Miss Julia Hits the Road (9 page)

“So do I. And if anybody disagrees, send them to me. I’ll get that started in the morning and make sure the radio and television people know about it.”

Lillian raised her head and looked at me. “I don’t know as I like bein’ talked about on the radio and the TV. Sound like I be askin’ for charity.”

“Now, Lillian,” I said firmly, “they certainly won’t mention any names. Besides, it would be for everybody who lives on Willow Lane because they’re going to need a lot of help. So just put aside any prideful thoughts about charity, and let’s start thinking of ways to raise money to house the homeless.”

“I know one way,” Little Lloyd said. “The young people’s group at church can have a car wash. We raised fifty dollars the last time we had one.”

“Oh, honey,” Hazel Marie said, “that’s a wonderful idea. Everybody needs to pitch in, and a car wash would be just the thing to get a fund started.”

I smiled at Little Lloyd, gratified that he wanted to help, but I knew fifty dollars wouldn’t be a drop in the bucket.

“Lillian,” I said. “We ought to call your daughters and let them know what’s going on. They’ll be worried if they can’t get you on the phone.” I stopped and thought for a minute. “They may well want you to come live with them.” Although that was the last thing I wanted her to do, and I don’t think it was for purely selfish reasons. I’d miss her something awful if she went to live up North.

“Yessum, I call ’em tomorrow an’ tell ’em. But I can’t live up in that cold country, an’ anyway they got all they can do to take care of they chil’ren an’ they ownselves.”

Then she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She pulled the blanket back up around her shoulders, and I got worried about her all over again.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“Yessum, I guess I am,” she said without opening her eyes. “This whole thing jus’ fly all over me again. It make me glad to move, but scared ’bout where I move to.”

Turning to Hazel Marie, I said, “We need to get her to bed. I wish I had something to help her sleep because this is going to be running through her head all night long.”

“I wish . . . ,” Hazel Marie started, but stopped as we heard footsteps on the front porch. “Oh, maybe that’s J. D.” She hurried to the door, her face lit with expectancy.

Well, yes, it was, and he came in, windblown and frowning with concern. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said to Hazel Marie, with what I thought was a little hesitancy, as if he weren’t sure if she was still his sweetheart or not. He reached out a hand to her, but she stepped back from him.

“J. D.,” Hazel Marie said—in a somewhat stand-offish tone, I thought, in spite of her earlier eagerness to welcome him in. “We’re so glad you’re here. Lillian needs your help.”

“Miss Julia,” he said, casting a worried glance at me with those black eyes of his and nodding as he walked over to Lillian. Lord, I couldn’t help but look at him with narrowed eyes. All those women, I thought to myself, and he doesn’t look a bit different.

Mr. Pickens brushed Little Lloyd’s shoulder with his hand as he went past him. “Miss Lillian,” he said, kneeling by her chair and taking her hand in his. “I’m so sorry to hear about your trouble, but you know what they say.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Everybody ought to move about every five years, just to clear out the junk.”

I frowned and opened my mouth to rebuke him, since she didn’t need to hear such nonsense at a time like this. But I restrained myself as Lillian smiled at him and patted his hand.

Then, just as unexpectedly, she covered her eyes with her hand and moaned, “Oh, Jesus, what I done to deserve this?”

“Not one thing, Lillian,” I said. “It’s all Clarence Gibbs’s fault, which he is certainly going to hear about from me and everybody else in town. Now, Mr. Pickens, we think she needs to be in bed, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Sure thing,” he said, getting to his feet, “but she needs a little something else first. Don’t want her lying awake all night worrying herself to death.”

“That’s what we were just saying,” Hazel Marie said. “Did you . . . ?”

“I did,” Mr. Pickens said, and drew a small flat bottle of brownish liquid from the pocket of his coat. “Now, Miss Julia, before you get on your high horse, this is for medicinal purposes only, and I happen to know that the Bible recommends it.”

I opened my mouth again to refute him but, on second thought, decided against it since I was well acquainted with Paul’s advice to Timothy concerning his stomach problems. I was also well aware of the dangers in taking verses out of context, which untold numbers of people are inclined to do when they want something they oughtn’t have.

But this didn’t seem to fall in that category, so I said, “Well, Mr. Pickens, you might be surprised to learn that I am not averse to the proper and cautious use of alcoholic mixtures. I think a teaspoon or two in some sweetened hot water is certainly called for in this case.”

“I agree, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, taking the bottle from Mr. Pickens. “I can mix a hot toddy that’ll make anybody sleep like a baby.” She patted Lillian’s shoulder, as I wondered where she’d learned so much about the properties of alcohol. “Lillian, this is going to fix you up.”

She headed for the kitchen, bottle in hand, with Mr. Pickens right behind her. To be sure she fixed it right, I expect.

“Little Lloyd,” I said, concerned at what lesson he was learning about the use of strong spirits, “when the ox is in the ditch, it takes unusual measures to get it out.”

“Ma’am?”

“Never mind,” I said, not exactly sure of what I’d said, myself.

Sam never came by, in spite of the fact that I waited up for him until almost midnight, long after the others had gone to bed. On the other hand, I’d thought we’d never get rid of Mr. Pickens. He’d lingered, trying to sweet-talk Hazel Marie, but she was having none of it. She kept slipping away from him, pretending not to notice his efforts, and finally telling him that he needed to be on his way.

She was playing hard-to-get, which I’d always heard was the way to keep a man’s interest. But, considering the fact that she’d just left his bed and board, it seemed a little late for that tactic.

But Hazel Marie’s ill-considered living conditions seemed a minor worry in the face of Lillian’s problem. I sat by the fire in the quiet house, turning the possibilities over in my mind and trying to tell myself that something could still be done. I just didn’t know what. That was the sort of thing I’d ordinarily depend on Sam for, but where was he when I needed him? Nowhere to be found, that’s where.

I settled back in my chair with a sigh, knowing that it was all up to me. I knew I’d see to a new home for Lillian, but that wouldn’t ease her pain at losing what she had, even if she knew it wasn’t worth wanting.

Trying to keep my spirits up, I kept reminding myself that the big earth- and house-moving machines Clarence Gibbs was bringing in hadn’t been fired up yet. Something might still be done to save those houses. My spirits didn’t stay up long, though, for surely Sam would’ve called or come by to reassure Lillian if he’d thought of some last-minute legal tactic.

After checking the doors and turning off the gas logs and the lights, I trudged up the stairs to bed, trying to put aside my concern for Sam and focus on the problem I could do something about. One thing I knew for certain: the whole town needed to turn its hand to helping those needy people.

The churches, I thought, as I readied myself for bed. There were dozens of churches in the county, and more forming every day, it seemed like. Church members in Abbot County were a testy lot, quick to take offense and not at all averse to forming a new congregation at the drop of a hat. It didn’t take much to set them off, either. A few would get mad at a preacher and try to run him off. If he wouldn’t budge, then out they’d go to a new meeting place. Others would be led out by a preacher so exercised by the waywardness of a convention, an assembly or a committee that he’d hear the voice of the Lord calling him to raise money for another church building, free of liberal influences. Many of them declared that they were returning to the ways of the apostles, without ever considering the fact that the apostles never put one brick on top of another, much less installed stained glass windows or hooked on lapel microphones.

Perhaps the Reverend Abernathy would be willing to approach the churches. Maybe it could be arranged for him to fill a few pulpits in town on certain Sundays and present our case. A special offering could be taken up, although I knew that special offerings rarely brought in more than a dollar a family.

I fell asleep on that discouraging thought, just exhausted by the emotional distress I’d thought would keep me awake all night. But I awoke the next morning with an idea of how to get the town involved in a fund for Willow Lane. It was a grand idea, but it would take a lot of work, which I was most willing to do.

But first, it needed to be decided just what that fund would be funding. Maybe it should be called a rebuilding fund; if those houses were so run-down that the town council had to condemn them, then we could just build new ones or remodel the old ones to bring them up to code. But I certainly didn’t intend to raise money to do anything on property belonging to Clarence Gibbs because everything would still belong to him, without a cent of his own being put into it.

The bottom line was that we needed to buy that property, then decide what to do about the houses. We needed to make an offer to purchase, and make it attractive enough to tempt the present owner.

I was brought up short, though, thinking of Clarence Gibbs’s plan to commercialize the area. A plant to bottle water, no matter how special it was supposed to be, just seemed ridiculous to me.

I studied the problem as I tiptoed past the room where Lillian still slept. And no telling how long she’d be down, considering what Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens had stirred together for her. By the time she’d finished one glass, Mr. Pickens had been right there with another, urging her to drink up, saying it was good for what ailed her. I’d wanted to caution him, but figured he knew how much of a dose she needed better than I did.

I started the coffee and kept on thinking about Clarence Gibbs. Lillian had said that he’d been tramping around, measuring and surveying the lay of the land. He could’ve been testing the volume and taste of that spring, or study ing building sites. For all I knew, he could’ve been showing the property to a prospective buyer, the thought of which brought me up short again. If that was the case, I needed to get to him before he listed it with a realtor.

Lord, if Clarence Gibbs would entertain the notion of selling, maybe I could give him a down payment that would hold it until the town came through with enough to buy it.

I was more than willing to do that, but it just didn’t seem to me that I ought to be the only one to help. Besides, I already had all the rental property I could handle and, believe me, it was a constant worry. If it wasn’t one thing it was another, what with a roof leaking, walls needing paint, or a dead tree about to fall.

As soon as the coffee stopped perking, I poured a cup and turned around to see Little Lloyd coming through the door, still in his pajamas. As usual, his hair was standing on end, and he looked as if he needed coffee as badly as I did.

“Good morning,” I said, although I don’t much like cheeriness early in the day. I poured a cup for him and took it to the table, where I sat across from him.

He managed a small smile, which I took as a return greeting, and we sat in silence while trying to get fully awake.

“Little Lloyd,” I said, setting my cup in the saucer, “I guess we have to face the painful truth this morning and go help Lillian clear out her house. I just hate the thought of it.”

“I do, too,” he said. “I dreamed about empty houses all night long. I even got up one time and came downstairs to be sure we still lived here.”

“Well, my goodness,” I said, struck again at how sensitive the child was. Of course, he’d been moved from pillar to post enough times to make him feel a little unsettled. “I didn’t hear you at all.”

“I tiptoed so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.” He turned his cup in the saucer, then went on. “What’re we going to do to help Miss Lillian and all those people?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. And the first thing I’m going to do is call Clarence Gibbs and see if he’ll sell that property. If he will, then we need to think about how to raise the money to buy it.” I thought about that for a minute, then said, “Of course, we’d then have to worry about how to fix the houses on it. But one worry at a time is enough.”

“Maybe we could put some trailers on it,” Little Lloyd said. Then, seeing my frown, he came up with another idea. “I know what we can do! Why don’t we see if President Jimmy Carter and his carpenters would come build the houses? I think he likes to help people who need a place to live.”