Miss Julia Stands Her Ground (26 page)

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “What do you know about the trustees?”

“I know Brother Sam and that lady lawyer, Binkie whoever, and Hazel Marie are the trustees for that boy till he comes of age.
It's a public record. But Hazel Marie's not fit for the job, so as the next closest kin, I'm the natural one to take her place. And I believe I can make a good case to a judge for doing just that.”

Lord, I thought, as a stab of fear hit me hard, put that way, he just might.

I leaned against the door after closing it behind Brother Vern and tried to make sense of what he'd said. His parting shot was that he'd be in touch with Sam to make arrangements.

And where was Sam? He'd been gone all day without a word as to where he was or what he was doing. And Mr. Pickens was in the wind as well, both of them out scouring the countryside, while everything had blown up in my face right here at home.

Pushing away from the door I prepared myself to undo what Brother Vern had done to Hazel Marie. From what I'd heard, he had beaten her down until she had thrown in the towel and given in to him. And I wasn't going to have it. Brother Vern a trustee? Over my dead body, or Wesley Lloyd's, as the case might be.

I climbed the stairs, intent on giving her enough gumption to stand up to him. With even Brother Vern convinced that Little Lloyd's inheritance couldn't be touched, I could put that out of my mind. All that remained was Hazel Marie, and if she had deliberately lied or even if she wasn't sure who the child's father was, I just didn't care. At the moment, at least.

When I went into her room, I expected to find her in bed or cowering in a chair or maybe on her knees, but she was doing none of that. Her back was to me, as she leaned over to fill a suitcase lying open on the bed. Her face was blotched from crying,
and she held a wad of Kleenex in one hand as she folded a sweater.

“Hazel Marie,” I said, “what are you doing?”

“Packing. I'll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Leaving! And just where do you think you're going?”

She turned away as her shoulders shook with a new flood of tears. “I don't know,” she said between sobs. “But I can't stay here.”

“Of course you can. This is your home. Listen to me, Hazel Marie. I don't know who you were before you came here, but as far as I'm concerned your life began the day you moved in. And I don't care what Vernon Puckett says or Lonnie Whitmire, I know you and I believe you.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I can't prove who Lloyd's father was, so it's just my word against his. People will believe what they want to believe.”

“But that's just the point, Hazel Marie. I want to believe you, and I do. And so does Sam, and so does Mr. Pickens and Lillian and your son, too. There is no need in the world for you to turn tail and run. You ought to know that your word carries more weight than his. After all, you were there and he wasn't.”

“But he'll make a big scene and hire a lawyer and make Sam and Binkie put him in my place, and, and . . .” She stopped to blow her nose. “And Lloyd will hear all he says about me, and he'll hate me, and everybody'll look down on me, and it'll just be awful.” She took a rasping breath and tried to pull herself together. “As soon as I get settled, I'll send for Lloyd, if you don't mind looking after him for a little while.”

“Oh, no, Hazel Marie, you can't do that.” The thought of losing her was bad enough, but the possibility of losing that child sent me into a tailspin. “I can't stand this. Please, come over here and sit down. Let's talk this out. There's no reason for you to run off. You'll just be playing into Vernon Puckett's hand if you do that. Come on now.” I took her by the arm and led her to one of the
chairs by the window. “Listen now, there're a few things you don't know. Brother Vern came to Sam several days ago and told him this cock-and-bull story about Little Lloyd's natural father. Neither of us believed him then, and we don't believe him now. So we've been thinking about it longer than you have, and we've come up with a few things we can do. Are you listening to me?”

She nodded, but she wouldn't look at me.

“All right, first off, we'll demand a DNA test from Lonnie Whitmire, and that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Little Lloyd is not his child.”

She raised her head, and I saw the first glimmer of hope in her eyes. “It will, won't it?” There was something like awe in her voice, and I have to admit that her reaction reassured me more than I can say.

“Absolutely. And where will Brother Vern and his claims be then?”

“Oh, Miss Julia,” she said, as she buried her face in her hands again, “he'll just come up with somebody else. Because it's still just my word against his.”

“Then there's only one thing to do.” I closed my eyes tight, hating to think it, much less say it. But I did. “We have to dig up Wesley Lloyd and test his bones or whatever's left of him.”

Hazel Marie gasped and pulled away from me. “Dig him up! Oh, that's awful.” Then she gave her eyes a final wipe. “Can we do that? I mean, how would we do it?”

“Don't worry about it. Sam and Binkie'll take care of the legalities, and hiring the diggers and the testers and whatever else we need. And as soon as Sam gets back here, if he ever does, we'll start doing whatever has to be done. In the meanwhile, you start unpacking, because you're not going anywhere. We're going to put this matter to rest once and for all, even if the dirt has to fly.”

Whatever qualms I had previously had about disinterring Wesley Lloyd were now gone. Oh, I still hated to have to do it, especially since it'd make the local headlines, but I was considerably
relieved that Hazel Marie was eager to have it done. If there'd been any doubt in her mind about who Little Lloyd's father was, she'd have tried to talk me out of it. Wouldn't she?

“But,” she said, her eyes wide, “what would we tell people? I mean, it would get around, and everybody'd want to know why we did it.”

“We'll tell them it was for health reasons,” I said, thinking fast. “Hint around about pollution of the ground water or something, then say no more. They'll think something was wrong with the burial, and believe me, they won't want to know the details of that.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. “If we could do it, that would settle everything, wouldn't it? I wouldn't ever have to worry about anything Vernon comes up with again.” She stood up, a smile beginning on her poor, ravaged face. “Oh, Miss Julia, thank you for being willing to go that far for me.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “People are dug up for one reason or another all the time. We live in a modern age, Hazel Marie, and we might as well make use of it. Now, I'm going downstairs to try to get Mr. Pickens and Sam back here so we can put things in motion.”

I started for the door, but she called me back. She'd slumped down in the chair again, hiding her face. “Miss Julia, there's something else.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said, feeling another cloud of dread close over me. I walked over to her and collapsed in the chair beside her. “Hazel Marie, this is no time for true confessions. If you think that testing Wesley Lloyd won't help us solve this mess, just tell me now before we disturb him. Anything other than that I don't want to hear.”

“No, oh, no. I want you to disturb him, I really do. It's just that I do have something to confess, but it's not about him. It's about Emma Sue.”

“What does Emma Sue have to do with this?”

“Well, nothing, really. It's just that I've been feeling real bad ever since she said I was so spiritual. Because I'm not.”

“Now, Hazel Marie, none of us are as spiritual as we'd like to be or ought to be. Just accept the compliment and go on about your business.”

“But I did something I shouldn't've done, and I can't let her go on thinking I'm something I'm not.”

“I can't imagine what you did, Hazel Marie. I certainly haven't noticed anything. What was it?”

“Well, you know that prayer I gave at the circle meeting? Well, it wasn't mine like Emma Sue thought it was. I couldn't ever come up with something that good by myself, so I used somebody else's.”

I frowned, wondering whose prayers she'd been listening to. Pastor Ledbetter could send up a full, rounded one that covered all the bases, but the one she gave hadn't sounded anything like his. And I knew it couldn't be one of Brother Vern's, because he preached when he prayed. And the grace that Little Lloyd said at meals didn't come anywhere near the eloquence of the one she'd said.

“Whose did you use, Hazel Marie?”

“Well, you know that book of prayers Binkie has?” she said, biting her lip. “Well, I kinda borrowed it and copied from it. I know I shouldn't've done it, Miss Julia, but I get so nervous when I have to pray out loud with everybody listening. My mind just goes blank, and I tried to write out one of my own, but I didn't know what to say. So I used that book, and now Emma Sue thinks I'm just about a saint or something.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, Hazel Marie. You mean you used a prayer from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer?”

“I didn't think it was so common. I thought it was beautiful, and it said what I wanted to say but didn't know how to. I know it was wrong. . . .”

“I declare, you worry about the most unnecessary things. The prayers in that book are
supposed
to be used. Why do you think they're there in the first place? And let me tell you something else: Every one of their preachers or priests or rectors or whatever they call them use them every day that rolls around. They don't rely on the first thing that pops into their heads, like we do. So you're not the only one to lift a few from that book, and if Emma Sue is so impressed with what you said, well, we'll just let her go on being impressed. And if she does find out about it, it won't hurt her to know that Presbyterians haven't cornered the market on praying.”

A smile lit up Hazel Marie's face. “Then you think it's all right . . . ?”

“I certainly do. Now I want you to put all your worries to rest. Forget about Emma Sue. We need to concentrate on getting Wesley Lloyd sent off for testing. That's going to solve all our problems.”

Then she said something that nearly stopped my heart in mid-beat: “Oh, I hope it will.”

Before I could get my mouth open, the doorbell sounded downstairs. I waited, thinking that whoever it was would go away, but it rang again, longer and more insistently this time.

“Unpack that thing, Hazel Marie,” I said, pointing at her suitcase. “I'll go see who it is and hope it's somebody with better news than I've been getting.”

To my dismay, it looked to be bad news, or at least disturbing news, in the form of Pastor Ledbetter. He stood at the door, shivering from his dash across the street in the cold drizzle.

“Come in, Pastor, and put that umbrella in the stand. It's a cold day to be running around without an overcoat.”

“It is that,” he said, stepping in and brushing raindrops from his shoulder. “But I have to talk to you, Miss Julia, for time is drawing short. I won't stay but a minute. I know it's getting late.”

Motioning him to a seat on the sofa, I walked around, turning on the lamps to brighten the room. Then I took a seat some few feet away from him. “It's always a pleasure to see you,” I said, trying to compose myself. But I was feeling an inner turmoil that threatened to erupt all over the place at any minute. I didn't have the time nor the inclination for church business or for spiritual instruction, if he was feeling led to give me some.

“Miss Julia,” he began, leaning forward on the sofa, his arms on his knees and his hands dangling down. “I have to have your decision, and I hope you've made the right one. We have to get the names of the nominees for the session in the bulletin this coming Sunday. But before you say anything, let's have a prayer so you'll be led in the right direction.”

“Pastor, I . . .”

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Don't tell me yet. I want you to know that I have had this matter in constant prayer ever since it came up. Be aware, Miss Julia, of what your decision can do to our church.” He bowed his head, and I thought he was about to call on the Lord. But he was just gathering steam. “I've been led to a decision myself, which I've told no one, not even Emma Sue. But I have to share it with you. I cannot, in conscience, bring myself to continue working in the Lord's vineyard here if a woman is voted onto the session. It would go against everything I've learned and believed in, and I want you to know that before you give me your decision.”

I almost smiled. What an easy way to be rid of him and call another pastor, who'd be more amenable to the way I thought a church should be run. But did I want to be an elder? Did I want to tangle with a group of men every month who didn't want me in their midst? Did I want to be a spiritual leader of the church and have to watch every word out of my mouth and every step I took and be an exemplary model for every soul in the congregation? Not that all the current elders were, but that was their problem.

Lord, I'd hardly given it a thought—too busy with more urgent matters close to home. But I couldn't tell the pastor that my decision had not been uppermost in my mind, especially since it had been in his.

I bit my lip, wondering what I should do.

Pastor Ledbetter, picking up on my hesitancy, leaned closer. “I think we need to pray, or maybe you need a little more counseling?”

“No,” I said, holding up my hand to stop him. “I've had my fill of both here lately. Pastor, it's like this. I know it'll upset the church, but I've decided that . . .”

“Wait, Miss Julia, you can't. You don't know what this will mean. You can't imagine how you will tear up the church. Do you want that on your conscience? I beg you, please don't run,
because I know you'll win a seat on the session and it'll mean the end of the peace I've worked so hard to maintain.”

The man was sweating. As I watched him struggle to come to grips with what he assumed would be my decision, I almost felt sorry for him. He was convinced beyond any reasonable argument that my presence on the session would mean the end of our reformed, Biblically based congregation of faith. I didn't know I had such power just by being a woman.

“Put your mind at rest, Pastor,” I said, “because I do not choose to run. I don't want to be on the session and have nothing but church wrangling on my mind for the next however many years.”

He stared at me in wonder, then collapsed against the back of the sofa. A tiny smile hovered around his mouth, as he murmured, “Thank you.” He may not have been speaking to me.

“But if you think,” I went on, “that this is going to keep the peace, you are wrong. A lot of people will be unhappy with me because they wanted me to run, and unhappy with you because they'll think you talked me out of it. You've escaped having a woman on the session this year, but over half of the congregation will not be stopped. You might as well come to terms with it and prepare yourself for next year. No telling what I might do then.”

He sprang from his seat, relief spread all over his face. “Tomorrow will take care of itself. Miss Julia, with the Lord's help, you have made the right decision. Bless you, and may the Lord keep you and make his face to shine upon you.”

“Amen,” I said, getting to my feet. “Now, Pastor, I hate to rush you, but I have matters of some urgency to take care of.” Then hearing a car turn into the driveway, I went on. “That's probably Lillian and Little Lloyd now. I know Emma Sue has dinner waiting for you, so I won't keep you.”

Having gotten his way, he had no reason to linger. So he left with a smile on his face and, if I wasn't mistaken, a song in his heart. He forgot his umbrella, but I doubt a raindrop touched him.

I started toward the kitchen just as I heard a jumble of voices
and laughter come through the backdoor. Out of the commotion, one unmistakable high-pitched little voice pierced the walls of the house, and I knew Lillian's great-granddaughter, Latisha, was among us.

Before I got in the kitchen good, Lillian began explaining. “I had to bring her, Miss Julia. That after-school place she go to closin' early 'cause of the weather. But she gonna mind herself, ain't you, Latisha?”

“Yes, ma'am, I am,” Latisha said, as sure of herself as she ever was. Her neatly braided hair bobbed up and down as she nodded her head. “I always do, even when I don't 'spes'lly feel like it.”

Lillian snorted as she began turning on overhead lights, hood lights, and undercounter lights. The dusk outside blackened the windows, but it was now bright and warm inside.

I smiled at Latisha, noting again how tiny she was even with a heavy sweater and boots that looked a size too large for her. She was no bigger than a minute, but she could eat Sam under the table any day.

“It's good to see you again, Latisha,” I said. “What did you learn in school today?”

“I got my numbers learned up to a hunderd and two,” she announced, “but I don't never say 'em on weekends.”

I could only smile at that, and turning to Little Lloyd, I asked, “And how was your day, honey?”

“It was okay,” he said, then grinned at Latisha, who was hunched over, covering her mouth with her hand.

Laughing behind it, she said, “She call you honey. You don't look like no honey to me. You look like a big ole boy what need a snack. Like I do.”

Lillian said, “Well, come on over here, an' I give you some grapes.”

“I don't b'lieve I want no grapes,” Latisha said, swinging her little pink book bag back and forth. “I b'lieve I ruther have a b'loney
sammich and a big ole glass of milk. With some cookies to go with it.”

Little Lloyd laughed. “Latisha, you'll ruin your supper. Come on, let's have some grapes, and go upstairs. I'll show you that video game I told you about.”

“Well, okay. But I tell you right now, they ain't nothin' gonna ruin my supper.” She accepted a napkin filled with grapes from Lillian, turned it around in her hand, and eyed it suspiciously. Then, on the way to the back staircase with Little Lloyd, she turned to me. “Thank you, Miss Lady, for lettin' me come play an' eat at your house.” Then she cut her eyes at Lillian. “How's that, Great-Granny? Is my manners gettin' any better?”

“Your manners are perfect, Latisha,” I said, forestalling comment by Lillian. “And we're always happy to have you. Now, you two run on up and play, and Lloyd, don't disturb your mother. She's had a hard day and needs her rest. Run on, because Lillian and I have some things to talk about.”

“Well, I can put off playin' for a while,” Latisha said, “ 'cause I'd like to lissen in on what y'all talk about.”

“Latisha!” Lillian said. “Get on up them stairs. Lloyd, honey, take her on up an' keep her there till I get my cookin' done.”

Little Lloyd was so tickled by this time that it was all he could do to urge Latisha up the stairs. Her boots clomped on each step, as her voice reverberated down the stairs. “It's black as pitch up here. I can't see where I'm goin'.”

“We'll turn the lights on in my room,” Little Lloyd told her. “But we don't want to wake up Mama, so be real quiet.”

As their footsteps receded above us, Lillian looked at me. “What us got to talk about?” she asked, frowning, her hands propped on her hips. “ 'Sides Miss Hazel Marie an' why she have a hard day, an' where Mr. Sam and Mr. Pickens, an' what that Brother Vern do when he here, an' about two dozen other things that nobody tell me about?”

“Oh, Lillian,” I said, leaning against a counter. “There's something we have to do that is just beyond belief.”

“Oh, my Lord, what you got to do now?”

Taking a deep breath, I reached out to her. “Prepare yourself, Lillian, because it looks like we have to exhume Mr. Springer.”

“Zoom him! What you mean?” Lillian's eyes about popped out of her head.

“No, I mean, . . . well, I mean we're going to dig him up.”

Her mouth fell open and a look of horror spread across her face. “No, you not. That's not right, Miss Julia. Don't be 'sturbin' a man what been put in the ground. No tellin' what you stir up, you go foolin' with the dead.” Then, as she thought more about it, she frowned and asked, “What you gonna do with him when he dug up?”

“We have to test his bones to prove that he's Little Lloyd's father.”

“Who say he ain't?”

“Brother Vern, that's who. And he's found a man he thinks will swear that
he's
the boy's father. And you know what that would say about Hazel Marie.”

“What it say?”

“Think about it, Lillian. It would tear us all up if Little Lloyd's not who she says he is. So we have to prove he is. And the only way to do that is to compare whatever the child's made up of with whatever Mr. Springer's made up of, and to do that we have to get him out of the ground and test him. But don't say a word to Little Lloyd. He doesn't know anything about this.”

“Well, I don't neither, but look like you come up with something better'n a dead man what oughtta be left molderin' in his grave, like he 'spose to be.”

“I wish we could. Lillian, I tell you, I've beaten myself over the head a dozen times because I threw away everything the man owned. If only I'd kept some things—things he personally
handled—we could've used them instead of having to take this drastic step.”

She studied on this for a while, a concentrated look on her face. “You mean, Mr. Springer could of rubbed hisself off on his b'longin's, an' if he did, you wouldn't have to go robbin' his grave?”

“That's what they tell me. Well, not on just anything, but he could be lingering on some things.” Which was why I hadn't wanted to keep his belongings in the first place, although at the time I hadn't known quite how scientific I was being.

Lillian cocked her head to one side, her eyes moving slowly back and forth, a look of concentration on her face. I could tell she was in awe of the extraordinary measures I was willing to take in order to preserve our family. Makeshift though it was.

“Well, Lord he'p us,” she mumbled. “I never heard the like.”