Miss Julia Hits the Road (36 page)

“Yessir,” he said, eager to be of help.

Mr. Pickens said, “Crank ’er again, Sam, so I can hear what she does.”

Sam turned the key in the ignition again, but nothing happened. Not a spark of life in it.

Hazel Marie watched all this, then she said, “I can tell you one thing that’s wrong with it.”

“What’s that, sweetie?” Mr. Pickens asked, somewhat distractedly, I thought. He had his head practically inside the motor, fiddling around with the greasy thing.

Hazel Marie pointed at the back of the motorcycle. “It’s got a flat tire.”

We all turned to look, and Mr. Pickens sat down hard, just disgusted. “Well, dang,” he said.

Sam came off his seat like a shot. “How’d I not see that?”

Mr. Pickens crawled on his hands and knees and examined the rear tire, while Sam and Little Lloyd hunkered down beside him.

“It’s been slashed,” Mr. Pickens said, running his hand around the tire. “And not long ago, or you would’ve known it.”

Little Lloyd threw out his arms and whirled around. “This just bums me out!”

“Who’d do such a low-down, underhanded thing?” Hazel Marie demanded.

“Those fat boys!” I said, suddenly putting two and two together. “Why else would they pass us, stop somewhere, then pass us again? This . . . this
sabotage
was what they were doing in between.”

“But why, Miss Julia?” Little Lloyd asked, sounding as if he wanted to cry. “Why would they try to hurt us when they don’t even know us?”

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” I said, but I was thinking of a few answers. “What do you think, Sam?”

“I think somebody doesn’t want you to finish the Run.”

“So do I,” I said, darkly. “And, for my money, there’re only two candidates for that dubious honor. Clarence Gibbs, who would give his eyeteeth not to have to sell to us, and Thurlow Jones, who’s promised to give more than he wants to give.”

And then there was Tammi, who’d certainly had the opportunity, but no motive, at least that I could see.

“You may be right,” Mr. Pickens said, as practical-minded as ever. “But a flat tire doesn’t explain why it won’t crank.”

Sam had been giving the motor a closer examination, knocking and tapping at it. “Good Lord, Pickens. Look at this. Somebody’s knocked the heads off every one of the spark plugs.” He stood up and looked at me. “Well, Julia, I guess this is the end of our run. We’ll have to see if Red can send a trailer to pick this thing up. It’s gone its last mile today.”

“Can’t he send the parts so you can fix it?” I said, stung by the thought of giving up so easily. I’d risked everything—life, limb, and home—and come so close to winning the prize. The thought of losing practically at the last minute because of an unfair and criminal act was more than I could stand.

“Take too long, I’m afraid,” Sam said, looking as discouraged as I felt. “We’d never make it back by five o’clock.”

“Don’t worry about a deadline,” Mr. Pickens said. “It’s not a race, so you can come in anytime. What counts is the best hand, and from what I’ve seen of yours, Miss Julia, you’re pretty much out of the running anyway.”

“No,” I said, clutching my pocketbook because I needed something to hold onto. “No, Thurlow Jones told me five o’clock. If I’m not back by then or if I’ve not made every stop, that check stays in his pocket. And,” I took a deep breath, figuring they might as well know the worst of it. “And if I don’t hand over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Clarence Gibbs by ten o’clock Monday morning, he’ll withdraw his offer to sell and take possession of my house, as well.”

“What!”
I didn’t know who said it, but probably all of them, for they were all gaping at me. Sam was the first to recover. “Tell me what you’ve done, Julia.”

So I told him and said I was sorry for having done it, but it’d been the only thing I’d known to do. “It was for Lillian,” I said, as Sam slowly shook his head and Mr. Pickens ran his hand through his hair in amazement.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, so I searched my pocketbook for a Kleenex. I felt so foolish and bereft and, well, homeless.

“It’s all right, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd said, coming over to stand beside me. “We’ll take care of you, won’t we, Mama?”

“You bet we will,” Hazel Marie said with such fierceness that we all turned and stared at her. “And the first thing we’re going to do is get Miss Julia across the finish line. And I mean on time, too.”

She turned to Mr. Pickens. “J. D., you’re going to take her in. Sam, you and Lloyd’ll stay here with me while we wait for Red. It won’t matter if we don’t finish. Well, J. D.,” she said, her hands on her hips. “What’re you waiting for? Put a fire under it, and get Miss Julia on the road.”

“Oh,” I gasped, trying to take in her meaning. “But he doesn’t have a sidecar. Can we switch this one?”

“No time for that,” Mr. Pickens said, springing to his feet, now that a plan was afoot. “Hop on, and let’s ride.”

I wasn’t able to do much hopping, even in the best of circumstances, and these certainly didn’t apply. “Hazel Marie?” I said, tremulously. “I don’t think I can ride on the back of that thing.”

“Yes, you can, and yes, you will. Now, come on.” My word, but she was bent on getting that check in my hands.

“But I’ve got on a dress,” I reminded her. “It’ll be flying up over my head the way Mr. Pickens drives.”

“Yes,” she said, giving it some thought for a change. “And you’ll freeze to death. Come on, let’s go to the ladies’ room. J. D., you have that thing fired up by the time we get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving her a little salute. Then he went to look over his motorcycle, belatedly realizing that it might’ve fallen into criminal hands, too.

Hazel Marie practically dragged me into the convenience store and through the aisles to the ladies’ room. The man behind the counter called after us, “Y’all got trouble?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Hazel Marie answered without stopping.

She shoved me into the tiny room and mashed herself in behind me. When she closed the door, I thought I’d suffocate in the cramped space.

“Come out of that dress,” she ordered as she threw her leather jacket on the toilet seat. Which was closed, thank goodness. Then she peeled out of her turtleneck sweater.

“Hurry, Miss Julia,” she urged, unzipping her leather pants. “Get your dress off.”

“Hazel Marie,” I said as she bounced on one foot and stripped one leg of her pants off. Her elbow jabbed me as I mindlessly began unbuttoning my dress. “What are we doing?”

“We’re changing clothes,” she said, pulling off the other pants leg. “Or
ex
-changing them. Gimme that dress. Hurry.”

“You know I can’t wear your clothes,” I said as she pulled my dress down my shoulders. “I’m two sizes bigger than you.”

“They’ll fit,” she said through clenched teeth. “We’ll make ’em fit. Step out of this thing.”

I did, one foot at a time, as she jerked my dress out from under me. I stood there in my slip, stunned at the thought of inserting myself in those leather trousers.

Hazel Marie wasn’t quite in a state of nakedness, having worn thermal underwear, but she was close enough. She threw my dress over her head and began buttoning it up. Then she tied on the belt and looked down to where her motorcycle boots peeked out under the hem of my dress.

“Let me have your slip,” she said, reaching down and jerking it over my head, leaving me embarrassingly exposed. She wadded up the slip and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “I’ll keep your purse for you. You can’t hold onto it and J. D., too. Oh, but first, where’s your card? You need to keep that with you. Now, get this sweater on.” She pulled the sweater over my head. “Now, the pants.”

Well, I’d put myself in her hands thus far, so I sat on the commode, removed my oxfords, and worked the pants over my feet. I never in this world thought I’d see the day I would, willingly and with aforethought, put on such a garment.

“Pull ’em up,” she commanded. “They’ll stretch a little.” So I commenced pulling, while she knelt on the filthy floor and smoothed the leather up over my calves. We managed to get the material over my knees, where it bunched up and stopped. We’d hit a snag.

“Hazel Marie,” I groaned. “It’s no use. They’ll never go over my hips.”

“Yes, they will,” she said, biting her lip, as determined as I’d ever seen her. “I’ll pull the front and you pull from the back.”

And so we did. I squirmed and wiggled, while Hazel Marie wheezed and grunted with the effort of getting the things to a fitting place.

“Good enough,” she said, taking the one step back that there was room for. “Whew, it’s hot in here. Hurry, and let’s go.”

“I can’t go like this!” I wailed. “Look, they won’t zip up, much less button at the waist. Hazel Marie, they’re not even up to my hipbone.”

“Put your coat on,” she said, as she shrugged into her leather jacket. “And button it up. Nobody’ll know the difference. We’ll meet back at Red’s and change again.”

“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, feeling wrapped and bound. “This is just awful. I can hardly move, they’re so tight and so . . . so unfitting.”

She ignored me and knelt on the floor again. “Lift up your foot so I can get your shoes on.”

“Thank you, Hazel Marie,” I said, holding onto the sink with one hand and her shoulder with the other to keep from falling. “I couldn’t bend over if my life depended on it.”

She opened the bathroom door and stepped out. I clasped my coat together and began the mincing steps that were all I was capable of making.

“Wait, Hazel Marie,” I said in a loud whisper. “Where can I put my card? I’m afraid it’ll fall out of my coat pocket.”

“In your bra. Here, let me help.” She unbuttoned my coat and pulled up the sweater right there beside the Quaker State motor oil. “Slide it in. It’ll be safe.”

We started through the store again—one of us in a leather jacket and a dress that practically scraped the floor, and the other in a winter coat, leather leggings, and lace-up oxfords. If we weren’t a sight, I didn’t know what would be.

Hazel Marie banged through the door, yelling, “J. D., you better be ready, we’re coming!”

I sidled out after her, coming to a stop at the top of the three steps to the ground. Lord, I was so bound at the place where my limbs needed freedom of movement that I didn’t see how I could get down them.

“Hazel Marie,” I quavered.

She came back and took my arm. “Step down sideways, Miss Julia. You can make it.” I did, but it was hardly the most graceful descent I’d ever made.

I leaned over and whispered, “They’re sliding off, Hazel Marie. They’re inching down every time I move.”

She motioned for Mr. Pickens to bring his bike closer and, as he did, she crammed my helmet on and pulled my coat closer. “You’ll be fine. Once you’re on the seat, they’ll stay put.”

Sam was yelling something to Mr. Pickens over the noise of the motor, telling him we’d meet up at Red’s and not to endanger anything on his way. “Julia,” Sam said, coming around to my side, “let me help you on.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said, turning away. “Hazel Marie, don’t let him see me in this get-up.”

“He can’t see a thing,” she said. “Put your foot on this peg, then hold onto J. D. and swing on up.”

I tried, but the bunched-up leather wouldn’t let my lower limbs separate enough to do any swinging. To my everlasting embarrassment, it took Sam, Hazel Marie, and Little Lloyd to lift me up and set me down on the seat behind Mr. Pickens. Mr. Pickens’s eyebrows had arisen when I first appeared at the top of the steps, and by now they seemed to be stuck permanently in that position.

Sam stepped back and surveyed the way I was perched on the backseat. They’d plopped me on the seat so that I ended up sitting as prim as you please with my knees together, poking Mr. Pickens in the back. I knew my inflexibility concerned Sam, but I hoped he wouldn’t mention it. I wasn’t in the mood for explanations of a delicate nature.

Little Lloyd wasn’t as tactful. He said, “You need to straddle it, Miss Julia.”

I looked helplessly at Hazel Marie and she came to the rescue. “Give me your army knife, J. D.” He didn’t argue, just scrambled around in a storage compartment and pulled out a wicked-looking blade.

He handed it to her, saying, “Careful. It’s sharp.”

“That’s why I want it,” she said as he nearly twisted his head off, holding the handlebars steady, while turning to see what she aimed to do. She reached under my coat and came at me with the knife.

“Hazel Marie!” I gasped, my eyes on the knife as it approached a dangerous intersection.

“Mama!” Little Lloyd cried. “Don’t cut Miss Julia!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mr. Pickens said, amazement in his voice at the sight of mild-mannered Hazel Marie wielding a knife.

Sam was too awestruck to protest, which was just as well, for Hazel Marie paid no attention to any of us.