by Ann B. Ross
“Don’t worry about that. I wouldn’t know, either. But bring them by when you get through and we’ll have Sam look at them. We need an idea of how many patients Lurline has under contract, what she charges for each one, how many employees she has and what she pays them. Then we’ll know if the business is profitable.”
“I know about the employees,” Etta Mae said. “She has five full-timers, including me, and a bunch of ladies she can call on if somebody needs a sitter or a driver—you know, for a doctor’s appointment or some such. They’re temps, though I think one or two would like to go full time.”
“That’s good. Now, if you know or can estimate their wages, we can begin to find out what the business costs to run.”
“Oh, I know all that, too,” Etta Mae said. “The full-time girls moan all the time about what they make, and I pretty much know what the temps make per hour, although that varies.”
“Well, here’s another thing. Does Lurline supply anything? I mean, like cars, or paying for gas or your mileage? Tell me how she has things set up.”
“Well, we use our own cars and turn in our mileage, and she checks it down to the inch. She supplies a medical bag for each of us that makes us look real professional. We carry the basics for checking blood pressure and temperatures and so on in them. All the full-timers have them.” Etta Mae paused, then said, “Lurline buys a lot of things in bulk, so every morning we stock up on what our patients will need that day—things like protein drinks, bandages, all kinds of pads for the incontinent like Depends and so forth. We keep a record so she can charge extra for them. She trains the girls when they come on full time—how to give a bed bath, change sheets, help somebody out of bed or into it, as the case may be. And we learn how to check medications, like to see if somebody’s taking too much or not enough or if they need a refill. But Lurline has stopped doing any of the training. She gave all that to me a few years ago. It’s why I make a little more than the other girls.”
“Well, see,” I said, “you’re as good as running The Handy Home Helpers already. I would think that the entire business depends on how well the employees are trained. Actually, that’s what the business is selling and what the patients are paying for. The training has to be top-notch, Etta Mae, and if Lurline has entrusted it to you, then you’re already in charge of the most important part of the business.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she murmured, although I hoped that she was beginning to think of it that way. And maybe, I thought, beginning to realize her worth to the business, as well as her capability to step into Lurline’s shoes.
“Okay, then here’s another thing. Can you tell from the records or do you know if the patients pay on time? In other words, if Lurline has a contract with a patient, can she count on the money coming in as it should?”
“I don’t know about that,” Etta Mae said. “All I know is that she has a CPA come in every now and then, and they close the office door so nobody can hear them. Oh, and I know that most of our patients are on Medicare or Medicaid.”
“That’s good,” I said, nodding to myself. “That means the business is accredited, approved, or certified—whatever it takes to get government money. And that reminds me. You’re going to need a good CPA. Who does your personal tax returns?”
“H & R Block.”
“Hm-m, well, you’ll need somebody more business oriented. So here’s what you should do. Make a copy of all the records you have and take them to C. J. Sims. His office is right off Main Street. I’ll call and ask him to advise us about the state of the business, and I’ll tell him you’re coming in. Now, Etta Mae, you can speak openly to him, because I’ll be telling him that I’m involved. He’ll know eventually, anyway, because he does our taxes.”
“Okay,” she said, somewhat subdued. “I don’t know him, but I’ve always heard he’s the best in town. I’ll run by tomorrow and drop everything off to him. But, gosh, Miss Julia,” she said, blowing out her breath, “I didn’t know how complicated it was going to get.”
“We’re just doing our due diligence to find out if it’s worth doing at all. Don’t worry about it, Etta Mae. Once you’re set up as the owner, all you have to do is keep it running and stay straight with the IRS. But you can trust C.J. to keep you out of Atlanta.”
“What’s in Atlanta?”
“The federal pen.”
“Oh, my goodness. Are we going to get in trouble?”
“I’m teasing, Etta Mae,” I said, feeling bad for scaring her. “But, no, we’re not going to get in trouble. That’s why we’re doing all the complicated stuff up front. And that’s why we have Mr. Blair, C. J. Sims, and Sam to help us through it.”
And I went on to encourage her and to assure her again that we were doing a good thing in spite of how it felt at the present. I knew she was feeling overwhelmed and that it wouldn’t take much for her to back out completely. Yet I was convinced that The Handy Home Helpers was made for Etta Mae Wiggins, and I was determined to see that she got it.
If, that is, it proved to be a profitable business.
* * *
—
Etta Mae dropped off a manila envelope full of papers later that afternoon for Sam to look over. She was between patients, so she couldn’t stay. I think she might have had enough of my encouragement, to tell the truth. Which was just as well, for by that time, I was taken up with worrying about Mildred and her new houseguest.
I knew they were back from the airport, so I kept thinking that Mildred would call to tell me the latest, as she had done almost every day since learning of Tonya’s high-handed conduct.
And I was worried about that child, thinking how lonely she must be in a strange house with strange people. Homesick, even, although from the sound of it, Penelope had never really had a home to be sick about. But, still, Mildred didn’t call, and I didn’t want to intrude.
“I expect she’s busy,” Sam said after I’d moaned to him about it. “They’ll be getting to know each other, and there’ll be a lot to do. Unpacking, for instance, and showing the little girl around the house, and maybe just sitting and talking.”
“Oh, I know,” I said, “but Mildred has involved me in everything that’s happened for so long that now I’m feeling left out. Which is silly, I know, but having had an unknown child once thrust on me, I could be of help to her.”
I was referring to Lloyd, of course, the son of Hazel Marie Puckett, now Pickens, and my long-dead first husband, Wesley Lloyd Springer, conceived while his father was married to someone else, namely me. So I was familiar with having an unknown and unwanted child suddenly underfoot, and I was familiar with how a child could change one’s life if one was even slightly open to the possibility.
“Sam!” I said, suddenly struck by even more similarities between Mildred’s situation and mine. “It was Christmastime then, too.”
“What?” he asked, lowering The Abbotsville Times. “What was at Christmastime?”
“When I stopped seeing Wesley Lloyd’s face every time I looked at Little Lloyd. Remember? You went with me to Walmart to buy presents for him.”
Sam smiled. “I remember. You almost bought out the store.”
“Well, Mildred needs to be told how that came about, and we—you and I—need to start getting ready for another Christmas. Let’s put the tree up early this year, and let’s have some folks over for Christmas dinner, and let’s remember that Lloyd is practically grown with a driver’s license, and let’s be thankful that we’ve had him all these years and how empty they would’ve been without him. Mildred needs to know that.” I sat back and drew a deep breath. “Who do you want to invite for Christmas dinner?”
He laughed and said, “Get your pen and paper, and we’ll make a list.”
Chapter 18
No need, however, to make out a guest list until the most important person was consulted. With that in mind, I took myself to the k
itchen where Lillian was getting ready to leave.
“Lillian,” I said, “do you and Latisha have plans for Christmas?”
With only one arm in her coat, she stopped and stared at me. “No more’n usual, I guess. We’ll put up a little tree an’ make some pound cakes for the neighbors. An’ make sure I got all Latisha’s Santy Claus off of layaway. Why?”
“Well, Sam and I are thinking of inviting some friends over for Christmas dinner—say, around two or three o’clock that afternoon. And, of course, we want you and Latisha with us.” I stopped, for of course it wasn’t as if Lillian would be a guest, but rather the provider of the feast. “I’m sorry, Lillian. We do want you both and not just to cook, but, well, nobody can cook like you. If it was left up to me, I’d have to serve frozen pizzas and probably burn them. Please don’t think it’s something you have to do. If it’s too much to ask, I’ll figure something out.”
She laughed. “I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Miss Julia, it gets real lonesome on holidays with jus’ me an’ Latisha. Seem like them days oughta be happy days, but they jus’ long and lonesome. So I’d as soon be cooking for a crowd of happy folks than settin’ at home with nothin’ to do but wait for bedtime.”
“Oh, Lillian, thank you, but let me tell you what I have in mind. I’d like you to hire some help, maybe for several days beforehand to get things ready and to serve and clean up on Christmas Day. Maybe Janelle? Or whoever and however many you think we’ll need, because I do want you and Latisha to be guests, just with you supervising the food. I wouldn’t trust anybody else to do it as well. And since Christmas is on a Wednesday this year, you can plan to take the rest of the week off and you can count on the usual, as well.” The usual was extra pay which was a given, but it didn’t hurt to mention it. Whenever I had a tea or a dinner party—anything that added to Lillian’s workload—I added a bonus to her salary.
Lillian slipped out of her half-on coat, hung it on a chair, and asked, “You sure you want Latisha?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be asking the Pickens children and Little Gracie Bates, and Penelope Allen, too. We’ll have a houseful of children, which means we have to have gifts, as well. Oh, I know! Maybe the adults can draw names beforehand and bring just one gift for whoever’s name they get. That’ll be fun, especially with a price limit on them. I wouldn’t want anybody to get carried away. Sam and I will provide the children’s gifts. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good to me, an’ Latisha, she’ll love it. But you better start countin’ up who all you gonna have, so we can figure out where they all gonna set.”
“Oh, you’re right. Let’s see, there’re five in the Pickens family. No, let’s ask Granny Wiggins, too, because I’m going to ask Etta Mae. And James, too? What do you think about asking him?”
“Well, you know what I think about him. That man’s not worth th’owin’ out, but I was already thinkin’ of getting’ him to help with the cookin’.”
“That’s perfect. So that makes seven for the Pickens family. And Etta Mae makes eight, and Binkie, Coleman, and Gracie make eleven. Oh, wait, Binkie and Coleman are taking Gracie to Disney World for Christmas, so we’re back to eight. You and Latisha make ten, and the Allen family will make three more. But what about Grady Peeples and Ida Lee? Should we ask them, too?”
“If Mr. Horace come, we might better have Mr. Grady ’less he have family to eat with. Ida Lee, I don’t know, she like to have some time to herself, so she might wanta come and she might not. But you left somebody out.”
“Who?”
“You and Mr. Sam.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing, “I guess we should put us on the list, too. My goodness, Lillian, that’ll make close to twenty people. Can we manage all that?”
“We’ve done it before, but dinner’ll have to be set out on the buffet so people can help theirselves. We can put card tables up all over the house, but if somebody want to eat on their knees, they can do that, too. What we gonna feed ’em?”
“An old-fashioned Southern Christmas dinner with all the fixin’s. You be thinking of what we’ll need, and I will, too. Christmas is only a few weeks away, so the sooner we get started, the easier it’ll be.”
* * *
—
So, with Christmas plans buzzing in my mind, I had to make an effort not to jump too far ahead. For all I knew, all those I wanted to invite were already making their own plans. To circumvent that, I set to work writing invitations to send out the following day. It’s a well-known fact that wedding invitations should be mailed six weeks before the event, so I figured that a great and wonderful Christmas dinner deserved no less. Maybe no one would notice that I was off by a couple of weeks.
Yet in spite of my head suddenly being filled with Christmas plans, thoughts of what was going on at the Allen house kept jumping to the forefront of my mind, intermingled now and then with anxiety about Etta Mae. I knew that she needed constant reassurance, being one of those people who thought less of themselves than others thought of them. I made a mental note to call her when I finished with the invitations.
And, I decided, since Mildred hadn’t called me, I’d call her, too. Maybe she was waiting for me to show some interest. Maybe the child was so worrisome that Mildred had taken to her bed. Maybe a lot of things, none of which I’d know until I called and asked.
So, when my hand had become stiff from writing, I put down my pen and picked up the phone. Ida Lee answered, so I quickly asked to speak with Mildred. I had long before understood that I could not count on learning anything from Ida Lee—no matter what she thought, she’d never share it.
“Oh, Julia,” Mildred said as soon as she picked up the phone. “I don’t know how this is going to work out. I am beside myself, trying to figure her out.”
“Why? What’s she doing?”
“Nothing, and that’s the problem. She doesn’t say anything or do anything. Just sits where she’s told and waits to be told what else to do. Why don’t you come over and meet her?”
“I’d love to, but it’s getting late so I won’t stay but a minute.”
Wrapped in a heavy coat against the wind, I hurried through the hedge that lined our side yards, across Mildred’s wide lawn, and rang the doorbell. Ida Lee welcomed me and led me to the sunroom where Mildred was ensconced in her usual chair.
Glancing around, I saw a small girl, her back to me as she sat on the floor in a corner, holding what looked to be a Barbie doll. A play-sized footlocker held the doll’s wardrobe. My first impression was that Penelope was much younger than Mildred had been told.
“Have a seat, Julia,” Mildred said. “I’m so glad to see you, but you must forgive me for not calling you over before this. We, Penelope and I, have been busy getting ourselves situated.” Then, leaning forward in her chair and surprising me by raising her voice considerably, she said, “Penelope, this is Miss Julia from next door. Can you say hello to her?”
The child looked around somewhat quizzically at Mildred, giving me my first good look at her. Her complexion was very close to that of Ida Lee’s—a smooth, tan shade. Her eyes were large and black, and her abundant hair was equally dark and as straight as a stick.
Penelope glanced at me, then lowered her eyes. She mumbled something that I took to be a greeting and turned back to the doll in her hand.
Mildred rolled her eyes just the least little bit. “She’s very quiet,” she said, “which I much prefer to the noisy kind. But quite solemn, as well, and sadly lacking in basic manners. I’m not sure she’s smiled even once since she’s been here.”
I frowned and shook my head at Mildred’s thoughtless and perhaps hurtful comment. “I’m not sure we should be talking—”
“It’s all right,” Mildred assured me. “Watch this.” Mildred turned to Penelope and, without raising her voice, said, “Penelope.”
There was no response from the child by either w
ord or movement.
“She’s deaf,” Mildred said. “At least partially, because she seems to hear if she’s looking at me. Maybe she reads lips, I don’t know, but I’m taking her to be checked next week. Isn’t it just like Tonya not to say one word about the child’s handicap.”
“Uh, Mildred, I don’t think they use that word these days.”
“Well, I do because that’s what it is. But,” she said with a put-upon sigh, “she is quiet and easily entertained, and I should be happy she’s so amenable. All I have to do is get her attention when I speak to her and she does whatever I say. But there’s no telling what else is wrong with her because one abnormality usually indicates something else is wrong, too. I declare, Julia, she’s just one more thing that Tonya has saddled me with.”
I felt increasingly uncomfortable discussing the child with her in the same room even if she was as deaf as a post. Somehow it seemed impolite to say the least and hurtful to say the most. I wanted to leave and mull over this new complication.
“Well,” I said, gathering myself to go, “tomorrow is Saturday, and Latisha usually comes with Lillian for a few hours in the morning. Would Penelope like to come over, say about ten, so the girls can play? We’d love to have her if you think she’d enjoy it.”
“I’m sure she would,” Mildred said, “so thank you for inviting her. Ida Lee and I plan to go through Penelope’s clothes—a lot of things are sadly lacking. I need to start a list of what she’ll need, especially with the weather so inclement. I’ll have Ida Lee walk her over about ten, but, Julia, if she becomes a problem or you get tired of having her, don’t hesitate to send her home.”
I assured her that I would and hurried out before she could say anything more. I didn’t like hearing the child referred to as a problem, even if she couldn’t hear a word that was said.
Chapter 19
