Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (7 page)

As soon as I got home and stepped into the kitchen, I heard voices and laughter coming from the living room. Raising my eyebrows at Lillian, I wondered who was visiting.

“They all in there,” she told me. “Miss Hazel Marie an' the babies an' Lloyd an' Miss Trixie, too. They all worried 'bout Mr. Sam an' waitin' to hear how he is. And me, too.”

As a burst of laughter emanated from the living room, I frowned, thinking that they didn't sound too worried to me. But to answer Lillian's implied question, I said, “He's doing all right, I guess, if he can do without all the blood they've drawn. But of course I haven't seen his doctor yet. I think they all make rounds when family members are unlikely to be there, and do it on purpose, too. I'll go back over after supper. Maybe somebody can tell me something then.”

As I pushed through the swinging door into the dining room, the sounds of revelry increased in the living room. Vaguely wondering why Lillian had not been with them, I walked into the living room to find Lloyd and Trixie on the floor playing with the babies, while Hazel Marie sat smiling at their antics.

“Oh, hey, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said, immediately rising and coming toward me. “How's Mr. Sam? Boy, it sure knocked me for a loop when Lillian told us he's in the hospital.”

“Yes, how is he?” Hazel Marie rushed over to me, and I just managed to avert a comforting hug. “We've been so worried. What can I do to help? Do you need anything?”

“Just to sit for a few minutes,” I said and found a seat in one of the wing chairs. Trixie, I noticed, had remained on the floor, neither greeting nor speaking to me. “I wish I could tell you more, but I don't know anything. There've been people in and out of his room
all afternoon, but not a doctor among them. But Sam's in good spirits. The only thing he's worried about is his campaign, so that's why I came home—to make plans to carry out his immediate commitments. That seems to be the only thing I can do that will ease his mind.”

“I'll help you, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said. “Whatever you need, just tell me.”

“Oh, I expect I can . . .” I started to say, then stopped. “Well, yes, maybe there is something you can do.”

“And me, too,” Hazel Marie said. “I'm just so worried about Mr. Sam. You know that J.D. and I will do whatever we can to help.”

“Yes, I know, and I do appreciate it, and Sam will too.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Trixie had stopped playing with the babies and had scooted over against the sofa, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up and her face against them. She was watching me with a sullen stare. “Hazel Marie, the next few days are going to be really busy. Besides seeing to Sam, I have to fill in for him on the campaign trail, so if you're planning to go shopping with Trixie tomorrow, that would be wonderful help. If you don't mind doing it without me.”

Trixie's expression changed as she shifted her gaze to Hazel Marie, waiting with obvious hope to hear what she would say.

“Then that's what we'll do,” Hazel Marie said, and I almost hugged her in spite of my antipathy toward such public displays. “Trixie, I'll pick you up at nine o'clock, and we'll get in a full morning's worth of shopping. I'll need to be back to help Granny Wiggins feed the babies at noon, but we'll make a real dent in our shopping list, and finish up the next day if we have to.” She bent down to pick up one fat baby, plopped it in the twin stroller that I'd almost tripped over, then reached for the other baby. “Now, I'd better get on home before Granny comes looking for us.”

After Lloyd helped her lift the awkward, baby-filled stroller down the front porch steps, Hazel Marie turned to me and said, “I'll be praying for Mr. Sam, Miss Julia. And for you, too.”

“Thank you, Hazel Marie, but hold off on starting the prayer
chain—once a request goes out on the phone lines, things get blown all out of proportion. Sam will be done in if word gets around that he's incapacitated—no telling what that would do to his election chances. Besides, he's convinced the doctors will send him home with a clean bill of health in a day or two. Probably just tell him to take an aspirin and elevate his feet. Oh, and maybe you'd better not say anything to James for the time being—you know he can't keep anything to himself. So, just private prayer for now, if you don't mind.”

Hazel Marie frowned, then whispered, “Would it be all right to tell J.D.? He won't tell anybody.”

“Oh, of course, do tell him, and ask him to visit Sam in the hospital. He'd be good for him, he's so entertaining.” Entertaining, yes, because Sam enjoyed Mr. Pickens's company, but I wasn't too sure of the efficacy of his prayers. Still, whatever Mr. Pickens could manage in the way of spiritual pleading would be most welcome.

I walked back into the house to find Lloyd waiting, eager to hear what I needed him to do. “How can I help, Miss Julia?” he asked. “You said there'd be something for me to do.”

“Well, Lloyd, I'd really appreciate it if . . . but wait, aren't you helping with the tennis clinics again this summer?”

“Yes'm, but they don't start for a couple of weeks. I'm as free as a bird till then, so tell me what you need.”

“That's a relief then,” I said, sitting down to gather my thoughts. “Because to tell you the truth, I really do need some help. Sam has me doing something I've never done before and I am lost. I don't even know where to start.” I propped my elbow on the chair arm and leaned my head on my hand, simply overcome at the thought of what I'd let myself in for. Especially now that I'd realized I'd just as soon that Sam lost the election rather than expend himself chasing something that he'd said he could either take or leave.

“It's all right, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said, pushing an ottoman close to my chair and sitting down, eager to help. His earnest little face gazed up at me with complete confidence. “If Mr. Sam thinks you
can do it, and I think you can do it, then you can. Now tell me what you need.”

“Ah, Lloyd, just wait till you hear. You may not be so sure when you do. The first thing I need is a speech, and I don't know what should be in it. But you've done so well on all your English essays this year that I'm hoping you can write a speech that will say what Sam would say—except, you know, kind of in my words so I won't sound like a recording. Then,” I went on before he could say, as I feared, that such a thing was beyond his skills, “then I would love to have you go with me to these events—just until Sam's out of the hospital and just for the company and for, well, the encouragement.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, “I can do that. I'm a pretty good speechwriter anyway. Remember I took a political science course last year and I won the election for sophomore class treasurer. Everybody said it was my campaign speech that won it for me.”

I had to laugh, because I did remember about his speech. Of course I hadn't heard it, because the election had been limited to the student body and he'd not even told us that he was running for office. Grinning and exceptionally pleased with himself, he'd come home the evening after the election and told Sam and Lillian and me about his victory.

After we'd praised and congratulated him, Sam said, “I want to hear your campaign speech. Let us hear what won it for you—maybe I'll get some ideas for my speeches.”

Still grinning, Lloyd had shrugged as if there'd been nothing to it and that giving speeches was all in a day's work. “I just got up and said, ‘I'm Lloyd Pickens, and I'm running for treasurer. You should vote for me because I'm good with money.' Then I sat down.”

We'd just stared at him for a minute, then we all burst out laughing. Short, sweet, and to the point, as well as being true. He
was
good with money—I'd taught him well.

“Well, Lloyd,” I said now, “I expect they'll be wanting a little more than that from me, but not much more. Remember I'll be
speaking for Sam, telling about him and what a good senator he'll be. But if you could put all that into a ten-minute or so speech, I would be eternally grateful.”

“Okay, I'll do a draft, then you can look it over, then I'll rewrite it, and we can keep doing that until we get it right. You think I could use Mr. Sam's office and his computer? I can hear Trixie's television in my room.”

“Of course you can. Use whatever you need,” I said, then, looking around, asked, “Where is Trixie, anyway?”

“Oh, probably watching Judge Joe or Judy or Jeanine, or whatever's on.” Lloyd got up, a determined look on his face. “I'm going to write you a humdinger of a speech, Miss Julia. Between us, we're going to get Mr. Sam elected, see if we don't.”

As soon as Lillian put supper on the kitchen table—she'd stopped treating Trixie as a guest—I sent her on her way. She had to pick up Latisha from after-school care, but even so she was hesitant about leaving with Sam's condition still up in the air.

“I'll be going back over there in a little while,” I told her. “If there's any change, I'll call you.”

I had little appetite, being too wound up with anxiety to want much of anything, and Trixie and Lloyd seemed to be in the same condition. I didn't offer Trixie anything else to eat—she could afford to miss a few meals anyway. Lloyd had a blank look on his face as if he had more important things on his mind than eating a healthy meal. And, finally, he let me know what those things were.

“Miss Julia,” he said, putting down his fork, “I think I better go with you to see Mr. Sam. I need to ask him what his campaign promises are so I can put them in your speech. And he ought to have a campaign slogan, too, so that needs to be included. You reckon he'll feel like talking about it?”

“I think he'd feel a whole lot better knowing that you're on the job. So, yes, let's hurry and get over there. Trixie, do you want to go with us?”

She jumped when I spoke her name, but then shook her head. “Don't like hospitals.”

“Well, neither do we, but sometimes they're necessary. But there's no need for you to go. You can stay here.”

“By my
self
?”

“Why, yes, we'll lock the doors, and it won't be dark until almost nine. We'll be back by then. But if you don't want to stay by
yourself, you can go with us and stay in the car. Or in the lobby, whichever you prefer.”

Her mouth poked out just a little—I could hardly see her face for all the hair that hid it. “Guess I'll stay here then,” she mumbled.

I quickly put away the food, but left the table as it was, expecting that Trixie would step up to the plate, so to speak, while we were gone.

—

She didn't, and when Lloyd and I returned hours later, we were greeted by the table in the same state that we'd left it, only with food dried on the plates. On top of that, it was all I could do to restrain my anger at Trixie's unwillingness to help in a crisis. Assuming that she'd gone to bed, I worked out my ire by clearing the table and filling the dishwasher, but from then on, I determined to let Trixie know what was expected of her. I was through depending on her to see for herself what needed to be done. But I'll tell you this, I would never in this world get up from someone else's table without at least offering to help. Unless, of course, I was at a dinner party where the hostess would be mortified at the thought of guests working in her kitchen.

Lloyd had wiped the table while I'd scraped plates, and now he had the notes he'd taken spread out before him. When we'd walked into Sam's room at the hospital, we found him lying in bed instead of sitting in a chair as I'd expected. His face lit up when the two of us walked in, while mine had darkened at the sight of an intravenous tube stuck in the back of his hand but not hooked up to anything on the other end. And I was not reassured by the sight of Sam in a hospital gown instead of his own pajamas. Yet he quickly switched off Shepard Smith, which he hadn't been watching anyway, and eagerly welcomed us.

“Glad you got here,” he said. “I was about to nod off.”

“What is that, Sam?” I asked, pointing to the clamped-off tubing.

“Oh,” he said, holding up his hand and looking somewhat blearily at it “They're going to give me something else, I guess. In a little while. But we've got to get your speech written. Glad to see you, Lloyd. We can use your help.”

And, while I wondered about an intravenous night medication, he began to discuss with Lloyd the points he wanted to make. I mean, that he wanted
me
to make. I just sat and listened and watched, for Sam seemed peculiarly buoyant for a man in the hospital.

“The first thing I think,” Lloyd said as he opened a notebook and poised a pen, “is for you to tell me what sort of platform you're running on. That means your campaign promises, I guess.”

“Yep,” Sam said airily. “The first thing I'm promising is to let all my constituents know exactly what I do and how I vote—no behind-the-door deals, everything out in the open for everybody to see. Julia, honey, you don't need to worry about me. I'll do fine.”

“I know you will,” I said, wondering if he'd forgotten that I'd be making the speech, not him.

“Could I just say transparency?” Lloyd asked, which sounded good to me. I nodded, pleased to hear evidence that he'd learned something in his political science class.

“Better not,” Sam said with a lopsided grin. “That word's taken on a cynical cast here lately. Let's keep a casual tone and word it as if Julia is just talking to friends. Okay, the next thing is a promise to respond to anyone in the district when they need help of some kind, especially with foreclosures. Something's got to be done about that. So say I'm having an open-door policy—my office will be staffed at all times both here and in Raleigh. You need me, I'm available.”

“Oh, that's good,” Lloyd said. “We might work that up into your slogan. Something like, ‘You need me, I'm here,' or ‘I'm on the job,' or ‘I'm your man.'”

“Okay, whatever, but before I forget it, be sure to take that box of pamphlets—it's in my office at home. You can leave a stack wherever you go. Now, Lloyd, let's get into the particulars. I'm for
widening the interstate—you know the one. The only one we have. I know there's a vocal group that's against it, but there's too much traffic and too many accidents on it to put off doing what's needed. Well, wait a minute,” Sam said, stopping to yawn, then going on. “We need to say early on that bringing jobs to the district is right up there at the top of my list. I'll go to China if I have to. And say something about how concerned I am about those who've lost jobs and those who might. I'll work as hard as I can to bring in some manufacturing jobs to replace what we've lost.”

Lloyd scribbled furiously, then looked up. “Okay, got it.”

“Education,” I reminded him, noticing that he seemed awfully drowsy. “We're for it.”

“Well, yes,” Sam said, widening his droopy eyes. “We need to fund our schools, cut class size, and . . . and, Lloyd, here's a biggie: put down that I intend to meet with dairy farmers and nearby homeowners to work out an agreement they can both live with.”

“What's that about?” I asked, concerned that somebody might ask a question I couldn't answer.

“Smell,” Sam said, frowning at the severity of the problem. “Developers have built houses right up against dairy farms, and now the homeowners are complaining about the smell.”

“Cow manure?” Lloyd asked, looking up from his notes. “Didn't they know cows were in the pasture when they moved there?”

“And,” I added, “that cows make manure?”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, but it's a problem. Dairy farms in this area and pig farms down east are creating odors that don't sit well with nearby homeowners. Developers and homeowners have joined forces to petition the Assembly to do something about what they're calling air pollution. But most of the farms were started years ago before any of the areas began filling up with housing developments.”

“So,” Lloyd said, “you don't want to commit to either side yet?”

Before Sam could answer, I spoke up. “I don't think that's right, Sam. I think you should come down on one side or the other, and I'm for the cows. After all, they were here first. Tell the homeowners to close their windows and turn on the air conditioners.”

“Julia, honey,” Sam said, laughing, “I want to get elected. I have to look at both sides. It may be that the farmers are piling up manure too close to the houses, and all they'd have to do is move the piles to the south forty.” He yawned again. “Or somewhere.”

I sniffed. “Sounds like shilly-shallying to me.”

“Okay,” Lloyd said, ticking off the points he'd jotted down. “We've got an open-door policy, new jobs, widening the interstate, and finding a solution to the manure problem. What else?” He looked up at Sam, then suddenly said, “Oh, I have an idea. Mr. Sam, you need to be on Facebook—that's a good way to keep in touch with the district when you're in Raleigh. I can do that for you.”

“Good idea, Lloyd,” Sam said. “At least I guess it is. I'm not up to speed on social media, but Millard Wilkes, my campaign manager, is adding me to the party's website.”

“You might want to have your own site. But I'll see what he does, and if it's not much we'll set one up just for you.”

“I declare, Lloyd,” I said, “Sam should've made you his campaign manager. But back to my speech—you two have about covered what he's going to do, but what about what he's already done?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lloyd said. “We have to have some background, though I expect everybody already knows all about Mr. Sam. But I don't. Where'd you go to school, Mr. Sam?”

“Grew up and went to school right here in Abbot County, graduated from Carolina and went to law school there. Went into the army, then came back and practiced law here for over thirty years. That's about it.” He yawned again and lay back on the bed with his eyes closed.

“And,” I said, gathering my things so we could let him go to sleep, “helped thousands of people, not just in Abbot County but all over the western part of the state, with their legal problems. And think of all the offices you've held in the Rotary Club, on county commissions, in the state bar association, and on and on. Oh, and don't forget the church. You've been an elder several times, a deacon, taught Sunday school classes, and you've been on
pastor-seeking committees.” Then I said under my breath as I thought of Pastor Ledbetter, “Too bad you weren't on the last one.”

“Yeah,” Lloyd said, writing as fast as he could, “and you were on the board of the Boys and Girls Club, too. And the United Fund. Shoo, Miss Julia, you're going to have more to say than you'll have time for.”

“Well, write it all down,” I said. “I don't want to have to depend on my memory. Oh, Sam, I'm getting nervous about this. I wish I could just say that you're the best of all men, and if they know what's good for them, they'll vote for you.”

Sam and Lloyd laughed as if I'd made a joke, but I hadn't. My fear was that my poor and untested speech-making skills, far from helping Sam, would be the very thing that kept him out of office, even if he—or I—didn't care one way or the other.

“Lloyd,” I said, getting to my feet, “let's be on our way. Sam needs his rest, and he's about to fall asleep anyway.”

“Yes, go on home,” Sam said, yawning again. “I'll be all right.”

Just as I walked to the bed to kiss him good night, the room door banged open and an orderly and a nurse pushed in a stretcher.

“They all ready for you, Mr. Sam,” the orderly said, as a nurse followed him into the room. “Now, ma'am, if you'll just move out of the way, we'll get him to the operating room.”

“The operating room!”
I cried, aghast at the thought. “At this time of night? Nobody told me he was going to be operated on. Are you sure you have the right room?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the orderly said much too cheerfully as he swung the stretcher next to Sam's bed, backing Lloyd into a corner. “Right as rain. They gonna get that mean ole gallbladder out lickety-split.”

“
Sam!
Why didn't you tell me? Oh, my goodness, we were about to go home without knowing a thing.”

Sam looked as stricken as I felt. “I thought you knew. Didn't they call you?”

“
Nobody
called me! And if they didn't do that, what else didn't they do?” All I could think of was how Lloyd and I had peppered Sam with questions about a campaign that I could've cared less
about and all the while Sam was mentally preparing himself to go under the knife. And on top of that, I'd not laid eyes on the one who was preparing to wield that knife. It was a poor way of doing business, if you ask me.

Nobody did, however, but the nurse assured me that nothing else had been forgotten, that Sam would go to the operating room, then to recovery, then be back in his bed in a couple of hours. “It's a fairly simple operation,” she'd said. “He'll be out of bed and on his feet in the morning.”

“Not after being cut wide open, he won't.” I wrung my hands as they rolled my long-suffering husband down the hall out of the room.

“He won't be cut open,” the nurse said. “It'll be done with a laparoscope, and you'll be surprised at how quickly he recovers.”

“I can't stand many more surprises,” I said, somewhat tremulously.

“It won't take long,” the nurse said in an attempt to ease my concern. “Dr. Allen and his team are very good.”