Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (10 page)

We hurriedly had toasted pimento cheese sandwiches in the hospital snack shop, although I took time to call Lillian to tell her we wouldn't be home for supper.

“Just leave something for us,” I told Lillian. “I'll warm it up when we get in. You go on home, and . . . oh, wait, Lillian, how's Trixie? Did she get some shopping done?”

“Yes'm, but I don't know what she bought. Miss Hazel Marie brought her back 'bout lunchtime, an' she been upstairs ever since. She don't like my comp'ny.”

“She doesn't like mine, either, so just overlook her poor manners. We're going up now to see Sam, then on to give the last speech. We'll see you in the morning.”

—

I was so glad to see Sam and to see him looking well and especially to hear that he would be discharged the next morning, which I could hardly believe. He was fully dressed, minus only a tie, and sitting in a chair reading the newspaper. When Lloyd and I walked in, he gave us a broad smile and I gave him a kiss, then collapsed into a chair, suddenly overcome with fatigue. Giving speeches takes an enormous amount of energy and I had none left.

“How'd it go?” Sam asked eagerly, reaching for my hand. “Don't leave anything out. Tell me everything.”

“I don't think I can,” I said. “The whole day went by in a haze of strange faces and all kinds of voices. Except mine. Sam,” I went on, feeling about ready to cry, “I may have hurt your chances, and I'm so sorry.”

Lloyd piped up. “Don't believe her, Mr. Sam. She did great every time. Everybody loved her.”

“Virginia Case didn't,” I reminded him.

“Well, phooey on her,” Lloyd said. “She just wanted to take over.”

“Yes, and she was expecting my
handsome husband
but didn't get him.”

Sam and Lloyd laughed, but I was still stewing over how Sam's chances would be affected by my poor performance as a speaker. Instead of getting better with practice, I had gotten worse. And I still had to get up in front of another group that night.

But that was going to be the last one. “Sam,” I said, “you might as well call Millard Wilkes and tell him to cancel everything on your schedule tomorrow. If you're coming home, I intend to be there with you. I haven't been able to be at your bedside today, but I aim to nurse you at home. After tonight I'm through giving speeches.”

“That's fine, honey,” Sam said. “I've already talked to Millard and he has tomorrow covered. I should be able to do a little the next day, but I can't drive for a few more days. So, would you mind being my driver?”

Relief flooded my soul at the thought of no more speeches on the horizon. I smiled at him. “I feel as if I've just gotten a promotion, so, no, I wouldn't mind at all.”

—

But as Lloyd and I drove downtown to the next and final event of the day, I couldn't help but reconsider my flat refusal to give any more speeches after that one. I could've said, “I'd rather not,” instead of “I'm through.” Because the fact of the matter was that if Sam asked me again, I would do it, regardless of any disinclination. And the more I thought about it the more I realized that there is no virtue in doing something for someone else when it's something you also want to do. That's merely being helpful, but it's hardly commendable. The real virtue is in doing something you don't want to do, but doing it because someone else wants it. And who better to do that for than Sam?

—

After the last speaking event of the day, Lloyd and I got home about eight-thirty. I was beyond tired. Four times—
four times
—that day, I had stood in front of a group of people and groped for words that I could neither read nor even see on the paper. Don't ask me what I said—I don't know.

All I could remember was Lloyd telling me right before each speech after the first one, “Don't forget the pile of manure. Everybody loves that.”

And I guess they did, because each of those crowds—except the ladies at Virginia Case's house—practically laughed me off the platform whenever I remembered to mention it. As images of the day flashed in my mind, I recalled the woman who'd grabbed my arm as I was going out the door of the VFW hall that morning to tell me she'd enjoyed my speech. “You're better than Wanda Sykes,” she'd gushed. Not knowing any women politicians, much less Wanda Sykes, I just thanked her, hoping she meant it as a compliment, and went on my way.

Lloyd had assured me after each speech that I was doing fine even though I'd not followed the written script. My eyesight had kept getting worse as the day progressed—something to do with the lights aimed at the platforms, I thought, because I had no problem with my vision once a speech was done.

But I will tell you that as poorly as I felt I'd done at each event, the one that evening was by far the worst. The meeting was held in a private room off the main dining room of the S&W cafeteria in downtown Abbotsville. Lloyd and I arrived at six-twenty-five—right on time—only to learn that the group had just finished dinner, to which we had not been invited.

And what a group it was. Lloyd told me later that there were nine men, each one taking care to tell me that he was a retired executive from some major company, and to intimate that his former level of employment gave him unique insight into every field known to man. They all sat back around the table, their arms folded, and awaited my presentation. I felt like a new employee whose job depended on the grade they gave me.

They unnerved me to such an extent that I started with Sam's background, then quickly swerved to list his plans for the future—widening the interstate, reforming taxes, bringing in jobs, and so forth. Then just as I said, “Relocating manure piles,” they began to interrupt me with questions and comments.

“What kind of jobs? Where's he going to get them?”

“Where's the money to widen the interstate coming from? The DOT has already spent what was allocated.”

“Reform taxes? Sounds like a tax increase to me.”

“What about education? Where does he stand on technical schools? And what about home schooling? How do those kids compare to the ones in public schools?”

“First it was Sawyer dropping out, now Murdoch doesn't show up. How healthy is he, anyway?”

“And what's he going to do about zoning wind farms? I sure don't want to hear
whup-whup-whup
all night long.”

My head was swiveling from one to the other, unable to answer one question before another took its place. And, actually, I couldn't have answered any of them if they'd come at me one at a time.

So after a brief, embarrassing pause during which I strained for something to say, one man laughed and said, “I believe you mentioned something about manure. I'm not particularly exercised over that, except it sounds like a typical pile of it showing up in Murdoch's campaign.”

That just flew all over me. It took an extreme effort of will not to lash back at him, but I restrained myself for Sam's sake. “Gentlemen,” I said, “it's obvious to you all that I am unable to speak in detail about the plank that Sam is running on. But he can and will, so if you will write down your questions, I'll see that he gets them. And if you'll invite him again, I know he'll take great pleasure in answering every one of them.” And then, to make those know-it-alls feel ashamed of themselves, I went on in a quavering, piteous voice, “I'm not qualified to speak with authority on the questions you've raised. I can only speak to Sam's character—the kind of man he is. He is both wise and knowledgeable, kind and decent,
a hard worker, and he's dedicated to serving this district to the best of his ample ability. And furthermore,” I said, gaining just enough strength to ride roughshod over my aversion to mentioning distasteful subjects in a public arena, “I assure you that he's in the best of health, because he's just gotten rid of his gallbladder.”

Well, that brought a smattering of laughs, then they began discussing their own cholecystectomies, stress tests, CAT scans, and cholesterol counts. When one of them brought up his problems with an aging prostate, I knew my time to go had come. Thanking them, I motioned to Lloyd, and off we went.

—

Lloyd and I were at the hospital by eight-thirty the following morning, ready to take Sam home. I still could hardly believe that he'd be discharged so quickly after having had major surgery. Obviously, somebody had consulted a list from either the government or an insurance company which decreed that a gallbladder patient deserved only two nights of hospital stay. What would've happened if he'd had complications, I shuddered to think. Still, he was ready to leave, having no complaints other than the fact that his belt rubbed against his stitches. “Soon as I get home,” he said, loosening his belt, “I'm taking this off and putting on suspenders.”

“What do you want to do with all these flowers, Sam?” I asked, looking around at all the floral arrangements and pot gardens that had flooded in the day before while we were on our speaking tour. One thing you can say about small towns: word gets around whether you want it to or not.

“See if there's anything you want to keep,” Sam said. “The nurses will distribute the rest to patients who don't have any. Oh, and there's a list there on the table of everybody who sent something. I'll need that for thank-you notes.”

I smiled at my gracious and socially correct husband, thinking that I should've included in my speeches what a gentleman he was.

We finally, after waiting two and a half hours, got Sam out of the hospital and into my car. The wait was because a number of
patients were also being discharged and there was apparently a dearth of wheelchairs and orderlies to push them, both of which were required by the hospital in order to avoid liability for any mishaps betwixt bed and vehicle.

Lillian hurried out to the car as soon as I pulled into the driveway. “Oh, Mr. Sam,” she cried, “you all right? We been so worried. What you want to eat? You got some kinda special diet? The bed already made up, jus' waitin' for you. Can you walk? What can I do?”

She reached in and practically lifted Sam out of the car with him laughing and protesting that he could walk without help. Which he did, despite our hovering around every step he made, but I noticed that he was ready to sit in an easy chair by the time he got to the library. Lloyd brought in the bags and the two pot gardens—one from the Ledbetters and the other from the campaign workers—that I'd decided to keep.

In spite of my and Lillian's urging him to rest, Sam spent the afternoon on the telephone catching up with how the campaign was progressing. Which proved again how important the race was to him, even as I was less and less inclined to continue with it.

Lillian, bless her heart, kept interrupting the calls to offer healthy snacks and drinks and asking if there was anything special he wanted for dinner.

“Anything you make will be fine,” Sam assured her. “No dietary restrictions at all, so I'll eat what everybody else eats.”

“ 'Cept Miss Trixie,” Lillian murmered to me, as we carried Sam's suitcases upstairs to unpack. “She don't eat nothin' anybody else is eatin'.”

“Speaking of Trixie,” I said. “Where is she?”

“I don't know, Miss Julia. She come an' go, an' don't say nothin' to me. I hear the front door slam an' off she go somewhere.”

“Um, well, maybe she's taking Hazel Marie's advice and getting some exercise. Let us hope, anyway.” I glanced at Trixie's closed door as we crossed the hall, wondering if she was behind it or not. “You'd think, though, that she'd at least want to welcome Sam
home. Not just ignore a momentous occasion like having survived major surgery and all.”

Later in the afternoon after Sam had finally been talked into lying down for a rest, I sat in the library doing a little resting myself. It had been a busy and worrisome few days, and I was hoping for the return of some of the daily routine that I'd told Sam I preferred.

“Miss Julia?” Lloyd whispered from the door. “You asleep?”

“No, honey, just resting my eyes. Come on in, and let me thank you again for all the help and support you've been. I would not have gotten through all those speeches if it hadn't been for you.”

He grinned and shook his head. “It was fun, and I was glad to do it. We did have fun, didn't we?”

“I guess we did,” I agreed, “now that it's over and I don't have to do it again. But what're you doing at home? I thought you'd have time for a tennis game this afternoon.”

“No'm, I wanted to stay close in case Mr. Sam needed anything. And, Miss Julia,” he said hesitantly, “well, I wanted to run off some tennis pointers for my first class next week, something for the little kids to take home and study about etiquette on the courts. You know, like not slinging your racket when you miss a shot, or how you ought to shake hands after a match whether you win or lose. Things like that.”