Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (8 page)

“But not so good,” I said, putting my hand on Lloyd's shoulder to steady myself, “at notifying the next of kin.”

With the events of the past few hours still coursing through my mind, I started the dishwasher, then sat at the table with Lloyd. Calming myself with effort, I watched as he worked on my speech. It was late, closing in on midnight, and after anxiously waiting at the hospital while Sam was operated on, we'd not left until he was brought back to his room and he, himself, had assured me of his well-being.

“Go on home, sweetheart,” Sam had said as I stood by his bed clasping his hand. “You have a big day tomorrow and you need to rest.” Which just goes to show what was foremost in his mind, regardless of how befuddled he was from the remnants of anesthesia.

Even so, I hadn't wanted to leave him, and my heart was still torn between being with him and preparing for my first foray into the world of politics. And, I'll tell you the truth, if I'd been hesitant about that world before, I was downright positive now that I wanted nothing to do with it.

Nonetheless, a promise is a promise, so I sat down beside Lloyd and looked at all the pages he was working on.

“Don't make it too long, honey,” I said. “I want to get in and out of those events so we can go back to the hospital.”

“I'm trying to condense it but it's hard to do.” He suddenly looked up at me. “You remember who it was that said in a long letter to a friend that he would've made it shorter if he'd had more time?”

“No, I don't believe I do.”

“Might've been Samuel Johnson.”

“I don't think I know him.”

Lloyd grinned. “Probably not. He lived in the eighteenth century. Anyway, if I put all this in, it'll be longer than ten minutes.”
He stood up and began gathering his papers. “Let's get on my computer and see what we can do.”

That's what we did, and I found myself hunched up next to him, trying to see the screen from the side as he typed away. There is nothing more boring, in my opinion, than watching someone fiddle with a computer. Besides, my mind was filled with concern for Sam one minute, and the next with trepidation for the morrow.

“Hm-m-m,” Lloyd said. “That's kinda strange.”

“What is?”

“Oh, it's all right. It just looks likes somebody's added some bookmarks, but you never know. They may have popped up automatically. I'll get out of here and go to Word, get everything we want to say entered, then we can begin cutting.”

As several pages were filled, I became more and more anxious about the length of the speech. My neck was getting a crick in it, too.

“Lloyd, it's too long. I'll never be able to stand up in front of a bunch of people and say all that. And if you and Sam expect me to memorize it, we'll have to rethink the whole thing.” My hands were getting sweaty just thinking of it.

“Yeah, you're right,” Lloyd said, leaning back in his chair. “It's too much. Tell you what, though. Why don't you tell me what you'd feel comfortable saying.”

I thought about it for a minute, going over in my mind all the points that Sam had mentioned in his hospital room. Not a one of them, I had to admit, was anything I knew about or had ever even been interested in. If making all his points had to be the purpose of my speech, everybody would know I didn't know what I was talking about. And in just a few hours, I would be trying to convince audiences of strangers that I did.

I pressed my fingers to my temples and moaned. “Oh, Lord, Lloyd, I could really do without this.”

He watched me awhile, then asked, “How would you answer if somebody just came up to you and asked why they should vote for Mr. Sam?”

“Why, I'd tell them that he cares about people and tries to help whenever he can, that he's spent his life doing just that. That he's easy to get along with, always listening to all sides of a question, that he's invested his life in this district and that people everywhere know and respect him. And I'd say that he's the best man I've ever known and that I'd trust him with my life—as indeed I have—and that the people of the district could do no better than to have him as their state senator. They'd never regret voting for him.”

By the time I finished my spiel, Lloyd had already begun typing.

“That's it, Miss Julia,” he said. “That's the kind of speech you ought to give. It's right down your alley, because everybody'll know you mean it. I mean, who knows better than you what kind of man Mr. Sam is?”

“Why,” I said with a dawning wonder, “it'll be like giving a personal testimony, won't it?”

“That's right. And you've heard a million of them.”

And didn't believe half of them, I thought, then quickly put that aside. My testimony for Sam would be believable because it was true.

“So,” Lloyd said, “let's just leave the promises and positions for him to bring up. They're all listed in his pamphlets anyway, and you can just tell what you know about him.”

Well, that was a relief, because I felt I could at least stumble through something I knew. “But, Lloyd, what will Sam think? He's expecting me to talk about all his plans and ideas. Maybe I ought to call and ask him.”

“I bet he's asleep,” Lloyd said, frowning in thought, “which is where we ought to be, too. Let's go ahead with doing it our way, at least for that first speech in the morning. We'll see how it goes over with the audience, and we'll have time to change it if we have to. But I really think it ought to be what you want to say, don't you?”

“I know I'd feel better doing that instead of reading what Sam would say. Oh, my,” I said, glancing at my watch, “it's past
midnight. We need to get to bed or there won't be any kind of speech in the morning. It's an hour's drive just to get there.”

“Okay, let me print this out. If you'll just read it over right before you go to sleep and then again when you wake up, it'll stay with you.”

I glanced at the single printed page he handed me. “This is what I said I'd say?”

“Yes, but have a pen handy, and while you read it over, jot down anything else you think of. I'll print it out right before we leave, and put it in a large font so you can see it at a glance.”

Thanking him, I wandered out of his room and headed across the hall, glancing at Trixie's closed door on my way. I'd tried to call her from the hospital to tell her we'd be later than we'd thought, but she hadn't answered. Hoping that she was sleeping well, I was just as glad not to have to put up with anything from her. I had enough to deal with already.

As I began to prepare for bed, I realized that I was feeling much better about speech-giving, now that I could talk about Sam in my own words. But then I had a sudden sinking spell—what in the world should I wear?

—

I woke up at five o'clock, wide-eyed and scared to death that Sam had not survived the night. I immediately dialed the hospital and was transferred to the nurses' station on his floor. After being assured that he'd had a comfortable night and that it was too early to disturb him, I snatched the speech off the bedside table, switched on the lamp, put a pillow behind my back, and started reading. Lloyd had been wrong—not one word of it had stayed with me, and in only a few hours I'd be standing in front of who-knew-how-many people who were expecting Sam Murdoch and getting me.

And at that thought, I nearly threw up. How were we going to explain his absence and my substitution? We hadn't even thought of that, which meant to me that Sam could be sicker than I'd been
led to believe. It wasn't like him to overlook the most obvious question all those people would ask—where was he?

I turned the page over and started scribbling possible explanations for a strange woman standing in his place. First of all, the truth:
He had emergency gallbladder surgery last night.

No, no, no. They'd think they had another Frank Sawyer on their hands—somebody too sick to run, much less to tend to their business in Raleigh. And, I declare, mentioning gallbladders, or any kind of bladder for that matter, just wasn't an appropriate subject for a lady to bring up in a public setting. As were words like, for instance,
crotch
—a perfectly legitimate word, but one best avoided. I recalled the time I'd taken Lloyd to Belk's to buy some trousers. The saleslady kept referring to the nice fit in the
crotch,
making me cringe each time and confirming to me her common background. How much more tasteful it would've been if she'd noted that they fit well
in the seat.

If there was one thing I was known for it was the avoidance of discussing indelicate topics in mixed company. I scratched out the reference to Sam's missing gallbladder.

His schedule got mixed up, and he had to be somewhere else at this time.
That wouldn't do either—they'd think it showed poor planning on Sam's part, even if I told them his campaign manager did it. Besides, they'd think they were taking second place to something more important. I marked through that one, too.

He was on his way, but had a flat tire, or a fender-bender, or something, and called me to fill in for him.
Well, that was a flat-out lie and easily discovered, so I scratched through that one, too.

Then I had a bright idea:
Just as he started out, he got a conference call from party headquarters in Washington and had to take it.
That might work—who would know any different?

But it didn't feel right, so I reluctantly drew a line through it. What could I say instead? How would I explain his absence—the one they had come to hear—and my presence, the one they didn't know from Adam?

By six o'clock, I decided that it wasn't incumbent on me to
explain or apologize for my taking Sam's place. They ought to just be grateful to have somebody instead of nobody. So, hands shaking and about half sick, I got on up and began to dress. Hearing Lillian come in downstairs, I was clearheaded enough to realize that I hadn't called her to tell her about Sam. But that was about the last clear thought I had.

Half dressed and still undecided about explaining Sam's absence, I picked up the phone and called his room. I hoped he'd be awake enough to give me the perfect thing to tell those people who were even then getting dressed to go hear what he had to say. Except he wouldn't be there.

“Hey, honey,” Sam said, somewhat hoarsely. “I was just about to call you. You getting ready to go? Got your speech and everything?” Which just showed what was uppermost in his mind, and him lying up there minus his gallbladder.

“Everything's fine here,” I said, lying through my teeth because I was a nervous wreck. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I'm fine. I've had breakfast and now I'm about to get out of bed. They want me to walk around a little.” That made me even more agitated—I should've been over there with him instead of heading off on a campaign trail with an upset stomach.

Sam just laughed when I asked him how I should explain my presence at a podium. “Tell 'em the truth, and don't worry about it. This is not going to slow me down. I'll be back to campaigning before you know it.”

I wasn't too sure about that, but I assured him that I'd see him between events and let him know how the day was going. Taking my speech, I went downstairs, pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, and came up short at the sight.

Trixie was already there, hours before she usually got up, but
how
she was there was another matter entirely. I nearly lost my breath as my eyes lit on more than I or anyone else would ever want to see. Trixie was wearing a white T-shirt that looked like one of those old-fashioned undershirts that some men wear—you know, the kind with straps and no sleeves. But that wasn't the
worst of it. She also had on a pair of shorts—cut-off jeans with frayed ends. Even that wasn't the worst. The absolute worst was that they weren't just short—they were
too
short with too much of Trixie bulging out around the edges. I had to avert my eyes when she leaned over to adjust her sandals.

“Uh, Trixie,” I said cautiously, “I thought you were going shopping with Hazel Marie this morning.”

“I am,” she said, tight-lipped, as if I were questioning her. Which I was, and which I had every right to do.

“Then I hope you'll be wearing something more appropriate than that.”

She whirled around to face me. “What's wrong with it? We're just going to that dinky little Main Street, and Hazel Marie said she's wearing shorts, so why can't I?”

“Because Hazel Marie wouldn't any more wear something as revealing as that than she'd fly. They're entirely too short and your shirt is too tight. Go upstairs, please, and put on something more suitable.”

Trixie's face turned red, her lips poked out, and she glared at me until I thought she would simply refuse. I stared her down until she stomped out of the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door so hard that it was still swinging as she clomped up the stairs.