Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (15 page)

“Lillian,” I said, as soon as the door closed behind them. “What're you doing here this morning? I didn't think you were coming in today.”

“Well, I wadn't till Latisha say she had to see what Lloyd was up to, an' she wanted to see Miss Trixie, too. So we come in, an' now off she go with 'em.”

“Then why don't you go on home? You'll have the whole day to yourself for a change. But if you don't mind, keep your television on and watch for Jimmy Ray Mooney's ads. Make some notes so Sam will know what they say.”

“I think I'll go on then. You want me to come back an' fix some supper? They all be comin' in starvin' to death.”

“No, you don't need to come in. I'll have supper ready for them.”

Lillian didn't say a word, but she stopped what she was doing and stared at me.

“Don't look at me like that,” I said, laughing. “I hope to goodness I'm capable of boiling some hot dogs and putting out ketchup and mustard.”

“
That
what you gonna serve?”

“I sure am. It's Rodney's second favorite dish and I hope Trixie will notice my effort to please. I'll run to the store a little later and get what we need.”

“I'll make you a list so you won't forget something. An' I'm gonna put down some baked beans and some slaw and such like that. You can get it all at one of them deli counters at the store. You might not even think of filling up a plate till you see they's nothin' on it but a hot dog all by its lonesome.”

“I'm sure you're right, so thank you. If Latisha wants to eat with us, I'll let you know. We'll get her home after supper.”

—

After Lillian left, I wandered somewhat aimlessly into the library, wondering what I should do with a long, quiet day all to myself. But not so quiet after all, because I had to nerve myself to turning the television set on, assuming that Jimmy Ray would use the local channel beaming from Asheville for his ads.

So with the constant din of children's shows and commercials for cereals and juices and toys, all aimed at the Saturday morning audience, running in the background, I tried to catch up on some piddling work I'd been putting off. Well, not work, exactly, but an attempt to weed out my address book by transferring current addresses and phone numbers into a new book. My old book was half covered with strike-throughs and erasures of names of those who had moved away or passed on. It was slow work because I had to stop every time the shows broke for commercials—which seemed to be every five minutes—so I could see if Jimmy Ray was on.

By the time I got to the Cs, I put down my pen and sat back in the chair. This was mindless work, and my mind had been going its own way, thinking over what was happening in our lives. Here Sam had survived a major operation and I had survived public speaking, and we were both trying to survive Trixie. It was time to take stock again and see where we were headed. It could be to Raleigh, which would mean a real change in our lives, even if it were for only two years. On the other hand, it could be that we'd be staying right here after a loss to Jimmy Ray.

As a rule, whenever I took time to take stock, I ended up feeling grateful and reassured that things were as they should be, but not this time. Sam seemed to think that there was a real possibility that he could lose the election, and, I now realized, he had steeled himself against disappointment by saying from the first that he could take it or leave it.

I no longer believed that. Seeing his excitement and enthusiasm for nailing posters on telephone poles, recalling his anxiety about meeting his commitments while he was in the hospital, I realized that he really wanted to win.

When the outcome of something doesn't matter to me, I just turn it over to the Lord, telling Him that whatever He decides will be fine with me. And I'll be honest about it—it didn't much matter to me which way this senatorial race turned out. If Sam won or if he lost, I could accept either one with equanimity. Maybe because I had so little invested in it, the outcome was of little consequence to me. But, as I now knew, that wasn't true of Sam.

However it turned out, though, I would have to be prepared to be a support to him. And I'll just be honest and admit that so far supporting Sam in his campaign had become more and more of a burden for me. It wasn't that I wanted him to lose; it was just that I kept wishing he hadn't gotten into it in the first place. I wanted to be—and intended to be—supportive, but my heart wasn't truly in it. Given the choice, however, between beating the bushes for votes and sailing on the high seas, I had resigned myself to beating the bushes. At least we were sleeping in our own bed at night.

I sat up straight and reached for the remote to turn up the sound—the ad I'd been waiting for was on. There they were—Jimmy Ray and his daughter, Jimmie Mae, and her three stairstep children, pictured on a front porch swing. The camera zoomed in on Jimmy Ray and, as I scribbled as fast as I could, he said, “I'm Jimmy Ray Mooney, and I'm asking you to send me back to the North Carolina senate so I can continue to support education for my grandchildren and all the children in the district. Children are our future, and I know you want the best for yours as I do for mine.
No one
will support education like I will.” Then the camera moved to the faces of his smiling grandchildren, and as the scene faded away, a voice-over said, “A vote for Jimmy Ray is a vote for our children.”

I threw down my pen, just so aggrieved I didn't know what to do. The nerve of the man! I knew for a fact that Jimmy Ray had
voted to cut the number of teachers' assistants and had also been quoted as saying, “We don't need to be spending money on art classes. Kids can watch public television and get all the culture they need.” Now here he was advertising himself as the great supporter of education, and doing it as if no one else would.

It was hard to go back to copying addresses after that, my mind was so full of responses I wanted to throw at the Mooney campaign. What did Jimmy Ray know about education, anyway? He didn't have any himself, being a high school graduate back when it took only eleven grades to be one. And since then he'd lived off taxpayers in one local bureaucratic job after another.

Well
, I thought with a sigh,
maybe he realizes his lack and wants better for his grandchildren.
Of course, he hadn't done so well by his daughter. Jimmie Mae had left school early because back then they didn't allow girls in the family way to graduate.

Still,
I thought, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, as I leaned my head on my hand,
it's commendable to want the best for children,
and I tried to come to terms with that. But behind Jimmy Ray's ad was the implication that
he
could better provide for the educational needs of our children than Sam could. And I didn't like that one bit.

Finally, I realized that the ad could've been worse. In fact, as these things go, it hadn't been so bad. Half the people who saw it wouldn't even know who he was running against. And everybody who was running for any office—local, state, or federal—ran on an education platform. Jimmy Ray was doing no more nor less than every other candidate, and with that, I decided that it wouldn't hurt Sam's chances at all and I went back to copying addresses.

About noon I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich, switching on the set there to keep up with Jimmy Ray's ad campaign. Just as I opened the refrigerator, a new ad came on. There he was, dressed in a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, leaning casually against a white fence with a horse pasture in the background. Beside him on the fence was a large sign reading:
JIMMY RAY, YOUR MAN FOR THE NC SENATE.
Jimmy Ray looked straight into the camera and,
in a sonorous voice, said, “A vote for Jimmy Ray is a vote for experience. I've served three terms in the North Carolina senate, while my opponent has served none. All he's done is retire from practicing law and go fishin'. There's already too many lawyers in the Assembly now, so let's let him stick to his fishin' while the rest of us get the things done that need to be done.” Stirring music swelled around him as he smiled and said, “I'm Senator Jimmy Ray Mooney, and I paid for this message.”

I couldn't believe it! That was a direct slap at Sam, and it made me so mad I couldn't see straight. I grabbed a pad and pen and wrote down as much as I could remember so Sam would know the low blows that were coming his way. Actually, I hadn't needed to do that, because the ad ran three more times during the afternoon, and by that time every word said was stuck in my memory.

I forced myself to eat the sandwich I'd made but I hardly tasted it, so fired up that I could do nothing but think of ways to counter Jimmy Ray's negative advertising. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted Sam to win—if for no other reason than to keep Jimmy Ray out of that seat.

I'd started out the morning realizing that Sam wanted to win much more than I'd thought, so on that basis alone, I'd wanted him to win, too—although with much less enthusiasm. Now, though, after Jimmy Ray's personal attack ad, I
really
wanted him to win. No longer could I be content to leave the outcome up to the Lord, I had to set myself to petitioning Him without ceasing. And maybe doing a few other things, as well.

I knew, of course, that Jimmy Ray, and Jimmie Mae, too, would be praying just as hard for Sam to lose. So in the long run, it would still be the Lord's will that would be done, but at least He was going to know whose side I was on.

The thing to do was to stop sitting around mooning over stock-taking, which never resulted in my doing anything anyway, and take myself in hand and get something done. Sam needed some fire in his campaign, and he was too much of a gentleman to do any active stoking. That's where I could come in, because when pushed far enough, even a lady, especially a lady of age with years of correct deportment behind her, could get away with a few unladylike words and actions. About the only good thing I could say about old age was that you were allowed much more leeway to say and do whatever you wanted. And I intended to take advantage of it on behalf of such a good cause. If it took a complete makeover of my normally retiring personality, why then, so be it. I was going to become politically active!

The first thing I'd do—as soon as Sam got home—would be to make another monetary contribution to his campaign. To do so had not occurred to me before this, because Sam and I had designated a certain amount when he first announced for the seat. So I had assumed that if he'd needed more, he would've asked for more. But, I told myself, needing campaign funds wasn't the point. The point was that I demonstrate my commitment by making a voluntary contribution.

So that was the first thing. The next thing was to become one of those modern solicitors who baled, bundled, bagged, or somehow collected funds for political purposes so that Sam could match Jimmy Ray ad for ad. Money talks, especially on television, and I was going to see that Sam became a political star. I visualized an ad that featured Sam in his boat out on a lake, his old hat on his head while he holds a fishing rod. He could say something like, “Fishing settles a man, puts things in perspective, and
sharpens the mind. I'm recommending it to someone who's been in the North Carolina senate for several terms—a restful vacation would be good for him. And for us.”

Well, maybe not. But Sam could think of something better to say, something not quite so subtle.

So far, I had been reticent to speak of Sam's campaign to friends for fear that they'd think me forward. If I'd even mentioned it, I knew that LuAnne Conover, for one, would immediately accuse me of putting on airs, and there was always the possibility that some of them were so unenlightened that they planned to vote for Jimmy Ray. So I'd kept Sam's involvement quiet, not wanting to embarrass anyone by putting them on the spot.

But I could now see that there was no reason in the world why I shouldn't suggest, ask, cajole, and beg contributions from everyone I knew. There comes a time when reticence is not only unnecessary but ill-advised, and that time had come. Sam needed every vote he could get, and it's a settled fact that where your money is, there also is your vote. So I would go after the money.

To that end, I began to plan my own campaign, then remembered that I had to go to the store and prepare supper for a truckload of ragtag volunteers. If Sam hadn't been worn to a frazzle by Rodney and Latisha trying to out-talk each other, I'd be surprised, so I needed to have food on the table.

—

I
was
surprised, for by the time they all came in, Sam, far from being worn to a nub, seemed to be rejuvenated. “We must've nailed up five hundred posters, Julia,” he told me, happily exaggerating. “And when we parked out at the mall, we couldn't give away yard signs fast enough. You should've seen Latisha handing them out right and left. That little girl is a worker.”

There was a din of talking and laughing as they gathered around the kitchen table, fixing their hot dogs from the array that I'd laid out. Even Trixie joined in occasionally, which was enough to make me think that there were possibly more makeovers going
on than my own. Maybe she was coming out of her shell, although Rodney didn't seem to notice. He was, however, noticeably attentive to Sam, listening respectfully when he spoke, making sure Sam's glass stayed full of tea, and sliding a few words now and then into the conversation about the wisdom of being prepared for the inevitable.

It was a relief when Sam took Latisha home, when Lloyd helped me straighten the kitchen then went upstairs to bed, when Trixie huffed off to her room because Rodney, pleading fatigue, said he had to check on the funeral scheduled for the following day and took himself off without her.

As Sam and I prepared for bed, I handed him a sizable check made out to the Sam Murdoch Campaign Fund.

“What's this?” he asked.

“It's a tangible indication of where my heart is.”

“Julia,” he said, laughing, “I know where your heart is. And the two of us set up a fund when I announced, so you don't need to contribute any more.”

“Why? Is there a limit?”

“No, not for a spouse.”

“Well, then take it, because I want to give it.”

“In that case, thank you,” Sam said, accepting the check. “But I'd rather get small contributions from a lot of voters than big ones from a few.”

“But you wouldn't mind if a few big ones came in, would you?”

“Not one bit,” he said. We both laughed, then went to bed. Instead of going to sleep, though, Sam still wanted to talk. He asked me about Jimmy Ray's ads—something I'd planned to discuss the next day when he was rested. Nothing would do, though, but that I recite every word and describe every visual of his opponent's ad campaign.

“So, Sam,” I wound up, “you have to get on television, too. I hope you know some capable people who can put together attractive and informative ads. You're so much more photogenic than Jimmy Ray that people will vote for you on that basis alone.”

Far from upset over being upstaged by Jimmy Ray, Sam laughed and hugged me, assuring me that his ads would be things of wonder and for me not to give Mooney another thought.

Easy to say, but hard to do. Jimmy Ray was far ahead of Sam in getting his name out over the airwaves, and as far as I knew, far ahead of him in committed voters. I didn't mention my fears or my intention of increasing the size of his campaign chest—just listened to him as he spoke warmly of Rodney, who had eagerly pointed out tackable places for Sam's posters and who had apparently done most of the day's work.

“I'm impressed with that young man, Julia,” Sam said. “And so is Trixie, as I'm sure you've noticed. I couldn't decide on his feelings for her—he was solicitous of her, but not overtly affectionate. Which is too bad, because he's just what her grandmother ordered.”

“Yes, well, be careful, Sam. There's no need to buy burial insurance just because you like the salesman.”

He laughed again. “He didn't let me forget that sooner or later you and I would have need of it.”

“So will everybody else, but count me out. I'll take care of my own funeral.”

We finally went to sleep, but my own plans for vote getting continued to run through my head.

—

Sunday morning dawned hot and still, the sky as clear as a bell. When I came downstairs, I found Lloyd dressed and ready for church, announcing that he would have lunch at his mother's house afterward. Trixie, too, was already in the kitchen, eating cold cereal, but in no way prepared for a church service. She was wearing either another workout outfit or the same one she'd worn the day before.

Before I could say anything, she gave me a squinched-eyed stare and said, “I have to work this morning. Not everybody goes to church, you know. A lot of people only have Sunday mornings to exercise.”

I just nodded, because what do you say to that? I wanted her working, so I could hardly object to the hours assigned to her. But, my goodness, spandex, or whatever it was, did not lend itself to Trixie's frame, especially on a day normally devoted to one's best.

Which reminded me that I should talk more with Hazel Marie about Trixie's makeover. She had started out enthusiastically with Hazel Marie, but then had seemed to ignore any suggestions for betterment and had gone her own headstrong way. Now that she was seeing a young man, though, she might be more amenable to taking advice.

So it was only Sam, Lloyd, and me sitting after Sunday school in our regular pew for the service. I declare, I can't tell you what Pastor Ledbetter preached on—my mind was too busy making plans and rehearsing what I should say to each person I planned to approach. I had almost made my pitch to the members of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, since most of my friends were there and I could've reached them all in one fell swoop. At the last minute, though, I'd thought better of it—some would've been offended if I'd brought up politics either before or after the lesson, and if the shoe had been on the other foot I would've been, too. Besides, the lesson had been on giving to the poor, and Sam hardly qualified.

—

When the service was over and Lloyd had scampered off to his mother's, Sam suggested that we go out for lunch. That suited me, so we joined the long line of churchgoers at the S&W cafeteria, speaking to people we knew and slowly shuffling along to the serving tables. It had once occurred to me to suggest to Pastor Ledbetter that he shorten the Sunday morning service by about ten minutes, so we could get to the cafeteria before the Baptist and Methodist churches let out. He'd just stared at me a few seconds, then said, “It'd work just as well if I lengthened the service by ten minutes. That way, the line would be cleared out by the time you got there.” I'd stared back and said, “Given the choice, let's keep it the way it is.”

On our way home after a nice Sunday dinner, Sam drove by the erstwhile gas station at the end of Main Street where Susan Odell had her fitness center.
FIT, ABLE, & HEALTHY
, which sounded like a law firm, was printed on a large banner strung across the front of the station. Long-emptied gas pumps testified to the station's former purpose, but several cars parked along the edge of the paved lot confirmed Trixie's expectation of Sunday morning exercisers.

But the overall appearance was not what took my attention, for out in the lot were the exercisers themselves—young women in the same skimpy attire as Trixie—and you wouldn't believe what they were doing. Several of them—including Trixie, wet with sweat—were squatting down, knees aspraddle to get enough leverage to lift upright, then push over these monstrous tractor tires. The tires stood upright for a second then fell over with a crash, after which the women squatted and struggled to lift them upright again. Others, all in a line, pranced around the lot carrying in both hands some kind of heavy weight while they
skipped
along, highly conscious of being the center of attention to every passing car.

“They Lord,” I said to Sam, “have you ever seen such a spectacle?” I couldn't for the life of me see why young women would want to parade around in public exerting themselves in such an outlandish fashion. The whole scene reminded me of Latisha wanting to ride in the bed of the pickup just so she could be seen.

Sam chuckled as he drove on past. “Let's just hope Trixie enjoys it enough to stick with it.”

I nodded agreement. “That's on my prayer list.”