Miss Julia Hits the Road (2 page)

BOOK: Miss Julia Hits the Road
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“Yessum, I have. But you and Mr. Sam got so friendly at Miss Binkie and Coleman’s weddin’, I jus’ figured things was pickin’ up.”
“What things are you talking about?” I demanded, readying myself to refute any assumptions she might have made.
“Well, you know. Maybe that weddin’ put you in mind of another one.” She came back to the table and started stringing green beans again, as innocent as you please.
“My Lord, Lillian, another wedding is the last thing on my mind.” I said, throwing another handful of beans in the bowl. “Unless it’s Hazel Marie’s. Whoever heard of moving in with a man for a trial period, anyway?”
“Lots a people, that’s who. An’ it nobody’s bus’ness but hers,” Lillian reminded me, as she often did when she thought I was beginning to meddle. “Now, look like to me all Mr. Sam doin’ is bein’ nice and friendly.”
I dropped the beans that were in my hand, and covered my face. “Oh, Lillian, it’s not only what he says, but the way he says it. I don’t know what he means, or if he means anything at all.”
“I ’spect you figure it out, you put your mind to it.”
I ignored that because, all along, I hadn’t wanted to delve too deeply into what was behind Sam’s unnerving attentions. Once burned, twice shy, you know, and after my previous less-than-satisfactory experience with a husband, I intended to steer clear of another one.
I propped my chin on my hand, my elbow on the table, and put the focus back on Sam where it belonged. “I’m afraid something’s wrong with him, Lillian, and that’s the truth of the matter. The way he’s acting is just not like him. You know how he is. Usually, that is. So polite, so much of a gentleman, courtly even, and now . . .” I lifted my head as a sudden thought came to me. “You know who he reminds me of? Mr. Pickens, that’s who. He flirts, Lillian, and says the most outrageous things you’ve ever heard.”
“That don’t sound so bad to me.”
“But it’s not like Sam! I tell you the truth, I think he’s entering his second childhood. He’s old, you know.”
“Not much older’n you,” Lillian reminded me.
I glared at her. “Age affects different people in different ways. You won’t catch me wearing cowboy boots and blue jeans and whispering things in somebody’s ear.”
“Wouldn’t hurt you to try; might even do you some good. Seem like to me you be noticin’ you not gettin’ any younger. I know lots a ladies be real happy to have a well-set-up man like Mr. Sam whisperin’ in they ear. You keep on like you doin’ an’ he gonna turn his eye somewheres else.”
I blew out my breath in exasperation. “Don’t get me started on all the widows in this town who’d do anything in the world just to get married again. I know how they carry on. Just as soon as somebody’s wife dies, there they are with casseroles and cakes and pies and invitations to dinner. I tell you, they don’t know when they’re well off.”
“Lemme get these beans on,” she said, pushing herself up from the table and carrying the bowl to the stove. “This meat done boiled down enough.”
“You’re not helping me, Lillian. I’m really worried about him. At first I thought he was suffering a midlife crisis, except he’s too old. Maybe he’s getting senile.”
“Well, which is it? He in his chilehood or his old age?”
“I don’t know,” I said, slumping back in my chair. “And to tell the truth, I don’t know which would be worse.”
A sudden whining and growling began building up from out on the street and, as I jerked upright, the racket seemed to fill the whole room. “What in the world is that?”
I started out of my chair as the commotion got louder and louder, and nearer and nearer. Clamping my hands over my ears, I ran to the window.
Lillian dumped the beans in the pot and slung the bowl on the counter. As she hurried to the window beside me, my first thought was that a swarm of hornets had nested in my front yard, ruining my boxwoods.
Realizing that we couldn’t see from the kitchen window, Lillian and I pushed and shoved each other in our hurry to get through the house to the front door. The clattering, rumbling din was painful to hear as we got closer to it.
“What is it? What is it?” I gasped as we both reached for the door knob, our hands fumbling for purchase.
“Oh, my Jesus!” Lillian cried, her voice cracking as she panted for breath. “It’s the Rapture! Here I am, sweet Jesus, I’m a comin’!”
“Lillian, for goodness sakes. Get hold of yourself and get this door open.”
She took a deep breath and came down to earth. “Maybe a UFO’s squattin’ down out there.”
Before I could say what I thought of that, she pushed my hand aside, got the knob turned, and opened the door. When we rushed out onto the porch, I’d have opted for any kind of flying object other than the one that greeted our eyes. A rumbling, whining, two-wheeled machine slued out of my yard onto Polk Street, then swung wildly around the street and headed back into my driveway, sideswiping the plastic roll-out trash container perched on the sidewalk. Then, weaving up the driveway, it sliced through a pile of leaves, sending them swirling and scattering in the air. As we watched, open-mouthed, the loud, grumbling thing took its rider between two boxwoods, grazed the limbs of a crepe myrtle, and chewed up my grass as it skidded in a mighty half-circle before coming to rest in the middle of my yard.
“My Lord,” I gasped, taking a firm grip on Lillian’s arm. “Who’s driving that thing?”
“Look like it drivin’ itself,” Lillian said.
As the machine whined down, it gave off a few nerve-shattering pops and backfires. A black leather-clad figure swung a leg off the pile of steel, chrome and exhaust pipes, kicked down the kickstand, and turned to face us.
At least, I guessed he was facing us, for his head was encased in what looked like a shiny black bowling ball with a dark visor. Removing the black gloves, the figure creaked and squeaked its way toward the porch, steel-toed boots clanking on my concrete walk.
“Is that Mr. Pickens, Lillian?” I asked, trying to peer past the black face-covering. “Is that who it is?”
“No’m, I don’ think so. This ’un not as spry as Mr. Pickens.”
Whoever it was stopped at the foot of the steps and pulled off the helmet, leaving a few sprigs of silvery hair standing straight up, looking for all the world like Little Lloyd’s cowlick. Tucking his helmet under his arm, Sam stood there, grinning at us. If there was ever any proof that my concerns about Sam’s mental condition had a solid foundation, it was right smack in front of us.
“See, Lillian!” I whispered, rounding on her, although if Sam heard me I didn’t care. “That’s what I’m talking about! If it’s not one crazy thing, it’s another. And now he’s running around on a two-wheeler like a maniac. Sam,” I raised my voice and turned to him with my hands on my hips, “the very idea, coming around here disturbing the peace and giving me a heart attack with all that roaring and popping and carrying on. What will the neighbors think, I ask you.”
Before he could answer, Lillian said, “Don’t be jumpin’ on him, Miss Julia. He havin’ the time of his life.” Her smile was as big as his. She’d certainly changed her tune from when she’d been expecting the end of the world hardly a minute before.
“I say, the time of his life. He’s on the way to ending his life with that thing. At his age, he ought to know better than to run around on such a contraption.” I crossed my arms over my bosom and glared at Sam as he came toward us. He was grinning with a mixture of pride and what should’ve been embarrassment after that less-than-graceful entrance. “Senile old fool,” I mumbled.
“Hello, Julia, Lillian,” Sam said, still smiling as he walked up the steps to the porch and stopped next to me. “How you like my new toy?”
I declare, I never knew how the smell and sound and look of leather could overpower a person as unaccustomed to such attire as I was. Sam seemed twice his size—and he wasn’t a small man to begin with—as he stood close, breathing in and out from the exertion of steering a machine with a mind of its own. I took in all that leather smell and the preponderance of zippers on his jacket as he leaned over me and said, “Well, Julia, what do you think?”
I took a step back. “I think, Sam Murdoch, that you have lost your mind.”
Chapter 2
“Now get in the house,” I said, “before half the town sees you in that get-up.” I opened the door and gave him a little push toward it. It was the first time I’d been on the porch without having a sinking spell at the sight of Pastor Ledbetter’s Family Life Center looming above us from across the street. I’d been too taken up with the amazing spectacle that Sam had presented to give the building a second thought. Not that it deserved one, for it was the bane of my existence.
“I can’t stay, Julia,” he said, going in anyway. “I just came by to show you my new Harley-Davidson Road King.”
“I’ve seen it, which is more than I ever wanted.” I motioned him to my Duncan Phyfe sofa, now covered in a bright yellow chintz instead of the maroon velvet that my lately deceased husband, Wesley Lloyd Springer, had thought appropriate for our living room. I sat in the matching Victorian ladies’ chair across from Sam and studied him. “What in the world has possessed you, Sam, to get on such a machine as that life-threatening thing out there?”
“Oh, just one of those things I’ve always wanted to do,” he said as he leaned back and made himself comfortable. “And I decided that if I don’t do some of them soon, I never will. We’re not getting any younger, Julia. Have to do them while we can.”
“Well,” I said, with a glare at Lillian, who was standing in the arch to the dining room, still admiring Sam’s leather outfit. “That’s the second time today I’ve been reminded of my age, and I’ll thank you not to bring it up again.”
Sam laughed. “That’s the thing, Julia. We’re both healthy and active and interested in what’s going on in the world. But if we just sit down and rest on the past, we’ll grow old in a hurry. So I decided to try something new and fun for a change.” He patted the helmet in his lap and smiled in a dreamy sort of way. “Always wondered what it’d be like to take a Harley out on the open road and ride with the wind, free as a bird.”
“I say, free as a bird.” I shook my head at such an irresponsible notion. “You are a grown man, respected and admired by everybody who knows you, and by many who don’t. And to suddenly want to have
fun,
why, Sam, that is not the be-all and end-all of life, as you well know. Why in the world would you want to turn back the clock and turn yourself into a Hell’s Angel or something?”
“Lots of people ride, Julia, and they’re not all Hell’s Angels—or anything like them. I’m joining a motorcycle club that has a lot of professional men in it, all just liking to ride and enjoy the great outdoors.”
My skeptical look must’ve stirred him, for he went on. “They do a lot of good, too. They have charity runs, for instance, raising money for any number of good causes like St. Jude’s Hospital for Children and Toys for Tots around Christmas. You’d be surprised at what all they do.”
“I probably would, seeing that I’ve read about those so-called motorcycle bashes in the newspaper. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Lillian?”
I turned to her for confirmation, but she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “I got beans to see about,” and left for the kitchen.
“Now, Sam,” I continued, knowing that he needed some straight talking to get him back on track. “That’s not the kind of thing you ought to be involved with, I don’t care how many good causes those people support. They used to have those Woodstock kind of conventions over near Asheville until the city council put a stop to them. Thousands of motorcycle people from every state in the union gathered at a camp-ground, and they just tore up jack. I saw it all on the news, so I know what I’m talking about. I tell you, they disrupted the whole city something awful, all that loud music and swarms of cycles roaring and popping on the roads, tying up traffic and, would you believe, cutting up with such antics as coleslaw wrestling and wet T-shirt contests and other unsavory things I won’t mention, like beer belly contests. That’s just common, Sam, and you shouldn’t be associated with such a bad element. Like I tell Little Lloyd, you’re judged by the company you keep. I think you ought to turn that thing in and get your money back.”
Sam laughed again—or maybe he hadn’t stopped. “I’m not planning to go to a rally, Julia. Put your mind at rest. The club I’ll be in rides mostly on weekends in groups of ten or so. We’ll go up on the Parkway or stay on the interstate, not in residential areas. Besides, this is the best time of the year to ride—leaves’re turning, the weather’s fine and just cool enough. I tell you, it’ll be something to see the mountainsides with all the colors, then pull off for some barbeque or a picnic. You’ll enjoy it, I promise you will.”
“And I can promise I won’t. Because I’m not about to get on that thing.” If he expected me to participate in such an unseemly activity, that just showed how far from normal his mental state was.
BOOK: Miss Julia Hits the Road
8.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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