Miss Julia Delivers the Goods (34 page)

“You’re right,” I agreed, nodding. “You’re absolutely right. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll just drop in for a visit and play it by ear. And when we judge he’s fully prepared for the news, we’ll carefully and gently break it to him.”

With that decided, we turned the corner on Sam’s block and I could see his lovely old house with its wide porch before us. My breath kept getting shorter and shorter, and I couldn’t tell if it was caused by the heat, the exercise, or the anxiety.

As we stepped up on Sam’s brick walkway, I grabbed Lillian’s arm and held on. “Pray that we’ll do it right, Lillian. Everything depends on breaking it to him as kindly as we can. I don’t want to do anything that would set him off.”

“Yessum,” she mumbled. “I jus’ hang back an’ listen.”

So there we were at last, up on Sam’s front porch, standing before the door, ready to do what we’d come to do. I reached out and mashed the doorbell. We waited a few minutes, but heard no sound from inside. I pressed the doorbell a second time and kept my finger on it. Hearing no footsteps from inside, I mashed it again and again. He’d have to be deaf not to hear it.

“He’s got to be here,” I said, my anxiety level steadily rising. “His car’s right there in the driveway. Knock on the door, Lillian. The doorbell may be broken.”

She reached around me and gave the door a tentative rap. “Harder,” I said, and pushed the doorbell again, leaving my finger on it for the longest.

The door sprang open and an angry Mr. Pickens stood there, his hair plastered to his head and water dripping from his face and shoulders to the floor, with not a stitch on to his name—just a skimpy towel wrapped around his middle.

“What in the . . . ?” he demanded, then when he saw us his mouth fell open, and so did mine. I stumbled back against Lillian, while he stood in shock, clutching the towel.

“I’m sorry, so very,” I stuttered, mortified by our ill-timed visit and his ill-clothed state.

“I was in the shower,” he said, quickly sidestepping behind the door as he began to ease it closed.

“We can come back,” I said, still awed and tongue-tied by the eyeful I’d gotten of his almost naked body, browned by the sun and glistening with water. “More convenient, maybe another time. Let’s go, Lillian.”

But she hadn’t moved and wouldn’t move. She stood her ground, blocking my retreat while she gazed beyond me at Mr. Pickens although there was nothing to see by now except one eye and a bit of wet hair sticking out from behind the door.

“Mr. Pickens,” she sang out, strong and determined as only Lillian could be when she had something to say. “Mr. Pickens, you gonna be a daddy, an’ ain’t nobody tell you but us, so don’t be mad. We jus’ bring the message, that’s all we have to do with it.”

Mr. Pickens’s head slid further out from the door. I could see both eyes, part of his nose and mouth, and a shock of wet hair. “What’d you say?”

“She said,” I said, encouraged by Lillian’s boldness, “that your former sweetheart is expecting and she’s sick to death of having to expect by herself.”

His black eyes darted from me to Lillian and back again. “She’s . . . ?”

“Yes, she is.”

The towel fell in a puddle at his feet, and he slammed the door in my face. “Wait,” he yelled. “Wait just a damn minute!” We could hear his feet thudding away from us as he ran along the hall.

“Well, Lillian,” I said, turning away and heading for one of Sam’s rocking chairs, “we certainly eased into that, didn’t we?”

Then I stopped, grabbed Lillian’s arm with a grip of steel. “Run around back. Quick! He might go out that way. I’ll stand guard here.”

Lillian gasped. “You think he gonna run out on us?”

“I don’t know what he’s going to do, but we better be prepared. Now hurry and get back there.”

She lumbered down the steps, muttering about not knowing how she’d stop him if he took a mind to leave. I leaned beside the front door, wondering about the same problem if he took a mind to come out the front.

Lord, we had messed this up to a fare-thee-well, I thought. Yet it was done. He now knew where his duty lay, and all we could do was stand aside and see what he’d do about it. Well, guarding the exits wasn’t exactly standing aside, was it? Still, he might want to know a few more details unless he’d heard all he wanted to hear and was, even now, preparing to hightail it out of town.

The door beside me was suddenly jerked open and I came to attention.

Mr. Pickens stood there, dressed in jeans, a misbuttoned and partially tucked-in shirt and still no shoes. His hair had been toweled semi-dry and hand-combed, signs of a hurried toilette. “Get in here,” he barked.

From the narrow-eyed look on his face, I thought he was going to jerk me inside, so I quickly sidled into the hall and kept my distance.

“Where’s Lillian?” he demanded.

“Guarding the back door,” I quavered, uncertain as to how to deal with him. I’d never seen him quite this cold and demanding, though I’d been on the receiving end of his quick temper several times before. But now there was a scowl on his face and an iciness to his manner that unsettled me.

Issuing another order, he said, “Sit and wait. I’ll get her.”

I did as I was told, and soon he appeared with Lillian, who came in wide-eyed and fearful. Ordering her to sit, he stood before us, his fists clenched and his face dark and threatening.

Much to my surprise, the next words out of his mouth were calmly said. “You’re talking about Hazel Marie?”

Taken aback, I said, “Why, Mr. Pickens, who else would it be?”

“Lord,” he said, falling into a chair as if his legs had given way. He buried his face in his hands, then came up for air. “How long has this been going on?”

I glanced at Lillian, who was studiously avoiding both of us. Gathering my courage, I answered, “I believe since San Francisco, wouldn’t you say?”

His head flopped back against the chair, and I could see his manly chest going up and down as he absorbed the information.

“All right,” he said, sitting up abruptly, his investigative mind apparently putting the pieces together. “She’s pregnant, is that what you’re saying?”

I nodded, as Lillian decided to jump in then. “Yessir, jus’ as much as she can be, an’ then some. An’ the daddy need to be helpin’ with them babies.”

His black eyes darted from one to the other of us. He swallowed hard, started to speak, stopped, then tried again. “Babies?” he croaked. “Did you say babies?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “But don’t worry. There’s only two of them.”

 

 

 

Mr. Pickens had always been a quick study—he rarely had to be told anything twice. But in this instance, it took the longest time for him to come to grips with the news of the change in his circumstances. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the lengthy interrogatory session he put us through.

Well, I did know what I expected. I expected him to either run with open arms to Hazel Marie and put an end to all our worries, or else I expected him to take off for parts unknown and never be heard from again. One or the other, but not these picky, picky questions about every aspect of the past few weeks.

“When did she find out?” he asked, beginning to pepper us with questions. “How long has she kept it from me? Who all knows about it? Why didn’t somebody tell me? Why didn’t
she
tell me?”

His eyes bored into mine with that last question, so I felt beholden to answer as best as I could. “I can’t answer that, Mr. Pickens, because I tried everything I knew to get her to tell you. But she’d have none of it. She even made me promise not to tell you, and, see, here I’ve just done what I promised not to do although it was really Lillian who finally told you and not me, as you well know. So please don’t tell her I told you because she’d know I broke my promise and might never trust me again.” I paused to catch my breath. “Anyway, Hazel Marie said it was her problem and she had to deal with it herself. Besides,” I went on, deciding that since he’d asked, I might as well tell it all, “knowing how determined you are to shy away from another marriage, she thought you wouldn’t care one way or another and would just leave her holding the bag, so to speak, regardless of what you knew. So whether you knew or didn’t know, it wouldn’t change anything as far as she and those babies were concerned.”

With his elbows on his knees, he leaned over and covered his face with his hands. “How could she think that?”

“Easy,” I said, emboldened by this unusual display of tractability. “She told you it was over, and you believed her. She said she didn’t want to see you again, and you believed her. She said she wanted to be married and make a home with you and Lloyd, but did you believe that? Oh, no, you didn’t. And this was all even before she knew what you’d done to her, and, Mr. Pickens, believe this if nothing else: She didn’t want to force you into marriage. I’m quite proud of her for that although I’ll tell you the truth, there’s not a viable alternative, and, believe this, too, we’ve considered every other option under the sun.”

“Yessir,” Lillian chimed in, “we have and she have, too. Why, no tellin’ how many times she been packin’ up to move off somewhere where nobody know her. An’ Miss Julia, she been doin’ all she know to do to keep her an’ Lloyd here, but they hardly any way out ’cept Miss Hazel Marie stay here an’ have two little yard chil’ren for everybody to talk about.”

He groaned, pulled his hands down his face and stared at the floor between his knees. “I can’t believe this.”

“Why, Mr. Pickens, every word we’ve said is the absolute truth.”

He glanced at me, then back at the floor. “I don’t mean that. I mean I can’t believe she’d think I wouldn’t care.”

“Then you better do something to show her you do because she’s serious about leaving town. And she’ll be up and gone this weekend if she finds out that Emma Sue Ledbetter’s giving her a surprise going-away party Monday night.”

He sprang from his chair, walked across the room, turned around and walked back. Then he stood there for a minute like he didn’t quite know what to do next. “I’m going over there,” he finally said. “She may not want me, but I’m going.”

As he headed for the front door, Lillian and I exchanged a triumphant look, then we came to our feet, calling, “Wait! Mr. Pickens, wait.”

“You need some shoes,” I said, pointing to his bare feet.

He looked down and said, “Oh. Well, just hold on a minute.” As he started down the hall toward the bedroom he was temporarily occupying, he stopped and came back. “Do not,” he said, pointing his finger at me, “leave this room. I don’t want you running over there and telling her I’m coming.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that for the world,” I said, stepping back to my chair to show I had no intention of ruining his big moment.

Lillian sank down in her chair again, and we sat there gazing first at each other, then toward the hall where we expected to see him return.

“He takin’ a long time to put on them shoes,” Lillian whispered, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. “You don’t reckon he slip out the back, do you?”

“Well, he just better not.” But a sense of dread was filling my mind. If he flew the coop after knowing what he needed to know, then he was a lost cause and we were back where we’d started from.

Then, to my great relief, we heard the sound of well-shod feet striding purposefully down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, dressed in gray slacks and an ecru linen jacket over a white shirt and paisley silk tie. And shoes. His hair was neatly combed and ready for business.

“Why, Mr. Pickens,” I said approvingly, “you look so nice. Perfectly appropriate for a late afternoon wedding proposal.”

He glared at me, opened the front door, and strode across the porch toward his car.

“Come on, Lillian,” I said, jumping up and running after him. “Let’s ride with him.”

Easier said than done, for Mr. Pickens’s car was not made for backseat passengers who were any larger than Lloyd. And both of us were.

Mr. Pickens already had the engine rumbling as I reached the passenger door and opened it. “We’ll go with you, if you don’t mind. It’s awfully hot to be walking.”

I stepped back, holding the door wide, and motioned to Lillian to crawl in the back. But seeing the problem after she flipped down the front seat, I said, “Wait, I’ll get in the back. You sit up front.”

We jostled each other, trying to change places, as Mr. Pickens impatiently revved the motor. “Just get in, one way or the other,” he said, his teeth clenched together. “I don’t have all day.”

“Well,” I said right smartly, as I crawled over the front seat, “you’ve waited this long, you can at least give us time to get in.”

I got settled and buckled in with some difficulty, but when Lillian righted the front seat, it smacked my knees straight up into my lap. “Oh, Lord,” I moaned. “Hurry, Mr. Pickens, I’m so crimped up back here I can hardly breathe. Lillian, move your seat up a little if you can.”

“I can’t, Miss Julia,” she said. “I already on top of the dashboard.”

Mr. Pickens clunked the gearshift into reverse and we spurted out of the drive onto the street. “Will you two just hold on for two minutes?” He slammed the car into gear and off we took, nearly inflicting a whiplash injury as my head was jerked backward. “You could’ve walked, you know.”

I didn’t reply, making gracious allowances because Mr. Pickens was under some stress and shouldn’t be blamed for injecting a little sarcasm now and then. Poor man, he had a lot on his mind.

But I’d made all the allowances I was willing to make when he suddenly swerved the car to the side of the street and slammed on the brakes. We came to a screeching halt as my head snapped forward from the loss of momentum, and Lillian let out a piercing shriek.

“What! What is it?” I yelled.

“Siren,” Mr. Pickens said calmly, as if he hadn’t just put me in double jeopardy as far as whiplash was concerned.