Miss Julia Stands Her Ground (27 page)

After calling Mr. Pickens on his cell phone and learning that he and Sam were drinking coffee at McDonald's, I expressed my displeasure in no uncertain terms.

“Lillian, I declare,” I said, hanging up the phone. “Here I thought they were out searching for Hazel Marie and Brother Vern, and they've been sitting around wondering what to do next. Well,” I went on with a shrug, “at least they found each other, which I guess is something to celebrate.”

“Talkin' 'bout celebratin',” Lillian said, her back to me as she worked at the sink. “It comin' up Christmas pretty soon, an' you oughta be puttin' yo' mind to it. Y'all be eatin' all day long what with folks droppin' in an' all, an' I need to know what you want me to fix.”

“I can't think about a menu now. Not with this heavy burden hanging over me. Lillian,” I said, collapsing in a chair and leaning my head on my hand, “I feel as if I'm between a rock and a hard place. We could leave Mr. Springer in peace, accept Hazel Marie's word for it, and hope Brother Vern can't get his hands on Little Lloyd's assets. Or we can create a public spectacle by digging up Mr. Springer—because even if it's done in the dead of night, people will find out about it. But that way there'll be no
doubt, no doubt at all. So my quandary is, is exhuming Mr. Springer worth it to have complete peace of mind?”

She didn't answer, which was all right because I was mostly talking to myself, anyway. Instead, she turned off the water in the sink and began to dry her hands with a dish towel.

“When Mr. Sam an' Mr. Pickens get back here?” she asked.

“Any time now. They were going to stop by the sheriff's office first and tell them that the lost have been found, then come on home. And when they get here,” I said with determined resolve, “I'm going to tell Sam to get that disinterment order, because I have made up my mind. There is no need for us to have to live with a cloud over our heads. We're going to settle this once and for all, even though I'll have to explain to everybody my renewed interest in Wesley Lloyd Springer.” I looked up as Lillian started to walk out of the room. “Where're you going?”

“I got to get something.”

And out she went, leaving me somewhat taken aback at her lack of interest in my worries. I heard the run-down backs of her shoes flapping on her feet as she walked through the dining room and down the back hall.

In a few minutes she was back, holding a shoe box carefully in both hands. “Miss Julia,” she said, her face creased with concern, “I know you tole me to th'ow ever'thing what Mr. Springer own in the trash, or give 'em away, or do what I want with 'em, but I didn't, an' I know you might get mad at me, but I save some things for that little boy, 'cause I don't think it right he don't have something from his daddy.”

My eyes got big, and my heart leapt in my chest. “You saved something? Oh, Lillian, I can't believe it.”

“Yessum, I know. I ain't never do what you tell me not to do 'fore this, but maybe it he'p you outta the hard place you in now. Seein' how you say you wish you didn't th'ow it all out.”

“Oh, my Lord,” I cried, wanting to fling myself on her and
hug her to death. “Lillian, you are the most wonderful person in the world. Bless your heart, and God love you. What's in the box?”

“Jes' some things what ought to go to Little Lloyd, even if you don't want 'em to.”

She put the box on the table, and it was all I could do not to snatch the lid off. “I don't care about that anymore. He can have anything he wants. Where've you kept it all this time?”

“Round an' about. I move it when anybody look like they gonna start plunderin'. It been way up on the top shelf of the linen closet goin' on three years now, back of the Windex an' the Johnson wax. I know you never get in that, so it been settin' there with nobody botherin' it.”

I let that slide, too intent on the contents of the box to remind her that I did so do some occasional cleaning. “Let's see what's in it.”

I took the lid off and saw several small jewelry boxes and tissue-covered odds and ends inside. Lifting out a box and opening it, I couldn't help showing my disappointment. “His gold and onyx cuff links. They won't work, Lillian.”

Opening another box, I came across a gold tiepin that I recalled had been given to Wesley Lloyd by the bank employees one year for Christmas. He'd never worn it. Then there was a box filled with ten-, twenty-, and thirty-year pins for faithful Sunday school attendance. I stirred the contents and saw his gold college ring with a garnet stone, which he rarely wore, and the plain gold wedding band, which he might as well have never worn. I snapped the box closed and discarded it. Unwrapping a tissue-wrapped oddment, I saw three handkerchiefs, all nicely ironed and folded.

“Why did you save these?” I asked. “You can purchase handkerchiefs anywhere.”

“They got his 'nitials on 'em, an' they same as Little Lloyd's, so I save 'em.”

“Huh,” I said, ready to sling them aside. Then I stopped. “Lillian, this could be the very thing. Sam said the laboratory could use any kind of bodily fluids. If Wesley Lloyd blew his nose, which he did a dozen times a day, and used these, why, they could be the answer to our prayers.”

“Well, I don't know,” she said, frowning. “He have to blow real hard, 'cause I soak 'em in Clorox 'fore I put 'em up.”

“Oh,” I said, discouraged again. “Well, who knows what modern science can do. What else is in here?” I opened a black, hard-shell case, giving her a sharp look at the same time. “Why in the world would you save his reading glasses?”

“They got gol' rims,” she said. “An' I save ever'thing got gol' on 'em.”

“They Lord,” I murmured, putting aside the glasses. “But it was thoughtful of you, and I'm sure Little Lloyd will be glad to have them. But, Lillian, I'm not sure any of this will work for testing purposes.”

“I put Mr. Springer's Bible in here, too,” she said, lifting out a small, leatherbound King James version with onion-skin pages. “He carry it to church a lot, so maybe it pick up something offa him.”

“Not unless he sneezed on it. Or maybe he licked a finger when he turned a page, except that'd probably be too old and dried out by now. But we'll show everything to Binkie. She'll know what's testable and what's not.” I wadded up tissue paper that had been stuck in the corners of the box. “Is there anything more?”

“This the last one,” she said, handing me up a square leather box.

I opened it and saw Wesley Lloyd's gold pocket watch and chain that had come down from his daddy, and his granddaddy too, for all I knew. He'd worn it every day of his life, the gold chain strung across his vest for everybody to see. It was so much a part of the man's attire that the funeral director had urged me to
allow it to be displayed on Wesley Lloyd's chest during the viewing. The watch and chain had been given back to me when the casket was closed, since Wesley Lloyd had no longer had any use for them.

I smoothed my fingers over the ornate engraving on the back of the watch, recalling how Wesley Lloyd had taken such inordinate pride in removing it from his vest pocket. He would pull it out with a dramatic flourish, as he consulted the time, the fob attachment dangling from the chain.

“Well, Lillian,” I said, handing the timepiece to her and sinking morosely into a chair. “It was a good thought, but there's not a thing here that'll do us any good. It's all come down to having to dig him up, and I'm just sick about it.”

Lillian carefully placed the watch back into its box and smoothed out the chain alongside it. “You mad at me for savin' Mr. Springer's gol' pieces?”

“Goodness, no. I couldn't be mad at you if I tried. No, Little Lloyd'll be happy. . . . Lillian!” I sprang from my chair and snatched the box from her. “I just thought of something!” Fumbling with the catch on the box, I said, “I can't get this thing open, and there might be . . . Oh, I hope. Look!”

I pulled out the watch and held it up by the chain, peering at it as it twirled and sparkled in the overhead light. Then grabbing the fob, or charm, or whatever it was that was attached by a tiny gold link to the chain, I said, “Look here, Lillian! You know what this is?”

Lillian shook her head. “No'm. Look like a gol' tooth to me.”

“It is! It's a tooth that he had dipped in gold.” I held it up in my fingers, both repulsed and delighted by the find. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? So vain, carrying around a gold-plated wisdom tooth strung across his midsection on a watch chain! The man put an immoderate value on anything pertaining to himself.” Except his wife, I could've added, but didn't. “Lillian, I know they can test teeth for DNA, Mr. Pickens said so. And that means we
may just be in business.” Relief spread throughout my system until I thought on it a little more. “But I'll tell you one thing, if the gold plate he put on this tooth has ruined it, I'm going to be vengeful enough to dance on his grave. Right before they prize him out of it.”

It didn't come to that, thank goodness, since my dancing days were all but over anyway. Wesley Lloyd remained undisturbed in his grave, and only a few knew we'd ever contemplated getting him out of it and sending him to a laboratory to have his insides examined for proof positive of Little Lloyd's paternity.

So I was glad that we were able to avoid such extreme measures, not because I had any lingering attachment to Wesley Lloyd's person, or what was left of it, but because it would've meant coming up with a believable explanation, acceptable to every bridge, garden, and luncheon club in town. Hazel Marie didn't need speculations running rife, and neither did I.

But that night, just as I was looking with wonder and increasing joy at the roots of Wesley Lloyd's gilded tooth, and offering up thanks that it hadn't been impacted, then splintered, during extraction, Sam and Mr. Pickens came in.

“Oh, Sam,” I said, “I'm so glad. . . .”

“Where is she?” Mr. Pickens broke in, his brows drawn together in a worried frown. “Is she all right?”

“Yes, and upstairs, but look at. . . .”

“I'm going up,” he said, walking right past me and making no apologies for his abrupt behavior. “I've got to be sure she's okay.” And off he went toward the back stairs.

“Wait, I need to ask . . .” I started after him, but he was halfway up the stairs before I got to the foot. “Well, all right, but turn on some lights. It's black as pitch up there.” Then I stuck my head up the stairs and called to him, “And don't close the door.”

“Julia,” Sam said, beckoning me. “Let him go. He's been beside himself all day because we couldn't find her.”

I went to Sam and leaned against him, relieved to have him home where he was supposed to be. “I have to ask you something, Sam. While you were out gallivanting around and not letting me know anything, Lillian and I have about solved everything. Look at this, and tell me if it'll work.”

I held the watch up in front of his face so he could see it twirl on its chain. I smiled, waiting for him to realize the importance of the dangling appendage.

He frowned as he looked closer. “I'll bite. What is it?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I was in no mood for jests, when an unearthly shriek split the air and echoed through the house. Lillian's hands flew up and so did a three-quart saucepan. It fell, clattering to the floor, as she whirled around, yelling, “Latisha!” I gripped Sam's arm, struck with fear as we all started toward the stairs.

“They's a man up here!”
Latisha screamed. And down the stairs she came, shrieking and slipping and sliding and half tumbling until she landed with a bound in the kitchen. Terror stricken, she ran to Lillian and hid behind her.

“Oh, my land, chile,” Lillian said, nearly collapsing in relief. “They's not no man up there. That jus' Mr. Pickens.”

Latisha buried her face in Lillian's skirt. “Well, he come outta the dark,” she said, half sobbing. “An' I runned into him, an' he like to scare me to death.”

Sam started laughing, and when I could breathe again, so did I. Upstairs, doors slammed open and feet thundered down the stairs, the commotion sounding like a herd of horses on the loose. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens rushed into the kitchen, Little
Lloyd, his glasses askew on his face, right behind them, yelling, “What happened? What happened?”

Mr. Pickens, breathing hard, stopped short. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

Hazel Marie's eyes were still swollen, but she seemed somewhat resurrected with fresh makeup and a change of clothes. Catching sight of Latisha peeking around Lillian, she leaned over to brush away the child's tears. “Oh, Latisha, are you hurt, honey?”

Latisha shook her head as she buried it deeper in Lillian's skirt. Mr. Pickens squatted down beside her. “I didn't mean to scare you, little girl. But you know what? You scared me out of a year's growth, and I can't afford to get old that fast.”

Latisha peeked out at him, the beginnings of a smile on her face. “You already ole, 'cause you got gray hairs on yo' head.”

“You got me there,” he said, and began to coax her out from behind Lillian.

“First thing tomorrow,” I said to Sam, “Carpet is going on those stairs.”

With the fright over and my pulse rate easing off, I quickly slipped Wesley Lloyd's watch, chain, and tooth into my pocket and slapped the lid on the shoe box. This was not an appropriate time for Little Lloyd to be viewing his father's remains.

Turning to Sam, I whispered, “We need to talk. Let's go back to our room.”

Slipping out of the kitchen while the others were taken up with Latisha, we found privacy in our bedroom. “Sam,” I said, holding out the tooth to him, “tell me this thing has DNA in it, so we won't have to go mining the cemetery to get some.”

Sam took it from me, turning it around as he examined the roots and the surfaces of a molar that, as far as I could see, had not increased Wesley Lloyd's level of wisdom by any degree whatsoever. “Whose is it?” he asked.

“Why, Sam, it's Wesley Lloyd's. Who else's tooth do you think
I'd have? And if it hadn't been for Lillian going against my explicit instructions, I wouldn't have that. Now, will it suffice to lay this matter to rest?”

“It might.” Sam looked at me, a broad grin spreading across his face. “It just might. We could ask Pickens, but maybe we'd better stick with Binkie. If she doesn't know, she can find out. Even so, it might take a few weeks before we know for sure, and it'll probably cost an arm and an leg.”

“I don't care what body parts it'll cost—an arm, a leg, or a tooth—it's one and the same to me. Just so we get at the truth and can hit Brother Vern over the head with it. But
weeks,
Sam? How're we going to keep him quiet until the results come back?”

“Once we tell Puckett that DNA testing is being done, I think he'll be confident enough to want to wait.” Sam held the tooth up to the light, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who would've thought it?” Then he looked at me, a troubled frown appearing between his eyes. “What about Whitmire? You heard anything from him?”

“No, and I don't think we will. I think he'll want to stay as far from Hazel Marie as he can get.” And I went on to tell Sam of our visit to the American Dollar store and the change Hazel Marie and I had made in his outlook. “I gathered from what he yelled after us that money was involved in some way, and he was being paid to tell tales on Hazel Marie. But, Sam, you should've seen how he backed down when Hazel Marie lit into him.” I bit my lip, recalling the scene. “I have to tell you, though, there might've been more between those two than I want to know. But—and I'm firm about this, and from Hazel Marie's attack on him, she was, too—he didn't have a thing to do with that child's conception. Besides, he was a married man at the time.”

Sam and I looked at each other. We didn't have to say what we were thinking. Namely, that somebody else had also been a married man at the time, and it hadn't stopped him.

I bypassed that and went on to tell Sam about Brother Vern's visit and how it had undone Hazel Marie, and how I'd promised
her that we'd leave no stone or grave unturned until we'd proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Little Lloyd was a Springer through and through. Excepting, of course, the Puckett strain he got from his mother.

“So, Sam, I am depending on this tooth to dig us out of the hole we're in. And if it doesn't, I don't want to know about it. And I don't want Brother Vern to know about it, either. I want to see a test result come back here that leaves no room for doubt, and I intend to have it that way if I have to fix it myself. It's remarkable what you can do with a little Wite-Out and a copying machine.”

“We won't have to resort to that, Julia,” Sam said, as he turned the tooth around. “I think this is going to do the trick.”

Then he gazed at me with what I took to be wonder and pure wide-eyed admiration. “In fact, it looks to me like you and Lillian have saved the day.”

“Well,” I said, a smile as broad as his spreading across my features, “what's new about that?”