Miss Julia Stands Her Ground (2 page)

“That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!” I sprang from my chair and started pacing, just so agitated I couldn't stand it. “Not Wesley Lloyd's child? Why, Sam, the boy's his spitting image, and I, who had every reason in the world not to believe it, couldn't deny it from the minute I laid eyes on him.”

“I know, Julia. Not one soul's ever doubted it, not even Wesley Lloyd himself. After all, he tried to leave his entire estate to the boy on the night he died.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, getting a quick surge of the anger I'd felt when I thought my husband had cut me out all together. Well, actually he
had
cut me out, but because he'd not known that a wife can't be left destitute in this state, I'd gotten my half in spite of him and his last-minute, handwritten will on a piece of Hazel Marie's pink stationery.

I whirled around to face Sam again. “What does that trouble maker hope to gain by coming up with such a cock-and-bull story at this late date?”

“I have no idea. Like I told you, he said he didn't want anything but to set things right. Said he couldn't live with himself to keep such a secret while his niece and bastard nephew took advantage of you.”

“Oh,” I groaned, collapsing in the chair and holding my head
in my hands. “Poor Hazel Marie. Her uncle will do anything to hurt her, and this just takes the cake.” I looked up at Sam. “She's not taking advantage of me, Sam. Nor is that child. There's not a more honest, more open person in the world than Hazel Marie Puckett, and why her sorry uncle wants to come in and stir things up, I don't know.” I sprang up again, too disturbed to sit still.

“Come over here and sit on my lap,” Sam said. “We'll figure something out.”

I waved my hand at him. “I don't have lap sitting on my mind. Just what does Brother Vern plan to do with this
information
of his? Face Hazel Marie with it? Tell the child? Tell the whole world? And, come to think of it, why did he tell you? Why not me? I'm the one who, according to him, is being taken advantage of.”

“You're not going to like this, but he said he bypassed you because I'm the head of the household.” Sam's eyes betrayed a twinkle, as a smile played around his mouth. “Maybe you didn't know this, Julia, but you're now under submission to your husband and should be protected from grave matters such as this.”

I thought the top of my head would blow off at the arrogance of that know-it-all self-proclaimed preacher. Sam might be the head of the household in the Biblical view of things, but I had to be reckoned with, too. “I'll show him who's under submission! The idea.” I marched up to Sam and stood over him. “And what did you say to that?”

“Fill in the blanks, Julia.” He took my hand and pulled me closer. “Let's just say that when he left he had a new understanding of what marriage is. At least, this marriage. Now, let's put our heads together and think how we're going to handle this.”

“Well, I'll try.” I took a seat again, and tried to organize my spinning thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Maybe it'll all blow over if we wait him out.” But then I couldn't help the bitter edge that came into my voice. “Now that he's confessed his suspicions, maybe the Lord'll stop burdening his heart, and let him get some sleep.”

Sam shook his head from side to side. “No, he said that this whole situation is a parable about the fruits of evil intentions—Hazel Marie's evil intentions, you understand—and that it's incumbent upon Christians to speak up and speak out, and unveil those who would deceive for monetary gain—I'm quoting here. Then he went into a long discourse on Satan as the Great Deceiver, and how Satan's and Hazel Marie's true colors had to be revealed.” Sam stopped long enough for me to blink my eyes back into my head. “He's writing a tract about it to hand out at his meetings. Oh, I didn't tell you, he's in the printing business now. And he's making an infomercial to run on the local cable channel to sell a book he's working on, as well as tapes of his sermons.” Sam smiled again, but there wasn't much joy in it. “He thinks the tale of Hazel Marie's trickery and subsequent comeuppance, which he plans to engineer, will win souls far and wide.”

“How can he
do
that? He doesn't have a shred of evidence to back up his claims.” I leaned toward Sam, expecting him to tell me we had nothing to worry about. “He doesn't, does he?”

“Not that he told me. He did hint around, though, that he knows who Lloyd's real father is.”

“
Is?
Somebody who's still around?”

Sam nodded. “That's what it sounded like.”

“Then where is he? Why hasn't he made himself known? And what about his parental responsibilities?” I sat back in my chair. “I don't believe it for a minute.”

“I don't either. But, Julia, be prepared. Brother Vern is convinced of it, and he intends to spread it around.”

“Slander, that's what it is. I'll sue that man till he has to beg on the street. I'm not taking this sitting down, Sam, you can be sure of that.” So I got up and started pacing again. Then I thought of something else. “Hazel Marie is his niece. His own flesh and blood, and so is Little Lloyd. How can he tear them down like this?”

“He thinks his relationship to them makes his parable more powerful,” Sam said with a wry smile. “He said that he couldn't
exhort others to follow God's leading until he'd straightened out his own kin.”

“The man is crazy,” I said, as firmly convinced as I'd ever been of anything. “Sam, I'm telling you that he has something against Hazel Marie, and he'll do anything he can to hurt her. Remember when she and Little Lloyd first came to live with me? Brother Vern tried every trick in the book to get the child away from her. Even tried to have her declared an unfit mother.” I paused, recalling the troubles we'd had with the sweaty, heavy-breathing preacher, which included deceiving me and kidnapping Little Lloyd. “But that was to have himself named the child's guardian, so he'd have access to Wesley Lloyd's estate. But
this,
there's no profit in it for him at all. The only thing he can get out of it is to shame Hazel Marie and deprive the boy of his rightful inheritance. All he wants to do is hurt them. And I want to know why.”

“I expect it'll come out sooner or later,” Sam said. “But for now, we need to decide how we're going to handle whatever he comes up with.”

“Well, what do you think we should do?” Not for the first time since our marriage, I felt some relief in not having to decide everything myself. “Should we tell Hazel Marie?”

Sam hesitated, then said, “If he proceeds with publicizing his accusations, we'll have to.”

“Oh, Lord, I hate the thought of her being subjected to all that shame and worry.”

“So do I.” Sam rubbed his hand across his face. “But as far as I can see, there's no need to burden her with it unless we have to. Maybe we ought to just keep it to ourselves as long as we can.”

I thought about that for a few minutes, wondering how I could ever keep such a perilous threat to myself. I knew that the knowledge of it would simmer below the surface of my mind, until I wouldn't be able to look Hazel Marie in the eye and pretend that all was as it should be. So I said, “Would it be all right if I just told
her that her uncle is back in town? You know, so it won't be such a shock if she finds out what he's doing?”

Sam smiled. “Whatever you think, Julia. I'm just saying that downplaying it as much as we can would be better for all of us in the long run.”

Then, struck with a sudden thought, I sat up straight in my chair. “Listen, Sam, she may never even hear of his tract or his preaching. We don't associate with the kind of people who're willing to listen to four hours of ranting and raving under a tent out in the county.” Our friends and associates went to mainline churches where the preaching lasted no longer than thirty minutes, and even then they got restless after twenty.

Sam shook his head. “Some people will hear of it, though. And it'll get around eventually. That's why I want to deal with him directly, and make him put up or shut up.”

“Oh, Sam,” I said, falling back in the chair and burying my face in my hands. “You know what I just thought of? He's saying that Hazel Marie was promiscuous, that she was seeing someone else at the same time Wesley Lloyd was visiting her every Thursday night when he was supposed to be working at the bank.”

Sam nodded. “I know. And he's also saying that she deliberately deceived Wesley Lloyd, telling him it was his child, and he believed her.”

“Well,” I said, raising my head, “I don't doubt he'd believe her. Wesley Lloyd Springer couldn't have imagined that anybody would try to fool him. Nor could he have imagined that she would prefer someone else to him. The most arrogant man who ever lived. Except for Brother Vernon Puckett, that is. But what I can't believe is that Hazel Marie would lie about such a thing. I can't and I don't believe it. Even if Brother Vern dredges up another boyfriend, concurrent with Wesley Lloyd, I will still believe that Hazel Marie knew who the child's father was. But to question her basic goodness, to even imply that she's lived a lie all this
time, Sam, it will absolutely do her in. And that child! Think what it'll do to him to hear such an attack on his mother. Oh, Sam, I can't stand it.”

“All right, Julia, here's what let's do.” Sam got to his feet, then began pacing in front of me. “Let's hold off a while before telling Hazel Marie the details—no need upsetting her until we know more.” He cut his eyes at me and went on. “I'll leave it up to you about telling her he's in town. In the meantime, I'll get back with Puckett and see if he can back up his claims. If he can't, or won't, we'll think about having him prosecuted for slander and, if he publishes anything, libel.” Sam stopped and looked long and hard at me. “Of course, you realize that if it comes to that, he'll have a ready-made audience for his claims.”

“Oh, Lord, yes. And the newspaper'll cover it, too. How can we stop him, Sam? We've got to do something.”

Sam cogitated for a moment, then he said, “I think what may work is for us to string him along and let him think we're taking his claims seriously. We'll tell him that we're disturbed that the boy may be getting something he's not entitled to, and we want to work with him to find the truth.”

“I wouldn't work with Vernon Puckett if he was the last man on earth.” I was thoroughly steamed at the thought, then thought better of it. “How would we do it, if we did?”

“DNA, Julia. By pretending to at least halfway believe Puckett, we'll get him to produce the man he's claiming to be the father. Then we'll compare his DNA with Little Lloyd's, and that should settle it right there.”

“Oh, Sam, thank goodness. I knew you'd come up with something.” I smiled at him as my heart lifted, for I'd watched enough television to know a good deal about forensic science. I had no doubt in the world that Little Lloyd's DNA would match no one's but Wesley Lloyd Springer's. How could it not? They were as alike as two peas in a pod.

With that settled, I congratulated myself again for having married a man with such a good head on his shoulders. And one who took my concerns seriously and who was willing and able to do something about them. I declare, when I compared Sam Murdoch with Wesley Lloyd Springer, which I couldn't help but do since they were the only husbands I'd ever had, Sam beat him by a mile in every way you could think of.

So now that I was married to a good man—one who would look after my interests—I was determined to rein myself in and not run ahead of him. I wanted to be a helpmate to Sam. Or a helpmeet for him. Whichever translation was correct, that's what I was trying to be. But it was awfully hard to take a backseat.

“All right,” I said, rising from my chair again. “I'll leave it in your hands, Sam, and wait a while before upsetting Hazel Marie. But I don't know how long I can keep it to myself.”

“Just hold off a few days,” Sam said with that cautionary tone he often uses to slow me down. “If I can find out what Puckett's up to, I'll hold his feet to the fire. When he has to back up his claims, it may all blow over, and Hazel Marie won't ever have to know.”

“Well, I'll try. But I want it settled.” I bit my lip, thinking of how I'd like to hand out a little comeuppance, myself, but to
Brother Vern, not to Hazel Marie. “But, whenever and however we tell her, I don't want that child to get even a hint of what's going on.”

“Absolutely not, Julia. He doesn't need to know a thing. At least at this stage.”

I'd started out of the room on my way to help Lillian get dinner on the table. But at Sam's final words, I stopped and turned back. “What do you mean, at this stage? If we stop Brother Vern with this DNA test, there won't be any further stages.”

“Well,” Sam said, walking over to stand next to me, “even if this mystery man's DNA doesn't match Lloyd's, that won't settle the question of the boy's paternity. And once the question is raised, the only way to absolutely and positively disprove Puckett's claims is to compare Lloyd's DNA with Wesley Lloyd's, and how're we going to do that?”

“Oh,” I said, brought up short by the unlikelihood of drawing blood from a dead man. “Then we'll never be sure, will we? Of course,
I'm
sure, and I'm the one who counts as far as the estate is concerned. But, Sam, unless we put this to rest once and for all, there'll always be some people who'll wonder, won't there? The suspicion that Little Lloyd's not a Springer could follow that child for the rest of his life, to say nothing of how it'll besmirch Hazel Marie. Oh, Sam,” I moaned, leaning my head against his shoulder, “I've never wished Wesley Lloyd back among the living, but I could surely wish it now if we could get one little drop of blood from him.”

“There're more ways to test DNA than through blood, Julia,” Sam said, as he put his arm around my waist. “But I'm not sure just what, or what condition it has to be in. I'll do some research, though, and find out. If Brother Vern forces us to it, we may have to request an exhumation. Are you ready for that?”

My head popped up from his shoulder. “You mean dig him up? Lord, Sam, no! Surely we won't have to do that. Let the man rest in peace. Although for my money,” I said, with a sniff, “he doesn't
deserve a minute of it. Not that I bear a grudge, you understand. I just resent the fact that I can't ever seem to be free of him.”

“You're free of him, Julia, and you've got me to remind you of it every day.”

“I know, Sam, and I'm more grateful than you know.” I took his arm as we went toward the kitchen, me thinking all the while of how comforting it was to have a good and capable man to lean on.

By the time we got through the dining room, though, I was reminding myself that as trustworthy as Sam had always proven to be, he could be a little slow getting things done. Always telling me to calm down, wait and see, or let things run their course. That wasn't my way by a long shot. I'd been an obedient follower all the days of my first marriage, never stepping out of line, and always reacting instead of acting on my own instincts. The few years between husbands, though, when I was free to do as I pleased, had shown me that my instincts were invariably correct.

Well, maybe not invariably, but nine times out of ten they'd led me on the right path.

So it was not my intention to sit around for days on end while Sam waited for Brother Vern to show his hand. I mean, it was all well and good for Sam to handle the major problems—it was a relief to have him do it, in fact—but I could be a help to him in little ways. Like warning Hazel Marie to stay away from tent meetings, for example.

 

My intent had been to get Hazel Marie alone in her room right after supper and tell her what we were in for—not all the details, of course, but enough to prepare her for what might lie ahead. All I'd have to say was that Brother Vern was back in town, and she'd know to start girding her loins. So to speak.

Instead of planning a quiet evening at home, though, she'd hurried through her meal so she could go play a game that some of the younger set had taken up. I'd never heard of such entertainment before and, when she told me what went on at those
bunco parties, I felt it my duty to make it clear how much I disapproved of gambling of any kind.

“Oh, it's not really gambling,” Hazel Marie had said. “It's just a way to get together and have some fun.”

“I can think of better ways to have fun,” I told her. “And besides, gambling is illegal in this state.”

“It is?” Hazel Marie frowned, then she laughed. “Well, if they raid Miriam Hargrove's house, you'll bail me out, won't you?”

And off she'd gone, as free of worry as if I'd never warned her of the dire consequences of wagering money. You let sin gain a foothold, and it'll take over your whole life.

So I had to lie in bed all night with the knowledge of Brother Vern's threat simmering in my head. It had about reached a boil by the next morning as I waited in the kitchen for Hazel Marie to make an appearance.

Since it was a Saturday, Sam and Little Lloyd were making their weekly visit to the hardware stores, during which they rarely bought anything, but seemed to enjoy thinking about what they might purchase.

Lillian was piddling at the counter, and I was at the table making out a grocery list, and trying to put my mind onto the menus for the coming week. I put down my pen when Hazel Marie, still in her bathrobe, pushed through the kitchen door.

“Morning, everybody,” she said, heading for the coffee pot. “Lillian, I'm not going to mess up your kitchen with another breakfast. I just need some coffee.”

“You better eat something,” Lillian said, worried as always about everybody's digestive systems. “You need to put some meat on them bones.”

Hazel Marie just smiled, poured her coffee, and came over to the table. I opened my mouth to suggest that she and I go upstairs, but before she had her chair pulled out, she started talking. “Miss Julia, you'll never guess what I heard last night about the Denhams.”

“Dub and Clara? I can't imagine those two doing anything worth talking about. Which would you rather have with chicken, rice or potatoes?”

“Oh, rice. Now, listen, Miss Julia, Clara's left him.”

I looked up at her. “Who?”

“Dub.”

“Where'd she go?”

“That's just it. Nobody knows. Apparently, she came home from work a few days ago, slapped some papers down in front of him, and walked out with two suitcases.”

“I can't picture Clara Denham slapping anything down, as meek and mild as she is.”

“I'm just telling you what I heard, and everybody's saying that she'd taken it as long as she could, and just finally snapped. Maybe it got better in the telling, because it doesn't sound like her. I mean, she's so meek and mild.”

“Well, she is a librarian.”

“Yes, and what is Dub? Just a big blob as far as I can see.”

I was intrigued, in spite of the urgency I was feeling to tell her about her own looming troubles. But Sam had urged delay, I reminded myself, so I nodded in agreement. “That man's been on disability for as long as I can remember. He hardly cracks a lick at a snake.”

Lillian, who couldn't help but hear our conversation, walked over to the table. “Mr. Dub, he work some 'round tax time at that place they open up for people who need help with they figures. Miz Edwards, what live on the street over from me, she use him last year, an' she say he do yo' taxes an' not even listen to what you say.”

“Dub Denham,” I said, “has never been known for his social skills. He's the last person I'd ever ask to a dinner party.”

“I should say!” Hazel Marie agreed. “Have you ever seen him eat? I sat at the same table with him at the last church supper, and it was awful to watch him shovel it in.” Hazel Marie stopped
and sat up straight. “Come to think of it, Clara always stays in the kitchen. Maybe that's why she left him. She couldn't stand to watch him eat.”

“Reason enough,” I pronounced. “I read, one time, about this fastidious woman who was newly married, and at her first dinner party, she served soup as the first course. It just did her in when her husband, normally a well-mannered man, made loud, slurping noises when he ate it. Well, instead of saying anything to him and risk hurting his feelings, she just never served soup at her table again.”

After a moment of quiet as we thought about that, Hazel Marie said, “What did she do when he ordered it at a restaurant?”

“Well, I don't know, Hazel Marie. But, let me tell you, if you followed that method with Dub, he'd starve to death.” I tapped my pencil against the list I was making, trying to stop thinking of Dub's poor table manners. “You know, Hazel Marie, I haven't seen either of them in church lately. Not that I've been looking for them, but still.”

“I saw her after Sunday school a couple of weeks ago, coming out of the young marrieds class.” Hazel Marie squinched up her mouth. “They've both got to be in their fifties. Wonder why they go to that class?”

“Now you know we Presbyterians aren't like the Baptists, who make it their business to keep up with everybody's birthdays. They make you move to another class whenever you pass a milestone, which, I'll tell you right now, I'd rather not have the public recognition of.”

Hazel Marie nodded, then got up for a coffee refill. While her back was turned, Lillian put a slice of coffee cake at her place, mumbling, “She better eat something.”

When Hazel Marie sat back down, she propped her chin on her hand and said, “Have y'all ever noticed how fat men wear their pants?”

My head jerked up. “What?”

Lillian started laughing. “I never heard such.”

“No, I'm serious,” Hazel Marie said, “and thinking about Dub reminded me. When women put on weight, they just get rounder and rounder. But men get this big ole pot belly. You know, like Dub has. And some men pull their pants up over it, which means they have to buy a longer belt to fit, and that hikes everything up, so they end up with high waters. But other men wear their pants down below their stomachs, and that gives them baggy seats with the crotch hanging down around their knees.” She frowned, giving it serious thought. “I wonder how they decide. I mean, why some men go for over the stomach and some for under.”

I stared at her, amazed at the things that people take up to think about. “I admit, Hazel Marie, that I've never given it much thought.”

“Well,” she went on, stirring her coffee absently, “when they decide to go over or under, I guess it could say something about their personalities. But I don't know what.”

“Neither do I.” I prepared to rise and suggest we walk upstairs, where I intended to warn her of our impending troubles.

“Oh, my goodness,” Hazel Marie said, springing from her chair, “look at the time. I better jump in the shower and get myself dressed. I have a million things to do today.”

And with that, she was gone, and I'd missed my chance again.