Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (24 page)

They Lord, I thought, flopping down on a chair. Me,
selfish
? She'd called
me
selfish? When I'd fed her and dressed her and took her in when her own grandmother had turned her out?

To be unappreciated was the most hurtful thing, and I thought of a dozen ways with which I could've defended myself. Why, think of all the nonprofits I helped support around town, or the church which owed its new furnace to Sam and me, as well as the anonymous gifts I'd made to individuals who were in dire need or else were just those I wanted to help. And I won't even bring up the tithe because that's my reasonable sacrifice, but my over-and-above giving is worth a mention.

And of course if you want to step back and consider what I'd done for Wesley Lloyd's mistress and son, that could be thought of as going way beyond what any sane woman would've done. But, shaking my head, I refused to consider them—doing something for those you love and deeply care for probably shouldn't count when it came to qualifying as unselfish. It probably only counts when you do something you don't particularly want to do, which was the way I'd felt at first but changed my mind later on.

Finally, I lifted my head and began to think about who I'd listed in my will to benefit by my death. Should I have included Elsie and Trixie? They might indeed be of some distant kin to me, but was that enough to assure them of a mention? Not, I told myself, by any means. A will, it seemed to me, was the most personal of any document and, family notwithstanding, a place in which one could do as one wished and not have to suffer the consequences—one would be dead and buried by the time anybody got disappointed.

Sam, of course, was featured in my will, but only with a token
because we'd discussed the matter and he'd told me he had plenty to last him a lifetime. Besides, he'd made it plain that he didn't want to benefit from Wesley Lloyd's money. I, myself, hadn't minded spending it because, by putting up with Wesley Lloyd for forty years, I figured I'd earned every penny, but I could see why Sam would just as soon it pass him by.

Then there was Lillian, who would never have to cook another meal or scrub another pot if she didn't want to. She'd be able to queen it at the A.M.E. Zion Church if she had a mind to and educate Latisha, too. And Hazel Marie, of course. It pleased me to think of how surprised she'd be—she'd probably cry. Wouldn't you love to be around when people learned just how much they'd meant to you? Hazel Marie had certainly been well cared for by the income from Lloyd's inheritance, but that would last only until he reached maturity. I knew that he would continue to look after his mother, but how much better it would be if she had assets of her own. Mr. Pickens flashed through my mind at that point, and I didn't know how he'd take to his wife suddenly having a few investments in her name—he'd been leery enough about marrying a woman with a wealthy child. Well, I decided, he could just learn to live with it—I
wanted
Hazel Marie to be one of my beneficiaries.

And there was the First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville. I couldn't leave that out—that just wasn't done by a churchgoing woman—although I'd carefully specified what the money was to be used for. No need giving Pastor Ledbetter a free hand, which he already used too frequently to suit me, anyway. And there were a few more itemized charities that had a mention—Lillian's church, for instance, would come in for some unexpected benefits, not only for her sake, but because I was partial to the Reverend Abernathy, who'd once done me a kindness.

Oh, and Etta Mae, I hadn't overlooked her, and I hoped that having a nice income-producing property would give her peace of mind even if she never married again.

And just in the past year, I'd had Binkie tack on a codicil that
included the Pickens twins and, much against Binkie's protestations—which I ignored—Little Gracie, Binkie and Coleman's daughter.

What was left—which would be plenty—would go to Lloyd, the precious child I'd never had and never thought I wanted, but who more than satisfactorily filled an empty place in my life. Besides, it had all come by way of his father in the first place, although I'd used my half with a great deal of pleasure and very little depletion of capital and even less thought of whence it came.

But Elsie and Trixie? No, ma'am. I'd get a whole house full of cats first.

—

I dozed off and on for an hour or so, waking now and then to think again of Trixie's demand, then getting irate all over again. Rodney had put her up to asking for that property, I was sure of it. But how could anyone, even Trixie, not know any better than to just walk in and ask—and
expect
—to be given something of value? It was beyond me, but still I hated to be thought selfish.

And to think that I would have to sit at the table with her on the morrow and be graciously sociable, even as I knew what she thought of me. Well, I could do that. I'd had years of practice under worse circumstances than these.

Yet I wished for Sam. I couldn't wait to tell him of Trixie's utter gall in asking and of her unfairness in calling me selfish.

I guess I wanted reassurance that I was a thoughtful, considerate, and unsparing Christian woman who was going to hold on to that property, tooth and nail, till Doomsday. Or until Etta Mae decided to move.

When the front doorbell rang, my first thought was that it was Rodney come to add his plea to Trixie's. I stomped to the door, determined to put an end to it. It wasn't Rodney.

“Well, Thurlow,” I said, surprised to find him standing on my front porch. “Sam's off politicking, but he should be back soon. Do you want him to call you when he gets in?”

“No, I've come to see you, and it's just as well that Murdoch's not here. We got a business matter to discuss, you and me.”

I didn't like the sound of that, suspecting as I did that he was another of Rodney's agents, but I held the door open and stepped back. “Come in then, although I don't ordinarily discuss business on a Sunday.”

I led him into the living room, motioned him to a chair, and took one myself. “Well, let's hear it,” I said, in no mood to be harassed about that property again. I didn't offer any refreshments.

Thurlow sat, crossed one leg over the other, and picked at the place a crease would've been on the knee of his pants, if they'd ever seen an iron. “I guess you figured out by now,” he began, frowning at me, “that I'm going in with the Pace boy to turn that area out on Springer Road into a first-class mortuary and cemetery complex. And I guess you've been wondering what all we're going to do.”

“No,” I said serenely, “not at all. In fact, I haven't given any of it much thought.”

“Then it's time you did. We've made you a good offer and there's no reason in the world for you to hold on to that land. It's not like you're using it for anything.”

“Well, there's the Hillandale Trailer Park . . .”

Thurlow snorted and waved his hand as if the home of a dozen people was of no account. “That can be moved. In fact, I've got a nice hillside I'll throw in to boot. Move 'em there.”

I thought of Etta Mae, and I thought of how a huge flatbed truck with a sign across the front and back fenders reading
WIDE LOAD
would have to be backed into the park and up against her single-wide, which would then have to be unhooked from water, electricity, and sewer lines, and how it would have to be craned up onto the truck bed, then hauled down the highway in a convoy with a car with flashing lights in front and one in back to warn other drivers. And then be dumped onto a hillside in the back of beyond somewhere—no telling where—and rehooked to the necessary utilities. And that's only if there was a sewer line out there.
They might have to put in a septic tank. Twelve times that would have to be done, to the tune of an untold amount of money that the residents, and certainly Etta Mae, didn't have.

“I'm not moving them,” I said firmly, “and I'm not selling. And I really don't want to hear any more about it.”

“You're just being stubborn,” he said, which fired me up because I was fed up with name-calling.

I opened my mouth to tell him off, but he went right on. “Why wouldn't you want to help improve and enhance that area of the county? Delmont needs a nice business like we'd put up. Lots of job opportunities, you know. You don't want to be known as somebody who'd stand in the way of progress.”

I was on my feet before I knew it. “
Progress!
I'm so tired of hearing about
progress
I can't see straight. It's just another word for change, and I've had my fill of it. Every time I turn around, somebody is wanting to tear down, cut down, and pour concrete all over everything. I keep telling Rodney, and now I'll tell you—that piece of land is not big enough for a cemetery and I wish you'd both get your minds off of it.”

Thurlow didn't turn a hair, just leisurely stood up and watched as I paced and poured out what I had to say. Ignoring my outburst against progress, he centered in on the land itself. “Rodney told me you're going by an old plat, and you ought to know that the old ones always underestimate. Didn't have the equipment they have nowadays. You just wait till we get it resurveyed, then we'll talk again.” He made a move toward the door, while I wondered what it would take for any of them to understand that my property was out of bounds.

“Well, think of this, Thurlow,” I said, pushing down the anger in order to appeal to his business sense. “Say I lost my head and sold that land to you and Rodney. And say that you put a few million dollars into buildings and cutting down trees and digging up stumps and strewing grass seed. And let's say you had a backhoe just sitting out there on all that grassy expanse just waiting to start digging graves, and let's say that the state cemetery commission
showed up and surveyed it again and told you you didn't have thirty acres and you'd have to close down. Just where would you be then? I'll tell you where—you'd be out of a lot of money and saddled with twenty-nine acres of grass—just right for an expanded mobile home park.”

Thurlow hooked a thumb in the waist of his pants and smiled. “That's when having a friend in the state senate comes in handy. With all that expenditure on the line, no senator would hesitate to come to the aid of a small businessman like Rodney. There'd be a bill on the floor in no time flat making a one-time exception to the law. And there is such a thing as eminent domain, you know. Think about what would be best for the local economy: a tract of land doing nobody any good, or a new business with job openings.”

“Well,” I said, infuriated by his cool assumption that he could have anything he wanted and if it wasn't legal, he could make it so. “And what if your
friend in the senate,
Jimmy Ray Mooney, loses the election? What if somebody who is not in your pocket is the next senator?”

“Hah!” he said, delighted at the thought of getting the better of me. “Never happen. I took your advice, madam, and made sizable contributions to both candidates. Just remember this—I never make a move without covering all the bases.”

And, leaving me open-mouthed, he walked to the door and left.

I kept pacing long after Thurlow was gone. I was so edgy and impatient for Sam to get home that I could hardly stand it. I knew—I
knew
—that Sam could never be bought, but I also knew that senators and representatives were constantly being appealed to by constituents who needed or just wanted special exemptions. And many times those exemptions were granted by a beneficent lawmaker who then got his picture in the paper. So I didn't doubt that Thurlow could get done whatever he wanted done, maybe even without having made any campaign contributions at all.

I finally sat down, worn to a frazzle by all the steps I'd taken. But why was I so agitated? We would never know if the requirements of the state cemetery commission could be overruled. Sam would never be asked to interfere on behalf of Rodney or Thurlow, and neither would Jimmy Ray, because it would never come to that point. What belonged to me was going to stay that way, regardless of what Rodney wanted or what Thurlow expected.

Although to tell the truth, I was about tired of hearing about it and could almost wish it was off my hands. So why not, I suddenly asked myself, keep the trailer park as it was and parcel off the rest of it as building lots? All I'd need would be one home built on a nice acre lot with a few other lots staked out, then no elected official would have the nerve to appropriate it in favor of a cemetery. The whole tract would forever be out of Rodney's reach, in spite of having Thurlow's dubious help.

Yet why should I have to do that? It was already out of their reach, although neither of them seemed to understand the word
no.
In spite of their thickness, though, I had every intention to keep saying it until it finally penetrated.

Just imagine, I thought, Sam and I could've been sailing down
the Rhine instead of being stuck at home and pestered day and night by the likes of Rodney and Thurlow, to say nothing of Trixie. Too bad that Sam had to get involved in politics—we could've been long gone and far away.

Then I had to laugh. I knew why we weren't on the Rhine, and I knew who'd been the one to turn it down. But if, a few months back, I'd been able to look into the future and see what the summer would bring upon us, I might've jumped at the chance to dangle my feet in that river.

Hearing Sam's car turn into the drive, I hopped up and hurried to meet him. He didn't get through the door good until I had my arms around him and my head on his chest.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, even as he responded by holding me close. “What is this?”

“Oh, Sam, I'm so glad you're home. Seems you've been gone the whole day.”

“Just the afternoon,” he reminded me. “But it's worth being gone to have a welcome like this.” Then he held me back from his chest so he could look at me. “Has something happened? What's wrong?”

“Oh,” I said airily, trying to pass off my warm welcome as a normal response to his arrival. “Nothing's wrong, particularly. I've just had visitors all afternoon, so I didn't get the nap I was counting on. The coffee's ready to perk, so why don't you go on to the library and I'll be there in a few minutes. You're probably tired.”

“Yeah, pretty much so. But I'm glad Pickens and Lloyd wanted to go with me. I enjoyed having them. That Lloyd is something else. He caught everybody at the door when it was over and made sure they had a brochure and a Murdoch pin to leave with.”

—

After preparing the coffee tray, I took it to the library where Sam was resting with his feet up. I'd already calmed down by that time, telling myself that he had enough on his mind without my adding more on top of what he was already dealing with. I was, therefore,
determined to let him talk about the afternoon, his plans for the next few days, and the campaign in general. Too often I was so full of what was going on with me that I didn't give him a chance to say what was on his mind. A good wife makes time to listen, advise, and comfort, which is what I do. Most of the time.

I poured coffee for him, added some cream and stirred it, then put it on the table beside his chair. Then I prepared my cup, sat down near him, opened my mouth to ask how the meeting went, and said, “You won't believe who all came to see me today. First it was Trixie telling me she expected to inherit my estate and asking me to go ahead and give her that tract of land that Rodney wants, just so Rodney won't want to see other people. And then”—I stopped, took a breath, and went on—”then Thurlow showed up telling me I'm standing in the way of progress and economic growth, and when I told him that land wasn't large enough for Rodney's purpose, he as much as told me that he'd paid off both you and Jimmy Ray—just to cover all the bases—so whoever is elected will have a special law passed that will allow grave sites on land that doesn't meet the specifications. And I know you wouldn't do that, would you? And Trixie called me selfish because I told her I wouldn't give it to her and that she wasn't in my will in the first place, and Thurlow called me stubborn because I won't sell it to Rodney. So you see, you've been presumed corrupt, and I've been called uncharitable names, and I'm just waiting for Rodney to add his two cents' worth.” I lifted the cup to my mouth, then stopped before drinking and turned back to Sam. “Did you have a good meeting? Who all was there?”

“Forget the meeting,” Sam said, putting his feet on the floor and beginning to rise. “Enough is enough. I'm putting a stop to this.”

“Wait. Where're you going?”

“To call Trixie and tell her I'm coming over for a sit-down, heart-to-heart talk. And when I get through, she's going to know what a real makeover is—it's called an attitude change. Then I'm calling Thurlow to tell him to back off, and if he thinks he's got a
senator in his pocket he better hope Jimmy Ray wins. He won't have this one.”

I didn't think I'd ever seen Sam so angry. I knew I hadn't, for in fact I'd rarely seen him angry at all. Sam was generally a live-and-let-live, kindhearted man, but Trixie had been so presumptuous and Thurlow so arrogant that they were more than he could take with his usual equanimity.

“Wait, Sam,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. “Let's think about this. Trixie's going to think me selfish regardless of what you say, and she'll think it even more so when my will is read. Nothing you say or do will change that. She's to be pitied for assuming that having that land will hold Rodney for long. And as for Thurlow, he'll get his comeuppance sooner or later. Let him go on thinking he has both you and Jimmy Ray bought and paid for, and let him go on paying you both with contributions. He'll learn quickly enough when you refuse to do what he wants.”

“Yes, but I don't like them calling you names. Not even a little bit.”

“I know. I don't like it either, but sticks and stones, as they say. It'd be better to just bide our time, let them think what they want to think, and go on about our business. The only thing that would change their minds is if I sell that land to Rodney, or I give it to Trixie, and I'm not going to do either one. Because if I did, mark my words, it wouldn't be long until they wanted something else from me or from you, and we'd be right back where we started.”

Sam's shoulders slumped in resignation. “You're right. Nothing I say will do any good, but it'd sure make me feel better.” He smiled then, and I knew he'd regained his composure. “You sure you don't want me to tell 'em off?”

I smiled back. “To tell the truth, I'd love it. But right now, it's just not expedient, especially since time is on our side. Let's just rise above the fray. Come on, sit back down and let me rub your back.” I drew him to the sofa and eased down beside him. “The doctor told you to get plenty of rest, but you're constantly on the go. I worry about you, Sam. It hasn't been that long since your surgery.”

“I'm all right. I hardly know I had surgery by now.” He turned sideways so I could massage the back of his neck. “I still think, though, that Trixie would benefit from a good talking-to.”

“She needs several, but I sometimes think that all she understands is either
yes
or
no
. Maybe that's all she's ever heard, but as long as she's with Hazel Marie, I don't want to rock the boat. Except for this afternoon with me, she's been behaving herself, and I'm just hoping it'll last through the luncheon tomorrow. It upsets my stomach to think of eating chicken salad with her glowering at me across the table. And,” I said, returning to my argument, “think of this. If you did talk to her, she'd likely throw one of her fits and Mr. Pickens would throw her out. Then she'd be back over here with us.”

“That clinches it then,” Sam said, giving me an over-the-shoulder smile. “No talking-to, at least for now.”