Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (4 page)

As I pulled away from the bus station and headed for home, Trixie sat slumped in the seat beside me, her straight hair falling over the side of her face. I glanced surreptiously toward her several times, thinking that if I were to take her on for the summer, the first thing I'd tackle would be the state of her posture. I wanted to say, “Head up, shoulders back. Sit up straight and act like a lady,” but I didn't. She was not my problem.

Making an effort to assume the role of hostess, regardless of how brief the role, I tried to draw her out, asking about her trip, her family, her interests—all to no avail. She answered with a mumbled “No'm,” “Yes'm,” or “I guess.” It was enough to make me want to shake her and forcefully say, “Speak up!”

But to tell the truth, the girl needed more than a pep talk, and I was more and more relieved that I wasn't the one responsible for providing what she needed. Take that hair, for instance. It wasn't just that her dark roots were showing, it was that the roots had grown out some five or six inches, leaving the bottom five or six inches a brassy blond shade with an undertone of—would you believe—pink.

She took a sudden sharp breath, then crossed her legs, giving me a sudden sharp fear of possible damage to my leather seats. I turned into a Shell station and parked at the side.

“Go use the bathroom, Trixie,” I said. “The door's unlocked.”

She squirmed, an agonized expression on her face. “Meemaw said—”

“And
I
say go use the bathroom before you ruin your kidneys.”

That was all she needed. She was out of the car in a flash, scuttling toward the ladies' room door, while I waited and waited. I sat, hoping that relief would loosen her tongue and brighten her outlook, neither of which occurred.

When she came out of the ladies' room, I watched as she hurried—no, scuttled was the correct word—back to the car, her shoulders hunched over and her eyes darting fearfully from side to side. What in the world had her grandmother put in her head?

Maybe she was shy and self-conscious—painfully so, from the looks of her. It could be, though, that she only needed a little self-confidence, which she would gain from having a complete makeover. I'd start with hair restoration and styling, professional makeup, manicure, pedicure, more appropriate clothes than the baggy sheath she was wearing, posture and elocution lessons, a book on manners and etiquette, a low-calorie diet, an exercise regimen, and a Lady Schick razor. But she wasn't my problem.

When I turned into the driveway at home and stopped the car, Trixie stared out the window. “This it?” she asked in the same flat tone she'd been using.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “That's why we stopped.” Then regretted my sharp reply.

“I thought it'd be bigger,” she said, and I stopped regretting anything but bringing her home.

“Well, come in and meet everybody,” I said, getting out of the car. “We usually go in the back door because we park near it. You can leave your things in the car, since we'll be going back in a few hours.”

“Meemaw said not to leave this,” she said, hefting herself out of the car, carrying the sack with her.

“Then bring it,” I said, shrugging as I led her to the door. The girl had barely said two dozen words, and already she'd rubbed me the wrong way.

She followed me into the kitchen, stopped short at the sight of Lillian at the counter, and whispered, “That your maid?”

Ignoring the question, I said, “Lillian, this is Trixie Bingham, who is visiting for a few hours. And Trixie, this is Lillian, housekeeper and friend.”

“We glad to have you, Miss Trixie,” Lillian said, drying her hands as Trixie frowned and turned away without responding.

“Trixie's a little shy, Lillian,” I said, giving her a roll of my eyes. “Is Sam in the library? He'll want to meet her.”

Trixie, still clasping her sack, followed me into the library where I introduced her to Sam. He, of course, was his usual courteous self, standing to greet her and extending his hand.

Misunderstanding the gesture, she mumbled, “It's not heavy. I'll hold on to it.” At which, Sam's eyebrows shot up.

“Well,” he said, “it's nice to meet you, Trixie. I expect you've had a tiring journey, would you like to rest a while?”

“I wouldn't mind,” she mumbled.

“Come then,” I said. “I'll take you upstairs where you can freshen up. We'll have lunch in a few minutes, then you might want to take a nap.”

—

Even though Sam and I usually had lunch in the kitchen, Lillian had set the table in the dining room. When I saw the crocheted place mats and the centerpiece of fresh flowers, I knew that she had taken extra pains in honor of our guest. The first course was cups of chilled strawberry soup. After Sam said grace, Trixie—without following the lead of her hostess—picked up a teaspoon, took one taste, and screwed up her mouth. Then she put her spoon back on the place mat.

“Don't you care for it?” I asked. “I think it's nice on such a hot day.”

Trixie shook her head. “Mine didn't get heated up.” And she cast a sullen glance in Lillian's direction.

“Oh, well,” I said, as Lillian brought in plates filled with curly lettuce and fruit, covered with poppy seed dressing. “Perhaps you'll like the fruit plate better. Oh, look, Lillian has made cream cheese and pecan sandwiches on date-nut bread. This is a treat, Lillian. I feel as if we're at a ladies' luncheon, don't you, Sam?”

“I do, indeed,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I love ladies' luncheons. I go to them all the time.”

“Oh, you,” I said, laughing, but Trixie just stared at him.

She played around with the canteloupe, strawberries, melon, and kiwi slices on her plate, taking tentative bites now and then, but clearly not enjoying her lunch. All I could think of was how glad I was that I would not be taking her to any real ladies' luncheons in Abbotsville. If she didn't like fruit, she probably wouldn't care for quiche, so what would she eat?

Finally I took pity and asked, “Is there anything you'd rather have for lunch?”

“You got any Doritos or Fritos? I could eat that and maybe some onion dip.”

Lillian's mouth dropped open.

I quickly said, “I'm sorry, but no, we don't have anything like that. In fact, we rarely have snacks in the house. What about a peanut butter sandwich?”

“A 'mater sandwich would be better,” Trixie said, “but I'll take it if that's all you got.” As if we were woefully deprived of food.

So Trixie had a tomato sandwich for lunch, carefully prepared by Lillian but for which she received no thanks. In fact, when the plate was set before her, Trixie eyed both the sandwich and Lillian as if she suspected some lurking trickery somewhere.

After that unsuccessful luncheon, I suggested that Trixie might like to rest for a while. I made the mistake, though, of mentioning that the room was kept for Lillian and Latisha on the rare occasions they couldn't get home, hoping to subtly indicate that I was unprepared for an unexpected long-term visitor. Trixie stopped short in the middle of the room, staring at the bed.

“Meemaw said you'd have a guest room,” she mumbled.

“This
is
the guest room,” I replied, holding back the sharp retort that almost got away from me. “And occasionally Lillian is our guest.”

“You mean your
maid
sleeps in the bed?” Trixie asked.

“Well, she certainly doesn't sleep on the floor,” I returned sharply. Then taking a calming breath, I went on. “Now, Trixie, I assure you that the linens are fresh and you can either rest on the bed or in the easy chair, whichever you prefer. After all, it's only
for a few hours, then you can sleep on the bus where all kinds of people—washed and unwashed—have been before you.”

—

Holding on to my temper as best as I could, I left Trixie still deciding between the bed and the chair. Silently fuming, I wondered if she'd prefer Lloyd's bedroll that still had a rank smell from his last camping trip.

“Sam,” I said, finding him waiting for me in the library, “that girl is impossible. I've a good mind to take her back to the bus station and let her sit there till the bus comes in. She can buy Doritos from the vending machine for dinner.”

“Only a few hours more, Julia,” Sam reminded me.

“I know,” I said, sighing as I sat beside him. “But if she doesn't start showing some respect to Lillian, I'm going to let her have a piece of my mind. The idea! Do you know that she didn't want to sleep in the bed that Lillian has slept in?” And I went on to tell him of the conversation upstairs.

Sam frowned, then said, “I was inclined to pity her, but we can't have Lillian's feelings hurt. I tell you, Julia, the girl appears backward to me.”

I looked at him in surprise. Sam rarely made critical judgments about people. He could always find reasons or excuses for untoward behavior, which if uncorrected, he simply ignored. I, on the other hand, always felt I had to do the correcting, but not in this case—I wanted Trixie gone. She was not my problem or my responsibility.

When Lloyd came in from school that afternoon, he was in high spirits—it was the next to last day of his freshman year and, as he said, he had survived undamaged and unbowed.

I laughed, having had no doubt that he would not only survive but prosper in high school. Then I delicately explained to him the presence of Trixie, for whom he was unprepared, since she'd been sprung on us that very day while he was in school.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Now I'll have somebody to bum around with. I hope she plays tennis.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” I said. “She doesn't seem the athletic type. But Lloyd, I want you to know that I'm sending her home tonight, so let this be a lesson to you. Don't ever impose on people by just showing up somewhere, expecting to be welcome. I'm trying my best not to blame Trixie, although she seems old enough to know better. It's really her grandmother who's at fault. So let's just be considerate of her while she's here.”

“Okay, I can do that. How long is she going to rest? I want to meet her.” Then his eyes lit up. “The pool's open. Maybe she'd like to go swimming.”

We both looked up as a low rumble of thunder sounded overhead. “Uh-oh,” Lloyd said. “Sounds like swimming's out. I better think of something else. Maybe she'd like to play some computer games.”

I was walking a fine line speaking of Trixie to him. I didn't want to express my true feelings and influence his opinion of her. On the other hand, I could not, in good conscience, pretend that Trixie was delightful company.

“I wouldn't count on that either,” I said, then sighed. “The fact of the matter, Lloyd, is that Trixie is not, well, very outgoing. I
think we'll have a hard time finding anything she'd like. I haven't had much success so far.”

He nodded as if he understood. “She's probably just disoriented, don't you think? Everything's new to her—the town, the house, all of us—and now she has to turn around and go back home. If she stayed long enough to get used to us, I bet she'd like being here. I feel kinda sorry for her.”

“You're a good boy, Lloyd,” I said, feeling somewhat ashamed of my own assessment of Trixie. Not enough, though, to change my mind about sending her home.

A soft summer rain kept Lloyd in the house the rest of the afternoon, and he wandered around thinking up things to entertain Trixie. He got out a thousand-piece puzzle—a sailing ship of some kind—and set it up on the mahogany card table in the library, then enticed Sam to help him start it. I occupied myself by writing out different slogans for Sam's campaign. He had to decide in a few days how he wanted his yard signs to look so they'd be ready to distribute.

“Sam,” I said, “what're you thinking about the colors on your signs? Everybody and his brother uses some combination of red, white, and blue, but I think you'd stand out more with something different.”

“Whatever you think, honey. Just so it's eye catching. Lloyd, try this piece on that corner.”

“Well, I'm thinking a navy blue background with your name in white with some bright green somewhere. What about that?”

“Sounds fine to me. We can have the sign company work up some mockups, then decide what we like the best.”

“Work up some mockups,” Lloyd repeated, laughing. “Sounds funny. But, Miss Julia, you reckon Trixie's all right? She sure is resting a long time.”

I looked at my watch, realizing that it was almost time for dinner. “She probably got up in the middle of the night to catch her bus, so maybe a long rest is what she needed. I'll go up and see about her.”

—

Unhappily, though, Trixie's long rest had not improved her disposition. She came reluctantly downstairs after I roused her from her nap—on the bed, I might add—and continued to act half asleep the rest of the evening. Lloyd tried his best to engage her interest, but received only monosyllables in return.

By the time the four of us sat down at the dining room table, which Lillian had set beautifully, we were about at our wit's end. Lillian had again gone to extra trouble for our guest, having lit the four candles on my silver epergne and filled the bowl with roses and greenery. Sam complimented her on how lovely the table looked, then walked over to help Trixie to her chair. Trixie, however, looked so startled by the courtesy that he quickly backed off.

After Sam returned thanks for our food, he began to talk easily about the day's events, and Lloyd and I kept up our end, each of us trying to draw out Trixie. She would not be drawn, keeping her face down as she moved the food around on her plate.

I was about to lose patience with her. I mean, who doesn't like a standing rib roast with oven-baked potatoes and fresh asparagus? I thought of offering her something else, but it was past time for her to learn to eat what was put before her and be thankful for it. Besides, to draw attention to her lack of appetite would just embarrass her more than she already seemed to be. I was beginning to think that the only way she would be comfortable was to let her curl up in a ball and huddle in a corner.

As our conversation began to die out, having gotten little response from Trixie, Lloyd looked around the table.

“Oh, there it is,” he said. “Trixie, would you pass the butter, please?”

A deer-in-the-headlights expression passed over her face, her eyes widening as if she'd been called on in class, but then they lit upon the silver butter dish next to her plate—right where it had stopped instead of having been passed on. She picked it up, looked
at Sam at the head of the table and me at the end, then as if undecided of which way to pass it to Lloyd, she stood halfway up and thrust it across the table toward him. Her arm, however, went right over the flame of a candle.

She screamed, dropped the butter dish, which splattered in Lloyd's plate, breaking it in two, then careened against his water glass, knocking it over. He pushed back his chair and sprang up. Sam and I both rose and Lillian came running from the kitchen, while Trixie held her trembling arm and wailed her head off.

“What is it?” Lillian cried. “What happened?”

“A burn, Lillian,” I said. “We need the first-aid kit.”

As Lloyd began picking up the remains of his dinner and the fragments of his plate, Lillian brought the first-aid kit from the pantry. I got up from my chair and went to Trixie to see how badly she was burned.

She jerked her arm away from me. “Don't touch it! Don't touch it! It hurts, oh, it hurts!”

“I know,” I said soothingly. “But we have to see how bad it is.”

“Here,” Lillian said, rummaging in the kit for a tube of Neosporin. “Let's put some of this on it. It'll stop the hurtin'.”

“No!” Trixie screamed. “Don't touch it. Get some ice for it!”

By this time, in spite of Trixie's jerking her arm around, I'd gotten a look at the burn. From the way she was carrying on, trembling and crying and moaning, I'd expected to see blisters at least, but it was a quickly fading red spot about an inch in length. My sympathy was fading as fast as it was.

I clasped her arm and held it still. “Calm down, Trixie, and let Lillian put some salve on it. Ice is not the proper treatment.”

“But Meemaw always—”

“I don't
care
what Meemaw does. Hold still. Lillian, smear some on.”

She did, and Trixie almost immediately dried up, amazed at the soothing quality of the salve. Lillian then put a gauze bandage on the area and held it on with adhesive tape, while Trixie sniffled and wiped tears away with her other arm.

“There now, Miss Trixie,” Lillian said. “That'll help it heal real quick.”

With a long, wet sniff, Trixie said, “I got to go lay down.”

And away she went without a word of thanks to Lillian or an apology for disrupting the meal to the rest of us.

Lloyd and Sam had been quiet during this medical procedure, Sam helping Lloyd wipe up the spilled water and clean the table of the remains of his meal. In fact, Lloyd had gotten another plate, refilled it, and sat now calmly eating his dinner.

I thanked Lillian as she repacked the kit, and she and I exchanged wry glances. “I guess,” Lillian said, “she don't want no dessert either.”

“Well, I do,” Lloyd said. “It's all so good, I could eat second helpings of everything, which is what I'm doing.”

We all laughed and the tension eased. “I'm sorry that she got burned,” I said, almost whispering in case my voice carried up the stairs, “but who could imagine she'd reach over a candle?”

Lillian turned at the door. “I won't light the candles no more, jus' in case she forget.”

“No need for that, Lillian,” I said. “She won't be here long. Besides, I like candlelight.”

—

After dinner, dreading every step, I walked upstairs to see about Trixie. As undemanding a guest as she was, she seemed to be taking up all my time.

I tapped on the door of her room, but, getting no response, I eased in. “Trixie? How are you feeling? How's your arm?”

She was not on the bed, but in it, her dress thrown over the chair and her sandals left in the middle of the floor. She moaned, pulled the covers over her head, and turned away from me.

“Trixie?” I said, sitting on the side of the bed. “You need to wake up now. I think we can go on to the bus station in a few minutes, so we'll have plenty of time to get your ticket. You might
want a snack from the vending machines before the bus comes, too. Let's get on up now.”

“I can't,” she mumbled.

“Does your arm still hurt? We can put more salve on it if it does.”

She shook her head against the pillow.

“Well, is there anything else wrong? Tell me, so we can fix it before you start your trip.”

She buried her face in the pillow and began sobbing. “I wanna go ho-o-ome.”

Well, I wanted her to go, too, so I said, “Then jump up, so you can catch your bus.”

She turned to lie flat on her back, a look of pure misery on her face. “I can't!”

“Of course, you can. The burn is not that bad. It won't keep you from traveling.”

“No!” she yelled, as if I were hard of hearing. “I
can't
go home. They's nobody there! They went off and le-e-eft me up here.”

“What? I don't understand. Aren't your grandparents at their farm in Georgia?”

“They
sold
it!” Trixie almost screamed, behaving as if she were reminding me of something I already knew and was too dense to understand. “They sold the farm and moved to
Florida
!”

“When?” I asked, almost as befuddled as Trixie thought I was. “I just got her letter today and Elsie didn't say a word about moving.”

In between sobs, Trixie told me that they'd closed on the farm the first of the week, packed the Yukon, put her on the Greyhound, and left from the bus station for Florida.

“Meemaw said,” Trixie said, hiccupping between the words, “she said she aimed to live in Florida if it, if it hare-lipped her, and Pawpaw said, ‘Then I guess we better go on and, and move down there.' And that's what they did.”

“Well, Trixie, that's a little, ah, unusual, but all we have to do
is buy a bus ticket for wherever they've moved to and you can join them there.”

Trixie's face screwed up tight, as tears streamed from her eyes. “I can't! I don't know where they are.
They
didn't know where they was goin'! They was just gonna keep drivin' till Meemaw said stop.”

I was almost speechless, but not completely. “What were they going to do about you, Trixie? I mean, what if Sam and I hadn't been home?” Visions of floating down the Rhine sprang to mind.

“They're gonna write me a letter when they get settled,” Trixie said, wiping her face with the edge of the sheet. “But Meemaw said it'd be a coupla months 'cause she wants to see every bit of Florida. So I got to stay here,” she wailed, getting louder by the minute, “and I don't
want
to!”

What she would've done if we'd been away wasn't answered—probably because it hadn't even been considered. Stunned by the lack of forethought and the abundance of gall of both her and Elsie, I patted her shoulder, unable to offer any words of comfort or reassurance. Then I rose from where I was sitting, turned like a zombie, and half stumbled toward the door. “Sam,” I mumbled. “Sam?”