by Ann B. Ross
Finally deciding that there was nothing to be done about it either way, I pulled into the driveway at home and tried to put it out of my mind. I also decided not to tell Etta Mae the details of the conversation, but I would tell her that I had seen Mr. Sitton and, especially, where I’d seen him. It was no wonder that bidding on The Handy Home Helpers wasn’t at the top of his list of things to do.
Then it suddenly occurred to me that with him temporarily out of commission, this might be the time to present our best and final offer. That would really put Lurline Corn between a rock and a hard place. She would have to decide between accepting our offer or turning it down to await one that might never come. It all depended on just how ill Ernest Sitton was.
So, I thought to myself, I would suggest to Etta Mae that she make sure Lurline knew of Mr. Sitton’s precarious physical condition. When one is hospitalized, one is unlikely to be all that interested in making a major purchase. Lurline would know that, and that would make our lone bid for her business much more attractive.
* * *
—
I was met by two excited little girls when I entered the kitchen, Latisha leading the way. The two of them sounded like a herd of wild horses as they ran from the library into the kitchen, Latisha shouting, “We’re ready! We’re ready!”
Penelope, saying nothing, ran in behind her, then stopped short and looked expectantly at me. I noticed a flush of excitement on her face.
“Have you decided what we should do?” I asked.
“Yeah!” Latisha yelled. “I mean, yes, ma’am, we know. And we’re ready to go.”
“All right, where’re we going?” I asked, hoping that she would not put me on the spot by saying they wanted to go for a hike in Pisgah Forest or some other bizarre outing that would test both my limbs and my stamina.
“The PlayPlace!” Latisha yelled, as she jumped up and down. “That’s where we want to go! Can we? Can we?”
Penelope gave a little jump and chimed in, “Can we? Can we?”
I looked to Lillian for help. “What and where is the PlayPlace?”
“At McDonald’s,” she said. “You know, it’s that fenced-in place some of ’em have with the slides and ladders and big balls to fall into. ’Cept ours don’t have a PlayPlace. You have to go to the McDonald’s over at the airport.”
“Well, that’s easy enough,” I said, relieved that no walking would be required of me. I could sit at a table beside a window and sip coffee while watching the girls wear themselves out in a gigantic playpen. “It’s perfect, in fact. Get your coats on, girls, and let’s go. Lillian, there’s no need for a heavy supper. I expect all that physical activity will call for a snack or two before we get home.”
“I want some fries!” Latisha announced, then turned to Penelope. “You want some fries?”
“Yes, I want some, too!” Penelope said, and for the first time raised her voice in excitement.
So we bundled ourselves into the car, the girls, mostly Latisha, chattering constantly. I drove us out to the interstate, then the ten or so miles to the airport exit and turned into the lot of the newer, larger McDonald’s that featured a large fenced-in appendage. And all the while I was offering up silent thanks for the girls having chosen such an easily fulfilled promise. I was, in fact, looking forward to having some quiet time inside as I watched through a window thick enough, I hoped, to drown out the squeals and screams. And looking forward, as well, to having a cup or two of McDonald’s excellent coffee, thinking that I might also order a hot apple pie to go with it.
* * *
—
By the time we started for home, a good hour and a half later, both girls were worn to a frazzle from all the climbing, sliding, and jumping they’d done. Stuffed with fries and milkshakes, they crawled into the back seat and buckled themselves in. Latisha was uncommonly quiet during the short drive, too tired to talk, and I didn’t expect to hear much from Penelope. But that little girl leaned her head back and, with a beatific smile on her face, said, “That was the best time I ever had.”
Neither of them was interested in supper that evening, with Latisha openly yawning and Penelope almost nodding off. Not even Sam could get a rise from them, although they took turns telling him of all the acrobatic gyrations they had engaged in during the afternoon.
“Miss Julia,” Lillian said as we finished supper, “before I take Latisha home, you remember that muscadine jelly we made back in August? I’m thinkin’ you better decide who you gonna give it to, else you and Mr. Sam gonna eat it all up ’fore Christmas gets here.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” I said, recalling the several days that the sweet aroma of muscadine grapes boiling on the stove filled the house. And recalling also the hours of crushing, cooking, and ladling the hot liquid into small jars and then sealing and placing them in the pantry to await Christmas. “With all that’s been happening, I had about forgotten them. Penelope, Honey, that’s something you and I can do tomorrow. We’ll get out some Christmas labels and decide who will get a jar of the best jelly in the world.
“And,” I continued, looking at Penelope, “I think it’s time to get out some Christmas decorations and begin to dress up the house for Santa Claus. I am so glad to have you here to help with that.
“Oh, and another thing,” I continued, “we’ll need some greenery for the mantels, so we’ll go look for a roadside stand and get it fresh from the mountains.”
“Well,” Sam said, expansively, “with that on the agenda, I’m canceling my Bluebird visit tomorrow. I need some Christmas spirit, so I want to help decorate, too.”
“Well, I do, too,” Latisha said, then glanced at Lillian from under lowered eyelids. “But I guess I’m gonna have to go to school ’less somebody thinks I need a day off.”
Sam and I laughed, but Lillian said, “Don’t nobody think you need anything ’cept a good night’s sleep.”
“Don’t worry, Latisha,” I said, “there’ll be plenty left to do, and we’ll finish up on Saturday when you can be here to help.”
* * *
—
I declare, it was beginning to look as if I ran a day care center, what with having Penelope on my hands and Latisha, as well. But Latisha with her exuberance was good for Penelope, who still seemed closed in on herself and much too somber for a child of her age. I wondered if she missed her mother. But if so, which mother? Did she even remember the woman who bore her? As for Tonya, it was hard for me to think of her in motherly terms. As far as I knew, the adoption was of fairly recent occurrence, so perhaps the child had not formed much of a bond with her new mother. If that was the case, she might not miss her at all, which meant, it seemed to me, that Penelope had no conception of where or to whom she belonged.
Dangling in midair, I thought, must be the way the child felt, aware that at any minute she could be shipped off to another strange place and another group of strange people. Why couldn’t Mildred and Tonya see that a child needed stability and a sense of belonging?
Right at that moment, I decided that, in spite of my determination to stay out of the business of other people, I would tell Mildred in no uncertain terms how she was endangering Penelope’s well-being. And, if my outspokenness infuriated Mildred, then I would just accept the loss of a friendship. There are some things worse than living next door to someone who strikes you off her invitation list.
With that decision made, I put it aside until Mildred was home and out of danger of another attack of whatever had caused the first one. And, speaking of that, I hoped to goodness that Mildred would not take herself off to Duke or to the Mayo Clinic because what would she do with Penelope? Mildred would not go anywhere without Ida Lee at hand, which would mean leaving the child with Horace and Grady Peeples. Surely she wouldn’t do that, which left either sending her back to Tonya or leaving her with me.
I prepared myself to insist that Penelope stay with us
if Mildred considered sending her to Tonya. Not that I wanted to offer childcare for what could be weeks, but I could not bear the thought of Penelope being bounced back and forth across the continent, knowing that she was unwanted at either end.
And I kept thinking of Lloyd, often seeing in her his wan little face when he first came to me. What he had added to my life could not be measured and Mildred was a foolish, self-absorbed woman if she would not seize the opportunity to enrich her own life.
But one thing at a time, I thought, and at that time the one thing needing my attention was The Handy Home Helpers.
Chapter 35
I finally connected with Etta Mae later that evening after watching the little girls pick at their suppers, then getting Penelope ready for bed. It was with effort that I turned my mind to our business deal, for it had been a long, busy day what with visiting Mildred in the hospital, having that run-in with Ernest Sitton, and drinking enough McDonald’s coffee to float a battleship.
“Oh, I was hoping you’d call,” Etta Mae said as soon as she heard my voice. “I wanted to call you, but didn’t want to bother you. Miss Julia, I am so nervous I’m about to jump out of my skin. Mr. Blair hasn’t heard one word from Lurline, and he sent her our new offer first thing this morning. Or maybe it was last night, I don’t know. But I don’t see how we can go any higher, so if she turns us down this time, I guess that’ll be it for us.”
“Wait, Etta Mae,” I said, responding to the panic as well as the disappointment in her voice. “It’s not as bad as you think. Remember that it was a full twenty-four hours before she responded the last time. And she has a lot more to think about now than she did then because Ernest Sitton is in the hospital.”
“He is? What’s wrong with him?”
“He said it was a minor matter, but he was in a wheelchair coming back to his room after having some kind of test. So I’m thinking that if he’s unable to walk . . .”
“No, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae interrupted, “that doesn’t mean anything. Hospitals never let patients walk to and from tests. They’re afraid somebody’ll fall and sue them.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know what his problem is, but do you think Lurline has heard about it? That would make a difference if she thinks our offer is the only one she’ll get.”
“Gosh, I don’t know,” Etta Mae said. “But she was awfully quiet today, though I only saw her early this morning and then again around quitting time. But she sure wasn’t walking on air like she’s been doing.” Etta Mae paused, then in a brighter tone she said, “I bet she does know, and it’s got her thinking that our offer is all she’s going to get. Miss Julia, she may really be thinking of accepting ours. Oh, my goodness, what if she does?”
“Then,” I said, “we will have a thriving business on our hands. Now, Etta Mae, don’t get too excited. She may still be waiting to see what the Dollar Store will do.”
After a few more minutes of conversation, we hung up with promises to stay in touch at the least little indication of what Lurline Corn might do.
Sam snapped the newspaper open and looked over at me. “I heard you mention the Dollar Store,” he said, “but you can forget about them. I heard today that they’ve bought eight acres out on Springer Road.”
“They have? Where on Springer Road? Sam, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wasn’t sure it was true. It was Jack Maybin who mentioned it, and you know how he is. He gets something right about once a year.” Smiling, Sam turned back to the newspaper. “I’m going to the Bluebird for breakfast in the morning. I’ll find out for sure then, unless you want me to help decorate for Christmas.”
“Well, yes I do. But I want to know about the Dollar Store more than I want boxes down from the attic. Christmas is still a ways off.”
* * *
—
With Lillian’s help the following morning, I was able to find the leftover-from-last-year Christmas wrapping paper, ribbons, and tags. Mixed in with all of that, we found one sheet of small labels with adhesive backs, and that was exactly what we needed.
Placing the jars of jelly, the sheet of labels, and a couple of red ink pens on the kitchen table, I helped Penelope climb up to sit on a thick tome so she, too, could reach the table. I had earlier made a list of those to whom I wanted to give a jar of jelly, but as I counted them out I realized there were not enough jars to go around. Somebody had to be struck off the list.
“Oh, Lillian,” I said, “why did you let us eat so much jelly?”
“I tole you,” she said with a noticeable lack of concern. “’Sides, Mr. Sam like that jelly.”
“Yes,” I said, laughing, “and around here what Mr. Sam likes, Mr. Sam gets. Well, Penelope, somebody will just have to do without. We have a list of twelve names and only ten jars of jelly.” Pulling over the sheet of labels, I went on. “Why don’t I write the names and you paste the labels on the jars?”
And that’s what we did, although I drew out the project for as long as I could simply because I couldn’t think of anything else with which to entertain Penelope. She seemed to enjoy pasting the labels, frowning with serious intent to make sure that each one was level and securely adhered to the jars.
With the kitchen radio turned low to an early selection of Christmas carols, Lillian preparing dinner with a soft clatter of pans, and the child busily entertained, you would think that my mind would be pleasantly occupied. It wasn’t, for I kept thinking of the cutting sharpness in Mildred’s voice when she told me in no uncertain terms that Tonya was not to be summoned. Even worse, she had made it plain that I was not the one to place a call. To tell the truth, no one had spoken to me like that since Wesley Lloyd Springer had been laid to rest. He was known to belittle anyone who did not measure up, and he had cut me down to size more often than I cared to recall. To have heard the same critical disparagement in my friend’s voice had cut me to the bone.
Yes, she had quickly apologized, and her reason for not wanting Tonya notified had moved me with deep sympathy for her pain. I had easily forgiven her for speaking to me in such harsh tones, but, being human, I had not forgotten. I would from now on watch my step and measure my words in her presence. It was a crying shame, but I would not risk another outburst from her again.
There’s such a thing as too much of a good thing, as too close a friendship, and as getting too involved with someone else’s problems. Oh, I would of course continue our friendship and do what I could when she wanted help, but I would always be holding back just a little for fear that she would lash out at me again.
To tell the truth, I had had my fill of verbal lashings from Wesley Lloyd, who could never be completely pleased with me. I didn’t have to take the same abuse from anybody else. So, yes, I could forgive Mildred for blurting out her true feelings, but forget her belittling tone of voice? No.
“Miss Julia?” Lillian asked, interrupting my thoughts. “If y’all ’bout through with the jelly jars, you want me to start pullin’ out Christmas decorations?”
“No,” I said, putting down my pen, “I don’t want you going up and down the attic stairs. Sam said he would do that this morning. But where is he? Down at the Bluebird, as usual.”
“Well, he tole me ’fore he left that there was something he had to check on down there.”
“Huh,” I said with a laugh. “He just doesn’t want to miss any news. But don’t worry, Honey,” I said to Penelope, “he’ll be back soon and we’ll test the Christmas tree lights and check on the ornaments. We’ll be ready to put up the tree, but we can’t do that without Latisha, can we?”
Penelope smiled and shook her head.
Lillian leaned on the counter and said, “Y’all got to get a tree ’fore you can put it up, with or without Latisha.”
“Well, I think,” I said, “that would be a good thing for Honey and Sam to do this afternoon, don’t you? Then it’ll be ready for decorating when
Latisha can be here.” Then, carefully wrapping each jelly jar in newspaper to prevent breakage, I stacked them in a large basket, ready for delivery. “Thank you for your help, sweetheart,” I said to the child. “You did such a good job, and our friends will be delighted to get a jar delivered by a little elf like you.”
Penelope smiled again, and I began to try to think of other little jobs for her to do. It wasn’t easy, for everything I could think of would take five minutes or less, and with her help, twice as long, but still not long enough to fill the morning.
“Miss Julia,” Lillian said, leaning over to look out the side window. “Something’s goin’ on over at Mrs. Allen’s house.”
Chapter 36
I hurried to the side window to look out over the boxwood hedge that separated our lawns and through the bare branches of a row of Bradford pear trees, getting just a glimpse of the columns on Mildred’s porch and a glint of black metal.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, “that looks like a limousine to me. Maybe it’s . . .” I stopped myself from saying Tonya in front of Penelope for fear of exciting then disappointing her in case it wasn’t.
But Lillian knew who I meant for she said, “Wouldn’t nobody be driving all the way from California, would they?”
Shaking my head, I whispered, “No, but they would from the airport.”
“Oh, look!” Lillian said, clutching my arm. “It’s got a back door, an’ they openin’ it. It’s a ambulance, Miss Julia.”
And of course it was, for I could now make out the long, sleek, highly-polished lines of the vehicle normally leading a string of cars on the way to a cemetery.
I looked around for Penelope, not wanting to speculate too much in her hearing, but she was still sitting at the table seemingly engrossed with the red ink pens.
