—you remember her, don’t you?—has a great need for some immediate help. You might not want to be limited to one patient, but I can assure you that Mildred would pay well. It could be a nice stopgap for a few weeks until you find something permanent. But,” I quickly added, “I’ve not spoken to Mildred about you—not knowing, of course, that you would be available or even interested.” I went on to tell her of the difficulties that Horace was having and of Mildred’s concerns.

  “Hm-m,” Etta Mae said, “sounds like dementia, which could just be age-related. But if it’s Alzheimer’s, Mrs. Allen will eventually have to think about long-term care, maybe in a locked facility. Those folks don’t get better.”

  “Yes, I’ve looked around on Google, but as I said, this would be just a stopgap for you anyway. That is, if you really want to leave The Handy Home Helpers before you have to, and if you have a plan for a much better situation in a few weeks. Or maybe a few months.”

  She laughed. “That’s the problem, Miss Julia. I don’t have any plans at all—all my options are for something that’s worse, not better.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” I said, my mind whirling with a number of possibilities. There was, however, a niggling little memory of promising myself that I would stop trying to run the lives of other people. I quickly shut down that line of thought. This was different.

  Chapter 8

  My intention was to go straight across our yards as soon as I got home and acquaint Mildred with my perfect solution to one of her problems. Instead, I waved goodbye to Etta Mae and hurried up the front walk and into the house. An icy wind had picked up considerably while we’d had lunch, and I needed a heavier coat, maybe a head scarf, and a pair of gloves before venturing out again.

  As soon as I stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me, I heard voices in the kitchen. Striding toward the back of the house, I smiled to myself. One distinctive voice made itself heard loud and clear—Latisha was on the premises.

  “Hey, Miss Lady!” she cried as soon as I walked into the room. “Guess what! My teacher had to call Great-Granny to come get me ’cause I throwed up right in the middle of Social Studies. So now I don’t have to go to after-school class. I get to come see how you been doing.”

  Latisha was sitting at a small table that Lillian kept in the kitchen for her. It was covered with crayons, Magic Markers, scissors, and construction paper, all of which were designed to keep Latisha entertained while Lillian worked around her. Lillian called it her Keep Latisha Quiet table, but it rarely did.

  “Well, it’s lovely having you, Latisha,” I said, removing my jacket. “I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been sick. How’re you feeling now?”

  Lillian, drying her hands on a dish towel, answered for her. “She’s fine, Miss Julia. No fever or sneezin’ or anything. I think something jus’ upset her stomach.”

  “Your stomach would be upset, too, Great-Granny,” Latisha said, “if you had to eat in that school lunchroom. I don’t know what they cook in that place, but one boy said it was roadkill, and I believe it.”

  “Latisha!” Lillian cried. “I hope you don’t say such a thing to them nice lunchroom ladies. They real good to you, an’ you better not be hurtin’ their feelings.”

  “I’m not going to hurt their feelings,” Latisha said, unperturbed by the possibility. “I like ’em all. I just don’t like what they give us to eat, ’specially when we’re starving and have to eat whatever they dish out.”

  “You know you like hot dog day. You tole me you do.”

  “Well,” Latisha said, subsiding, “that’s the only one.”

  Looking at Lillian, I asked, “Are you sure she’s all right? Take her on to the doctor if you’re concerned.”

  “No’m, she’s all right. She jus’ had a big bowl of soup and thirteen crackers, an’ she still talkin’. She’s fine.”

  “I think so, too,” Latisha said, and began to cut out a picture from a coloring book.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m going to run across and see Mrs. Allen for a few minutes. I just came in to put on a heavier coat.”

  Lillian said, “How’s Miss Etta Mae doin’? I was hopin’ she’d come in an’ visit with us for a while.”

  “She’s having some problems with her job,” I said, wrapping a scarf around my neck. “I’ll tell you all about it a little later. Right now, I need to talk to Mildred and get back. I don’t know what the weather’s going to do, but the temperature’s dropping and that wind is just whipping around.”

  “I hope it snows ten feet deep,” Latisha said, barely looking up from her work. “And we have to stay here forever.”

  Lillian’s eyes rolled back, as I laughed and headed for the door.

  * * *

  —

  “I don’t know if it would work for you or not,” I said, summing up my presentation to Mildred. We were in her sitting room, each in a wing chair beside the fireplace, both of us alternately gazing at the gas fire licking around nonflammable logs and glancing at the occasional pinging sound of sleet against the Palladian window.

  “But,” I went on, gathering myself to rise and get back home, “I had to at least give you the option. I know you wanted to find a gentleman to be Horace’s companion, but when you mentioned that you’d not found anyone suitable . . .”

  “Suitable!” Mildred exclaimed. “Julia, you wouldn’t believe the kind of men that agency sent to be interviewed. The absolute dregs of the earth! One skinny little man who reeked of the bottle, and another one who was so shifty looking that I had Ida Lee count the silver when I sent him packing. And the third one—my Lord, you should’ve seen him! Covered in tattoos, and I do mean covered. He even had one between his eyebrows.” Mildred shivered as she described the applicants for the job of moving into her home and keeping a watchful eye on her wandering husband.

  “I wouldn’t sleep a wink with one of them in the house,” she went on, “nor would I trust any of them with Horace. You know how fastidious he is, and I can’t imagine him appreciating their company. But Miss Wiggins,” she said in a musing sort of way, “is another matter altogether.”

  “Well, I know,” I said, “that you’d probably not considered a woman for the job. But she is well trained and accustomed to patients with memory problems. But, I hasten to remind you, she may not be available. She has a full-time job now, but it’s looking somewhat shaky. The owner intends to sell, so Etta Mae isn’t sure if she should go ahead and leave or wait and see what happens. And possibly, at least in her mind, end up on the street.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Julia,” Mildred said, “it’s a very attractive idea, but one I’ve not really considered. I thought a man would be ideal, being able to help Horace dress and bathe and so forth. But Miss Wiggins is accustomed to dealing with men patients already. And the more I think of it, the better it sounds. Horace would be much more amenable to th
e company of a woman than that of who-knows-who off the street. He does like the ladies, you know.”

  She smiled with indulgence and so did I, for it was true. Not that Horace was a flirt or a skirt chaser, he wasn’t. He simply enjoyed the company of women and their discussions of parties, fashion, and who was mad at whom among the Real Housewives. Sports or politics left him bored and unsettled.

  “I’ll leave it up to you, then,” I said, handing her a slip of paper. “Here’s Etta Mae’s phone number. She knows that you might be interested, so a call won’t surprise her. But let me issue a caution again, Mildred, she may be too dependent on her job to risk leaving it before she has to.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Mildred said, nodding, but of course never having had to depend on a job in her life, she didn’t. “I’m thinking of just asking if she’d be interested in sitting with Horace on her days off. Just to get a taste of it, you know, and see how Horace likes her, and so forth. That way, she wouldn’t have to make a decisive move until she was absolutely sure it would work for both of them.”

  “That’s a perfect idea, Mildred,” I said, surprised that I hadn’t thought of it. “Now I have to get on home. It’s doing something out there, and it looks as if we’re in for a night of bad weather.”

  “Be careful, Julia. You don’t want to fall and break something. Let me call Ida Lee to walk you home.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, shrugging on my coat and going to the window to look out. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that. Look, the grass isn’t even covered, so nothing is sticking. I’ll be fine, but just in case, call the house in ten minutes or so to see if I got there in one piece.”

  Urging her to stay where she was, since I knew she had difficulty rising, I hurried through the foyer and to the front door where Ida Lee waited to see me out. How she always knew when and where to be, I could never figure out, but I appreciated her lovely manners.