Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle (39 page)

“A ghost,” I sobbed. “I went right through it, like . . . like nothing was there. But I saw it. Hanging there, a ghost.”

“Ma’am, ma’am, hold on. What are you doing out here? You know what time it is?”

“I don’t . . . let’s go. I have to get away. It could be coming.” Wanting only to get in his car and leave, I turned toward it and stumbled over his feet.

He caught my arm and leaned toward me. “Hey, careful there. You have a little too much to drink?”

“
No.
And if you’d seen what I saw, you wouldn’t be asking such a question. I’m telling you, we better get out of here before it comes after us.”

“Okay, okay, but where do you live? Tell me,” the deputy said, turning me toward the headlights to get a good look, “where do you live?”

I pointed in a vague direction. “Over there.”

“Let’s get you in the car,” the deputy said, walking me toward the back door.

“Good, that’s good. Ghosts can’t . . . Lock the door.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” The deputy was grinning as he closed the door, then he crawled into the driver’s seat and started mumbling and talking in numbers on his radio.

Trembling, I crouched in the corner of the backseat, as far from Miss Petty’s toolshed as I could get, watching fearfully for any signs of the ghost’s materializing out of the hedge.

The deputy turned with his arm along the top of the front seat, looking at me through the mesh screen. “You wander around much at night, ma’am?”

Did he know something?
“Hardly ever,” I temporized.

“Well, we’ve been searching for a prowler in the area. Where all have you been tonight?”

“Minding my own business, young man, and I’m telling you there’s a ghost in that yard, or outside it, or somewhere around here—no telling where it is now, and I don’t even believe in ghosts. But I saw it even though I’m a Presbyterian, and I ran right through it like, like it didn’t have a body, and Pastor Ledbetter won’t believe me, but I know what I saw.”

“Uh, ma’am, you take any medications? You know, to help you remember things?”

He thought I was demented.
“I certainly do not,” I snapped, then reconsidered. Maybe I should let him think I’d wandered from home and couldn’t find my way back. There’d be no question about trespassing at Sam’s house or spying on Thurlow if he thought I’d had memory loss, although I was far from senile, as anybody who knew me could verify.

“Well,” I said, “maybe an aspirin now and then, and a laxative when I need it. But I don’t need either one to know what I saw, and I saw a ghost and it was right where somebody died, and Lillian says that spirits hover around for a while when somebody dies. I want to go home now.”

“How ’bout I take you to the emergency room? You might need to be looked over.”

“No, thank you. All I need is for you to put this car in gear and take me home. I’ll show you where I live when we get there. Turn left at the corner.”

“Can you tell me your name now?”

“I could, but I prefer not to. Besides, you haven’t introduced yourself either.”

He laughed, put the car in gear, and we moved away, leaving, I fervently hoped, Richard’s ghost in Miss Petty’s toolshed, where it belonged.

“You sure you live here?” the deputy said as he pulled to the curb.

“I certainly am. Do you think I’d direct you to somebody else’s house?”

“Well, you never know.” He still had that amused smile on his face, humoring me as if I didn’t know who or where I was. He leaned over to look out the side window at the dark house. “Nobody’s up. Guess they haven’t missed you yet.”

“Let’s hope not.” I groped for a door handle. “How do I get out of here? I can’t get it open.”

“I’ll come around and let you out.” He did, and as I climbed out onto the sidewalk in front of my house, he said, “We’ll knock on the door and be sure it’s the right place.”

“There’s no need for that.” I pulled the keys out of my pocket and dangled them in front of him. “I can manage by myself. Besides, they’ve probably been up half the night. Wall-to-wall babies, you know.”

That set him off again. In the gray light of predawn, I saw a worried look come over his face. “Ma’am,” he said, frowning, “I think I know who lives here, and I’m not sure you do.”

I jangled the keys again. “Come watch me open the back door.” I had the urge to tell him I’d lived here for more than forty years, not all of them good ones either.

He peered at me so long that I felt compelled to smoothe the hair out of my face and to stand a little taller. Frowning, he asked, “You wouldn’t be Mrs. Sam Murdoch, would you?”

I turned so he couldn’t look too closely and started walking toward the back door. He followed, holding my arm. “A friend of hers,” I said. “Just visiting, and this will teach me not to take a walk in a strange town. I’ll be leaving in the morning, well,
this
morning now that it’s already here.” I inserted the key, turned it, and opened the door. “See? They gave me a key because they know I’m prone to long walks. You can run along now. Thank you for your help.” I closed the door in his face and hurried through the kitchen and up the stairs to the safety of the bedroom.

As I closed the door and turned the lock, I flipped on the chandelier and nearly screamed at the apparition in front of me.

“Oh, Lord,” I gasped as I recognized myself in Hazel Marie’s full-length mirror. Twigs and hemlock needles and leaves sprouted from my head to my toes; my coat was smeared with mud, my face scratched, tights torn, shoes clumped with mud, and my hair was straggling all over my head and in my face. I looked like a wild woman and I was shivering like one too. No wonder the deputy wanted to take me to the emergency room.

And it was Sunday morning. Sam would be expecting me in church.

As tired as I was, the excitement of seeing him, sitting with him and holding his hand, gave me a spurt of energy. And assuring myself that no ghost would dare darken the door of the First Presbyterian Church, I began to get out of my torn and muddied clothes, figuring they were all destined for the trash. Normally I preferred a bath to a shower, but that morning I took both: a shower first to wash my hair and a bath to soak out the soreness that was sure to come.

Dressing carefully in my most elegant outfit—a lavender wool skirt and a matching jacket with braid on the placket and the cuffs—I prepared to meet my returning husband, all the while hearing the sounds of early risers downstairs. Babies were crying, the refrigerator door was opening and closing, water was running, and Mr. Pickens’s heavy footsteps were tromping back and forth between the kitchen and bedroom.

Deliberately putting aside all thoughts of the strange occurrences of the previous night, I concentrated on making the most of the next hour or so with Sam. Taking a last look in the mirror, I almost gave up. I’d had to wash my hair—a part of my toilette that I’d given over to Velma years before—and I couldn’t do a thing with it. There it lay on my head, flat and unstyled. I needed Hazel Marie and her curling iron.

So down to the kitchen I went, yawning and creaking as my aching body protested each step. If you want to know the truth, I could hardly straighten up, and soaking in a tub hadn’t helped.

“Why, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae said, working away at something by the counter. “You’re up early.” She was in her usual jeans and sweater, which meant that she didn’t have going to church in mind.

“I couldn’t sleep for some reason,” I said and opened the freezer and looked in. “Lillian left some blueberry muffins. How does that sound for breakfast?”

“Sounds good to me. Soon as I plug a couple of little mouths, I’ll fry up some bacon.” She started out of the kitchen, turned around, and said, “You look real nice this morning.”

“Thank you, but my hair’s a mess,” I said, touching it selfconsciously. “I hope Hazel Marie has time to work on it for me.”

She did: after the babies were changed and fed, Mr. Pickens was out of the bathroom, Lloyd had been sent back upstairs to dress for church, and we’d all eaten, she sat me down in front of a dresser and heated the curling iron.

“What did you do to this?” Hazel Marie asked as she ran a comb through my lank hair. “It looked so good yesterday.”

“Slept wrong on it, I guess. It was standing up on one side, so I washed it.”

“Well, don’t do it again.” Hazel Marie picked up the curling iron and went on. “I don’t want to burn you, so stay real still.”

That was hard to do, for I was so full of what I’d discovered during the night that it was all I could do to stay quiet, much less stay still. I had a great urge to tell her about Helen and Thurlow, but restrained myself because I couldn’t figure out how to tell it without telling how I’d found it out. And I wanted to tell Sam first. Not that he’d be awed by such an unlikely coupling—as Hazel Marie would be—but because I wanted him to understand that I was not the woman involved with either Richard or Thurlow, thereby bringing our estrangement to a conclusive end.

Busily curling and back combing, Hazel Marie said, “Your hair’s gotten so long, I think I’ll do it up in a chignon.”

“Whatever works,” I murmured, half asleep from being up all night.

“There,” Hazel Marie said, waking me with a hand on my shoulder. “How do you like it?”

I blinked and gazed bleary eyed but pleased in the mirror. “Why, Hazel Marie, it’s beautiful.”

“Whoo,” Etta Mae said, coming into the room. “That bun on the back of your head is what I call glamorous. You’re really stylin’ now, Miss Julia.”

Taking a hand mirror, I looked at my hair from all sides, becoming more and more pleased with what I saw. I was now as far from the apparition I’d seen in another mirror as I could be. You’d think I was an entirely different woman, which was just fine with me. I didn’t want anybody putting two and two together and coming up with Mrs. Sam Murdoch.

Just as Lloyd and I were leaving for the service, having bypassed Sunday school on the grounds of needing my hair fixed, Lillian called. “Latisha ’bout to have a fit to come see the babies. So, ’less somebody already cooked something, I’ll fix us all some dinner.”

“Nobody’s cooked a thing, Lillian,” I said, laughing at the thought. “I was just going to make sandwiches, so you come right on. We’ll be happy to have you.”

Lloyd and I slipped into our usual pew, where Sam was waiting for us. He smiled at me, patted my hand, and leaned close to whisper what I expected to be a loving compliment on my elegant appearance.

Instead, just as the processional started and we began to rise, he said, “Had a little excitement at my house last night. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Well, that took my mind off the service. Did he suspect that
I
had been the excitement? Surely not, I reassured myself—he wouldn’t have welcomed me so warmly. Still, it worried me, which was about the only thing that kept me from falling asleep.

And a good thing it was, because Pastor Ledbetter’s sermon topic didn’t bode well for keeping me awake. He prided himself on being up to date—au courant, as Emma Sue called it—on what was going on in the world, especially in Abbotsville and, more particularly, in his congregation. And he could find Scripture verses to back up whatever stance he wanted to take on any given topic.

I was sure that the pastor would preach on the place of women in the Church, which, according to him, was not up behind the pulpit. About once or so a year, he felt compelled to preach a sermon having to do with women, and each time he did I wondered whom he was aiming at: Emma Sue or me. And with Emma Sue coming home from Mildred’s impromptu tea, rhapsodizing about Pastor Poppy Patterson, I thought he’d figure it was time for another dose of straight talk so we wouldn’t get any feminist ideas.

That would be fine with me—I’d heard it all before and I could catnap without missing a thing. The only reason I was there that morning was to be with Sam, anyway.