Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (5 page)

“Julia?” Sam said as he leaned over me, his face drawn with concern. “What's wrong, honey?”

I was still doing exactly what Lillian had told me to do—sitting right where I was.

I bestirred myself and looked up at him. “You won't believe this, Sam.
I
don't believe it. And I'd just made up my mind to turn to something useful instead of frittering away my time worrying about things I can't do anything about. And now this falls in my lap.”

Sam drew up a chair and sat beside me. He took my hand and said, “Tell me what's going on, sweetheart.”

“Oh, Sam, you and Binkie have got to get me out of this. I can't do it. I don't
want
to do it. It's too much responsibility, because how in the world could I know what she wants? Why, I hardly
know
the woman!”

“It's okay, honey,” Sam said in his soothing voice. “Calm down now and tell me what's upset you so.”

Lillian said, “Whatever it was, it come over the telephone. I was settin' right here when her face went white as a sheet an' look like she 'bout to slide right outta that chair.”

“She's all right now,” Sam said. “Julia, honey, tell me what happened.”

“Sam,” I said, gathering myself with a rush of outrage, “never in my life have I been so put upon. It can't be legal to give power
of attorney to someone who didn't know a thing about it and who doesn't want it. Can it? Talk to Mr. Ernest Sitton and get it annulled, voided, vetoed, or whatever you have to do.”

“Someone's given you power of attorney? Who?”

“
Mattie Freeman,
can you believe it!” I sprang from my chair, too outraged to sit still. “And who knows how long ago she did it, and never told me—much less
asked
me—a thing about it. And now she's lying up there in a hospital bed, not knowing one day from the next, expecting me to make medical and financial decisions for her! What presumption!”

While I stomped back and forth in a rage, Sam leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling for a minute. “She never mentioned anything to you?”

“Not a word! Believe me, I would've talked her out of it if she had. And now I can't talk to her at all. She's off somewhere getting ready for a debutante ball.”

“Then she certainly needs someone to look after her, and obviously she trusted you to do it. It can be an onerous job, Julia, but it's also an indication of the esteem she has for you.”

“Well, I don't know why,” I said, stopping with my hands on my hips as I glared at him. “The most I've ever had to do with her was to invite her to parties and ask, ‘More tea, Mattie?'”

Sam smiled. “Yes, and asked it very nicely, I'm sure.” Then he reached for my hand and went on. “Look, honey, it's possible to petition the court to excuse you from the responsibility, but then the court will appoint some attorney who doesn't know her from Adam. And he'll charge her for every move he makes.”

“Why,” I said, looking into the future, “somebody like that could deplete her assets before she knew it. And I can't imagine that she has that much to begin with. What would she live on when she gets out of the hospital? Maybe she knew that and took it into account. She'd have known I wouldn't charge her anything.”

“That's right, you wouldn't. As a matter of fact, you couldn't. All you could charge would be for the expenses you incur, which
is exactly what the attorney would do. But his expenses would include the time he'd ordinarily spend on his own clients.” Sam stood, put his arm around my shoulders, and led me back to a chair. “Julia, why don't you talk to Sitton, let him explain what you'd be responsible for, then see how you feel. Most people recover from a hip replacement fairly easily. It may be that all you'd have to do is consult with her doctor, make sure her monthly bills get paid, and arrange for her care until she's on her feet again. That's not much more than you were already doing.”

“I guess you're right,” I said, sitting again. “I can't just turn my back and pretend she's no concern of mine. Oh, Sam,” I went on, suddenly feeling both humble and uplifted, “just think of how much she must think of me! I had no idea that I was held in such high regard. But,” I said, springing to my feet again, “if she weren't in such a bad way now, I would most certainly wring her neck!”

_______

Sam accompanied me to Mr. Ernest Sitton's office, which was inconveniently located in Delmont, a small town some ten or so miles from Abbotsville. As we sat around an oval conference table in his office, I realized that the short, paunchy man sitting across from us had been the same short, paunchy one I'd seen coming out of Mattie's room at the hospital. It was comforting to know that he'd been on the job all along.

Mr. Sitton, after greeting us, particularly Sam, warmly, had placed a stack of documents on the table and with little fanfare got down to business. I soon learned the name of Mattie's surgeon, whom I was told to consult, received her checkbook, which was noticeably light on the bottom line, and accepted the keys to her apartment, where bills would be awaiting payment. Mr. Sitton had obviously been busy seeing to Mattie's affairs and, if I wasn't mistaken, was now somewhat relieved to pass along the responsibility to me.

“Now, Mrs. Murdoch, you have been granted a durable power of attorney, which gives you complete authority to make medical
and financial decisions for Mrs. Freeman. And that authority continues even though Mrs. Freeman is showing some signs of mental incapacity, which of course we asume will be temporary. Sam, I'm sure, will explain the details to you, but I am always at your service as well.”

“How long will I have to do this?” I tried not to whine, but I don't think I succeeded.

“Until it's revoked by the grantor, which will be when she's over this little setback she's had.”

I wasn't sure how small a setback a broken hip was, but I intended to see that Mattie got all the therapy and rehabilitation she would need. I wanted her back on her feet as soon as possible so she could take control of her own business, which I hoped would include relieving me of all responsibility and of locating those misplaced kid gloves as well.

“Now, Mrs. Murdoch,” Mr. Sitton continued as he pushed a paper toward me, “you'll need to sign this document when my ladies come in to notarize it. Then you should take it to Mrs. Freeman's bank. It gives you the authority to sign her checks.”

When that was done, Mr. Sitton assumed he was, too. He stood up and said, “Don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I've represented Mrs. Freeman for years, but I can't claim to have known her well. Still, between the two of us, Mrs. Murdoch, we shall attempt to do our best for her.” Then, shaking Sam's hand, he said, “Good to see you again, Sam. Mrs. Murdoch, let me know if I can help.”

As Sam and I settled into the car for the drive back to Abbotsville, I sighed and said, “After we go by Mattie's bank, we might as well stop by her apartment and pick up the mail. Maybe get a few gowns and a robe for her, too.”

“Good idea. The sooner you get on top of things, the easier you'll find it. In fact, I doubt there'll be much to do for now—just keep up with household bills as they come in.” He glanced at me and smiled. “You don't particularly mind writing checks, do you?”

“Oh, you,” I said, dredging up a smile, as I thought that I
might as well make the best of the hand I'd been dealt, even though I'd never played a game of poker in my life.

_______

After completing our business at the bank, we found Mattie's mail for the two days she'd been in the hospital still in her mailbox. I took out an electric bill and one from the water department, a small cream-colored envelope that looked like an invitation or a thank-you note, and a handful of leaflets, long official-looking envelopes, and colorful advertisements.

Looking at Sam as we stood in the hall beside her door, I said, “I'm not sure I'm ready to just walk into somebody else's home and start poking around in it. You think I could put it off for a few days, maybe get Mildred to come with me?”

“Won't Mattie need some gowns? Toothbrush, too. And her purse. Every woman wants her purse.”

“Oh, of course. Actually, I'm surprised Mr. Sitton didn't have it. Well, I guess there's nothing for it but to go on in. Here, Sam,” I said, handing the key to him. “You open it.”

As Sam worked the key into the lock, a tall, lean man came out of the apartment down the hall, walked toward us, and stopped. “Nate Wheeler,” he said easily. “I don't believe Mrs. Freeman's at home, but can I help you?”

Sam turned and offered his hand. “We're the Murdochs, here to get a few things for Mrs. Freeman. You know she's in the hospital?”

“I heard, and I'm real sorry I wasn't here to help. I try to keep an eye on all the residents, but I've been out of town for a couple of days. How is she doing?”

“Fair, I would say,” Sam said, while I looked the man over. He seemed fairly young, but that was from my viewpoint, where everybody under sixty looked young. As I peered closer, though, I recognized an old, tired look around his eyes. He was wearing a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up over tanned, sinewy arms and a pair of well-worn jeans over clean, but also well-worn, workman's boots.

“They tell us that the surgery went well so we're hoping for the best,” Sam told him, then, turning to me, said, “This is my wife, Julia, who has Mattie's power of attorney. You'll probably be seeing a lot of her as she looks after Mattie's affairs.”

Mr. Wheeler gave me a nice, slow smile as he said, “Anything I can help you with, let me know. I'm staying in apartment 4A for a few weeks—right down the hall there—while I do some remodeling. Updating the kitchen and so on.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Wheeler,” I said. “Do you have your family with you?”

The smile died on his face. “No, ma'am, I'm a widower.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Forgive me for asking.”

That nice smile twitched at his mouth. “Perfectly all right,” he said. “It's been awhile. But let me know if I can help with anything. I'll be around.”

Well, that was reassuring to know. Depending on Mattie's progress—or lack of same—she would have need of a strong, healthy man with a willingness to help. And so would I.

As Mr. Wheeler went on out the front door, Sam unlocked Mattie's door and pushed it open for me. “Seemed pleasant, didn't he?”

I agreed and walked into the dim living room, its deep crown moldings almost lost in the shadowy corners of the high ceiling. The blinds were closed and the draperies drawn, so I stopped after a few steps inside to let my eyes adjust. When they did, I saw that the room was a far cry from the party-ready condition it had been in on the occasions I had entered as a guest.

“My goodness,” I murmured as Sam closed the door behind us and looked around as I was doing.

Furniture—chairs and side tables—had been pushed aside in a haphazard way. A huge chest-on-chest blocked the French doors to the sunroom with two huge Chippendale chairs pushed up against it. An étagère filled with porcelain figurines and vases stood against the far wall. The dining table had been shoved back against a window in the combination room, and two of its chairs were overturned. A lamp with a crooked shade lay on Mattie's hard-as-a-rock damask-upholstered Duncan Phyfe sofa, and discarded packaging materials were strewn across her faded Oriental.

“The EMTs, honey,” Sam explained. “They needed room to work and to get a gurney in to pick her up.”

“Oh,” I said, but wondered why they hadn't cleaned up after themselves. “Well, let's get what we came for, then just leave. I'll
send someone over to straighten things before she comes home. I'm in no mood for housework today.”

Sam located a large black pocketbook on the kitchen counter, but before tucking it under his arm, he asked, “Is this yours or Mattie's? They look alike.”

“Hardly,” I said, glancing at the much-used, chipped, and fraying bag. “Mine's a Prada.”

“Oh, well,” he said, grinning. “There's the difference.”

Just as I was going down the narrow hallway to Mattie's bedroom, I glanced in at a neat, but crowded, guest room on my way. Then I proceeded on to the larger bedroom, made smaller by the high Charleston rice bed, a block-front chest, and, against the wall at the foot of the bed, a nice bureau with a gilt mirror over it. An ancient television sat on top. This room, too, was fairly neat, although there were aspects—like a robe on the foot of the bed, slippers in the middle of the floor, and rumpled pillows—that gave it a lived-in look.

Feeling again like an intruder, I nonetheless determined to do my job in as professional a manner as I could manage. So I opened the top bureau drawer, thinking
underclothes,
and mentally checking off a list—gowns, bathrobe, slippers, what else? Oh, toiletries, or beauty products, as Hazel Marie called them. I headed for the bathroom, where I found shampoo, comb and brush, toothbrush and toothpaste, small cases of Estée Lauder face powder and rouge, and a magnifying mirror.

“Sam?” I called. “Would you look for a suitcase? Or a paper sack? She's going to need more than I thought.”

I heard him open a closet in the guest room. “Found one,” he called back. “Old as the hills, but it should do.”

He put it on Mattie's bed and opened it, so that I could pack what I'd gathered into it. “Julia,” he said thoughtfully, “I'm having second thoughts about leaving her pocketbook at the hospital. Why don't you take it home with you for now? When she's alert enough to look after it, we'll get it to her.”

“I think you're right, and—even though I hate the thought of
rummaging around in somebody else's purse—I guess I should see what's in it. For all we know, she has another bank account with a checkbook that she carries around with her. And considering the large but almost empty checkbook Mr. Sitton gave me, that would be a godsend.”

“It has something in it,” Sam said, hefting the pocketbook. “It's as heavy as lead.”

I put a pile of underclothes and three gowns in the suitcase, then stuffed toiletries around the edges. “I hope I've not forgotten anything,” I said.

“You can come back anytime. Remember, you have total access.”

“Don't remind me,” I said, shuddering a little at the thought of making myself free in this dark, crowded apartment by going in and out as if it were mine.

Carrying the suitcase, Sam followed me back to the living room. He had turned on the overhead light, so I stopped for a minute and looked around again. Every other time I'd been in the room, it had been occupied by a number of women, all of whom had taken my attention with their greetings and subsequent conversation. This was the first time I'd looked carefully at the furniture, mainly because it was all I could see.

“Goodness, Sam, I don't know how Mattie lives all crowded in like this. Look at that highboy. The pediment almost touches the ceiling. And there's a bowfront sideboard—Sheraton, I believe, and she only has a dining area, not a room. And look at those huge wing chairs, plus the sofa, and I don't know how many side tables.” I walked over to one and lifted the crocheted cloth that covered it. “Would you look at this! I think it's a handkerchief table, Sam, but it's too crammed in to get it open. Oh, look at that little table in the corner.” I leaned over to look closer. “No, it's too deep to be a table. It might be a cellarette.”

“What's a cellarette?”

“Oh, you know. It's a . . . well, basically it's a wooden box on legs. See, Sam, it's right behind that Chippendale chair. See how
deep the box is? It's to keep wine bottles and, I suppose, other spirits under lock and key in case there're tipplers in the house.”

“Tipplers, huh?” Sam said, grinning at my choice of words. Then, turning to scan the room, he went on. “You know, Mattie may have more assets than we've given her credit for. If this furniture is as good as you say, it could see her through some rainy days.”

“Well, I'm no expert, but some of these pieces have nice lines. That's not foolproof, though, because reproductions can be quite good. Still, if it comes down to it, she could get an appraiser in here to see what it's worth. Of course, it might not matter. If Mattie hasn't sold it before this, who's to say she would now?”

“Your decision now, honey.”

“Yes,” I said, sighing, “but how could I sell what she so obviously values?”

_______

Before going home, which I was more than ready to do, we went by the hospital to drop off the suitcase and its contents. After locking Mattie's pocketbook in the trunk of the car, Sam and I went straight to her room, intending to visit for only a few minutes, ask if we'd forgotten anything she wanted, and then leave.

“I just hope,” I said to Sam as we rode up in the elevator, “that she's making sense for a change. I don't like promising something that I have no intention of doing—like looking for elbow-length kid gloves—even if it does humor her.”

Sam smiled. “I hope so, too. If all goes well, she should soon be able to manage her own affairs, and that'll relieve you.”

Something devoutly to wish, I thought, as we walked down the hall toward Mattie's room. Clutching my own fairly heavy pocketbook, I turned into the room, nodded to the roommate, as Sam, carrying the suitcase, followed me to the bed next to the windows.

“My goodness,” I said, as I saw potted plants and fresh bouquets on every surface in the room. “Look at all the flowers. I
guess I should make a list of who sent them for thank-you notes. I expect writing them is part of my job description, too. Just put the suitcase anywhere you can, Sam.” Then, turning to the bed, I said, “Mattie? It's Sam and Julia. We've brought you a few things from home. How're you feeling?”

Not so good, it seemed, for she didn't respond. Her eyes were partially open but I didn't think she was looking at anything in particular. Someone had combed her hair, but it hadn't significantly improved her looks. In fact, she looked about half sick, which didn't seem quite right for a broken hip that had just been expertly mended.

I put my hand on her shoulder, but she didn't stir, so I tiptoed away from the bed and whispered to Sam, “I think she's asleep. Maybe we'd better go.”

Sam agreed and off we went, stopping at the nurses' station to inquire about Mattie's progress. As expected, we didn't get a straight answer, so I asked a nurse when she expected Mattie's surgeon to make his rounds, intending to waylay him in the hospital if it wasn't in the middle of the night—surgeons can, on occasion, be somewhat eccentric. Telling the nurse that I'd left a packed suitcase in the room, I asked her to make sure that Mattie knew it was there.

“When she wakes,” I said, “she'll be glad to have her own gowns and personal items.”

“I'll tell her,” the nurse said. “I'm sure she'll appreciate your bringing them.”

“Just let her know that I'm doing the job she gave me,” I said, with a tinge of sharpness I couldn't suppress, then, as we walked away, mumbled to Sam, “The job she
foisted
on me.”

Sam grinned and said, “Let's go home.”