Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (18 page)

“Whew,” she said, “I'm sure glad to hear that. I didn't know how I could afford to hire somebody to move my single-wide—it takes a
mint
to do that. Plus find another place as nice as this and lose my manager's job, too. Thanks, Miss Julia, I'll sleep better tonight knowing you'll take care of it.”

Assuring her that indeed I would, I hung up the phone and studied the best way of going about taking care of it. My first impulse was to call Rodney and straighten him out in no uncertain terms. But then I reconsidered, realizing that any interference on my part could put a big kink in his relationship with Trixie, and do it just as Sam and I had determined to welcome Trixie's friends into
our home. So my next thought was to bide my time and let him commit himself one way or another to my face. Then I would politely but firmly tell him the property wasn't for sale, and that would be that.

Maybe in the meantime, he would have learned, if he didn't already know, who owned the property. Learning who owned it could put a damper on his whole enterprise, unless . . . unless that had been the driving force behind his interest in Trixie all along. That very thought made me ill for her sake, but I had to consider the possibility.

During all of this deep and troubling thinking, I had held myself together well enough, but I made one great determination right then and there: if Rodney thought he was going to put a mortuary, scattering garden, crematorium, cemetery, or anything else on
my
property, he was sadly and eternally mistaken. Mr. Rodney Pace had just about gotten too big for his britches.

By the time Sam came in from his meeting, I was already upstairs grimly preparing for bed. “Thank goodness you're home,” I said, tightening my robe as he entered the bedroom. Then I launched into a litany of outrage.

“You won't believe this, Sam, but I just had a call from Etta Mae telling me that Rodney's been out there measuring my property and”—I stopped and took a deep breath—“
and
he had the nerve to tell her to get ready to move, and not only her but all the other residents. And, even worse than that, Trixie told me that Rodney's going to hire Elsie and Troy to work at his mortuary, and that means they'll be moving here, and the very thought of it makes my head hurt. And LuAnne told me that Thurlow is donating some kind of park to the city and I think he's planning to name it for Jimmy Ray in honor of his service to the district, and, futhermore, it would be just like Thurlow to announce it right before the election.” I stopped and tried to think if anything else had happened. “And, well, I guess that's all. How was your meeting?”

“Fine,” he said, loosening his tie, “very good, in fact. We'll have a television ad on the air in a week or so. And some radio ads, too. But it sounds as if you've had a busy evening.”

“I have,” I agreed. “I doubt I'll ever get to sleep. There's so much going on that I don't know which one to worry about the most.”

“Well, hop in bed and let me brush my teeth. Then we'll talk about it.” Sam headed for the bathroom as I hung up his jacket.

When we were both in bed, propped up on pillows side by side—our favorite place to talk over any problems—I thought again of how special such times were, even when the problems we dealt with were dire and unsettling. A brief memory of my first marriage flashed through my mind—Wesley Lloyd Springer
believed that you went to bed to sleep, not to talk or to read or to do anything else except on infrequent occasions, and even then he hadn't had much to say.

“Okay,” Sam said, taking my hand, “tell me all about it.”

“I hardly know where to start, but let me ask you. Have you noticed how Trixie has gone from one thing to another? First she wanted to be a fitness trainee, then she wanted to switch to some hot box yoga business, now she wants to be a beautician to the dead. What in the world is she thinking? She's not trained for anything, and she doesn't light on anything long enough to get trained. I think that any time Rodney mentions something, she just latches on to it.”

Sam nodded. “Probably. And we don't know if he's just talking in general or if he's actively encouraging her. One thing's for sure, though, she is entirely too dependent on what he says. And did he really promise to hire her grandparents?”

“That's what she told me. Oh, Sam, I couldn't stand having them around. You better win this election or I'll have to move to Raleigh without you.”

He laughed. “Without me? Not a chance. Now, listen, put the Binghams on the back burner. That's a long way off, if it ever happens. I have a feeling that Rodney just talks a lot about his plans and all the possibilities he can dream up, and Trixie hears what she wants to hear. She's headed for a great disappointment, I'm afraid.”

“So is he, because if all his plans hinge on getting the Springer Road property, he might as well pack it in. Sam, how much land is out there, anyway?”

“I'll have to look at the plat, but probably close to thirty acres or so. Maybe a little more.”

I looked at him in surprise, as well as some dismay, because I'd hoped it wouldn't meet Rodney's criteria. “That much? Surely the trailer park isn't that big.”

“No, most of it's woods. Actually, I did a little research on the state requirements for a cemetery, and Rodney's going to need a
lot more than thirty acres—that's the minimum for a cemetery itself. It wouldn't include room for a mortuary, crematorium, scattering garden, parking area, and all the other big dreams he has. Unless, of course, he plans to locate that part of the business elsewhere, which is what a lot of mortuary owners do. Your property would probably be workable if he wants it just for grave sites, but not for anything else.”

I pictured the location on Springer Road—the clearing where the mobile homes were located was densely surrounded by pine trees, cedars, and hemlocks with a scattering of dogwoods that bloomed in the spring—a lovely pastoral setting marred only by single- and double-wide trailers and their hook-ups. I'd had the woods underbrushed several years before and now hoped that the blackberry bushes and briars had grown back thick enough to discourage Rodney.

“I think,” Sam went on, “there's an old homestead back in there somewhere, maybe just a chimney still standing. And there may be some hardwood, too, in case you ever wanted to clear it for timber.”

“I don't.”

Sam grinned at me. “Well, I'll tell you, it would take an awful lot of effort and money to turn that place into a grassy cemetery. Think of all the stumps that would have to come up.”

That thought cheered me considerably, and I finally got to sleep, picturing Rodney, hot and sweaty, swinging a pickax.

—

Knowing that Mildred was not an early riser, I called her late on the following morning to see when would be a convenient time for me to visit.

“Come right now,” she said brightly. “I've just finished breakfast, and if we wait too long it'll run into your lunchtime.” She laughed. “We seem to operate on different schedules, Julia.”

I knew that, which was one reason I never visited Mildred without calling. Another reason was that I never visited
anyone
without a call first. Drop-in guests, and I'm including LuAnne, are never quite as welcome as ones who are expected.

—

“Good morning, Ida Lee,” I said when Mildred's housekeeper opened the door. “How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” the lovely and efficient Ida Lee greeted me. “Mrs. Allen is looking forward to seeing you—she's in the morning room.”

I followed Ida Lee across the spacious foyer to the small room beyond the curving staircase. Mildred was sitting in a cushioned wicker chair, a tea service on a table beside her. A row of windows behind her revealed the well-kept grounds surrounded by a boxwood hedge with flowering shrubs and ornamental trees strategically placed.

Mildred smiled as I entered, saying, “I would get up if it wasn't so much trouble and you weren't such a close friend.”

“Stay right where you are,” I said, taking a chair beside her. “No need to get up for me.” Mildred was a heavyset woman who hated to move once she was settled, so she stayed settled most of the day.

“Mildred, your yard is lovely,” I went on. “If I were you I'd sit here all day and admire it.”

“I just about do,” she said, laughing as she reached for the teapot. “I thought tea would be nice for a change. Around this time every summer, I've about had my fill of lemonade.”

“So,” I said as we sipped from Mildred's porcelain cups, my hands shaking just a tiny bit. The worst thing, to my mind, was being in a position of having to ask for money. “I expect you know I've come for a special reason. And I hope I'm not imposing, but, Mildred, I'm afraid Sam's running behind in the senate race, and I'm worried about it.”

“How much do you need?”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback, “am I that obvious?”

“Elections take money, Julia. No one knows that better than I do. I've already contributed to his campaign, but I don't think I've reached the limit. If I have, then I'll send more from Horace and Tonya.”

“Oh, Mildred,” I said, a wave of gratitude washing over me. “You don't know how much I hate asking for financial help, or how much I appreciate your generosity. I want to assure you that Sam does not know I'm doing this, but I'm sure he'll know who his contributors are and he'll be ever so grateful.”

Mildred gave a languid wave of her hand. “Just tell him I expect to be invited to the Inaugural Ball, regardless of who wins the governorship. And there might be a few more favors along the way. I'll let him know as I think of them.”

I was really getting a lesson in the art of politics, because even though Mildred was smiling, I knew she meant what she said. She would expect to have a state senator at her beck and call, and I wondered if she'd covered all the bases by contributing equally to the Mooney campaign.

—

I thought about that on my way home—which was just down Mildred's drive to the sidewalk, then a few yards to my house—but it was long enough to give me an idea of how to approach Thurlow Jones. With that idea in mind, as well as with the elation of having gotten a sizable contribution just by asking, I walked past my house, turned the corner, then another, and went straight to Thurlow's house before I lost my nerve.

For the first time ever, I found him puttering around in his large yard with pruning shears in his hand. It was about time that somebody did something about the overgrown place. I had to untangle an out-of-control wisteria vine from my hair when I opened the front gate.

Thurlow looked up as the gate squealed in protest as I entered. “Well, well, the Lady Murdoch draws nigh,” he announced with his usual mockery. “To what do I owe this unusual visit? I don't normally receive unexpected visitors, but I'll make an exception for you.”

He dropped the pruning shears where he stood, then came over to the brick walk, studded with weeds, where I waited. I was
a little discomposed, since I had only recently prided myself on my courteous habit of calling before a visit. But, I assured myself, Thurlow wouldn't know a courtesy if it bit him.

“Thurlow,” I started strongly, “I'm well aware that you are a Mooney supporter, but I think you should give some thought to supporting Sam's campaign, too. That's what big corporations do: give to both sides so they'll have access regardless of the winner. Besides, you know Sam, and you know he'd make a better senator than Jimmy Ray any day of the week.”

“Oh, so that's what you're here for. I shoulda known you wouldn't give me the time of day 'less you wanted something. Well, dear lady, I always put my money on the winning horse, and that ain't Sam Murdoch.”

That
dear lady
put my back straight up, and his effrontery in presuming that Sam would lose just flew all over me.

“You don't know that, and, furthermore, it would be a fair race if you'd stay out of it. I heard about that park you're planning, and I know that Jimmy Ray wouldn't stand a chance without your backing, and I think it's a crying shame that you have more say-so in an election than all the voters in the district. And, and, well, that's what I think.”

He threw back his head and cackled, loud and long, and if those pruning shears had been at hand I might've been tempted to use them. Instead, I turned and walked off, my head held high, even though humiliated as usual after any run-in with him.

“I'll think about it,” he yelled behind me, but I knew better than to count on any help from him.

“I'm glad you fin'lly home,” Lillian said, looking up from the sink as I walked into the kitchen.

“Why? What's going on?”

“Let me get this mess cleaned up,” she said, as she gathered a pile of husks from the corn ears she'd just shucked and dumped them into a waste can.

Wiping her hands with a towel, Lillian said, “Miss Trixie jus' come home cryin'.”

“Oh, my, I was afraid that was coming sooner or later. What did she say?”

“She don't say nothin' to me. I jus' see her come flyin' through here, her face all red and drippy. She run upstairs an' I hear the door slam. That's all I know.”

I plopped down in a chair by the table, wondering if I had the energy to deal with Trixie so soon after my confrontation with Thurlow.

“You want some lunch?” Lillian asked. “I don't know where you been, but it past time for it.”

“Yes, I guess I do. Just a bite, though, enough to see me through whatever's going on with Trixie. But if I had to guess, it'll be something to do with Rodney. Oh, me, Lillian,” I said mournfully, “I'm not cut out for this, or for electioneering, either.”

“What you mean?” Lillian said, glancing at me as she prepared a sandwich.

“I mean giving advice to the lovelorn, for one, and for another, trying to talk friends—longtime
good
friends, too—into supporting Sam for the senate. You'd think they'd be eager to have him represent them, but, no, they have to think about it or talk to their husbands about it or pray about it. All except,” I said with a
heaving breath, “Mildred, bless her heart. She just asked how much I wanted and wrote a check.”

“Miz Allen, she a good lady. But you don't need to worry 'bout Mr. Sam, everybody I know gonna vote for him. I tell 'em they better.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” I said, leaving half the sandwich as I stood up. “Thank you, Lillian, more than I can say. Now, I better get up there and see about Trixie.”

—

After trudging up the stairs, I tapped on Trixie's door, softly calling her name. When no answer was forthcoming, I opened the door and walked in. She was on the bed, turned toward the wall, her shoulders heaving with shuddering and, as I approached, increasingly loud sobs.

“Trixie? Honey?” I murmured as I leaned over her. “What's wrong?”

No answer, just more sobbing. I sat on the side of the bed and put my hand on her shoulder. “Can you tell me what the matter is? Maybe I can help.”

“
Nobody
can help! Not you, anyway. You don't even care what happens to me.”

“Well, but I do. I don't like seeing you so unhappy. Tell me and let's see what we can do.”

“Susan Odell
fired
me!” Trixie screamed. “They's nothing you can do about
that
!”

I was taken aback, not expecting such news. From what I'd seen, Trixie could lift and turn tractor tires as well or better than any of the other exercisers. “I don't understand,” I said with true sympathy, “you've been doing so well there. What reason did she give?”

Trixie half turned toward me, revealing her red, mottled face with no embarrassment. If it'd been me, I'd have covered up. “She said,” Trixie said, sniffing as she stumbled on the words, “she said I wasn't responding like I ought to.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“It
means,
” Trixie practically shouted in my face, “I didn't get thin like I was s'pposed to! And it means I'm too ugly to work for her!”

“Oh, no,” I said, drawing back, shocked. “She couldn't have meant that. No one would be that cruel. Besides, it's not true.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, lying back, seemingly resigned to Susan Odell's verdict. “ 'Course she don't know it, but I was gonna quit anyway and go work for Rodney.”

“Ah, Rodney.” I sighed, wondering what was to come next. “I would think he'd reassure you. He's been so helpful and interested in you and your future.”

“Not no more, he's not. He thinks the same thing she does.”

“I find that hard to believe, as attentive as he's been to you. What does he say about your losing your job?”

“Nothin'. He don't know.” Her fingers picked at the picot edging of the sheet, and I heard for the first time real pain in her words. “He said . . .” She stopped as tears flooded her streaked face. “He told me we ought to see other people.” She took a long, wracking breath that moved me. “And I don't have nobody else to see.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, and tried to think of something encouraging to say, even as I had a surge of joy that the Binghams would stay where they were. “Well, Trixie, I've found that young men often get cold feet just as they're about to commit themselves to someone. Maybe that's what's happening with him. Maybe he thinks things were moving too fast, and he needs to step back a bit to be sure of his feelings, and yours.”

“He knows mine.”

“I'm sure he does, but marriage—if that's what you're thinking of—is a big step for a young man with so many irons in the fire. He has such big plans that maybe he's afraid to take on anything else for a while.”

She gave me a speculative glance that I couldn't interpret, but I could see that the tears on her face were beginning to dry up. “You reckon?” she asked, frowning. Then, right before my eyes, her face began to clear. “I bet that's what it is. I bet he's got too
much on his mind right now. He probably wants to get his ducks in a row before taking on anything else.”

I nodded. That's what I'd just said.

“So I'll just wait till he's ready.” Trixie's eyes lit up at the thought. “And as soon as he straightens things out, he'll have time for me—he'll need me then. Besides, it don't matter what he said, I'm still gonna help him. He won't be scared to take me on then.”

“I'm glad to hear it. The thing to do is to make your own plans, work on yourself and your feelings, and try, as best you can, not to let him know how devastated you are. Nothing intrigues a young man more than to have his former girlfriend appear to do well without him.”

“Yeah,” she said with some strength as she pushed herself into a sitting position, “he'll be sorry when he hears about it. Then he'll want me back, see if he don't.”

There was no telling what she had in mind, and I didn't care to ask. Instead, I suggested she talk again with Hazel Marie. “I know you weren't enthusiastic about the changes she suggested at first, but it might be worth a try.”

“I wadn't, 'cause Meemaw always said natural's better'n unnatural. She don't like a whole lot of primping and putting on, either, but, like you said, that's what she sent me up here for. And if she finds out I let Rodney get away, she'll be mad as fire, so I better do something whether she likes it or not.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I said, hoping I'd heard the last of what Meemaw wanted. “Let's ask Hazel Marie to give you a complete makeover. It might not bring Rodney back, but it'll make him think twice when he sees you. And it'll give you something to do, and make you feel a whole lot better.”

“Okay. Can we go now?”

“Well, no, it's too late in the day to start something like that. I'll call Hazel Marie, though, and maybe she can see you first thing in the morning.”

“Tell her I want the works—whatever she wants to do, I want it. And when I get all fixed up, I'm gonna go show ole lady Odell
what I look like so she can eat dirt.” Her face grew hard, and I heard the screech of teeth against teeth. “Then,” she ground out, “I'm gonna let Rodney know what he almost throwed away and watch him come crawlin' back.”

My word,
I thought, as I made haste to withdraw with the excuse of calling Hazel Marie. I hadn't been wrong to think that Trixie had a lot of anger stockpiled inside her, started by her grandmother, and apparently added to by whomever else crossed her. It gave me pause to realize that I'd probably been one of them.

—

“Lord, Sam,” I said as I came downstairs to find him home. “Trixie's about to go on the warpath, and I don't know whether to rejoice or get out of her way.”

Sam put aside the papers he was working on—something to do with the campaign, I assumed. “Oh? What's going on?”

“Well, first thing is she was fired. Or else she quit, which she said she was about to do anyway. And the next thing is that Rodney told her they should see other people, and that seemed the worst. Although if what she said your friend, Susan Odell, told her is true, that would be the worst in my book. I'm not sure I believe that she flat-out told Trixie she's too ugly to flip tractor tires. But it all culminated in her resolving to make them both sorry, and that's when I left.” I sat down in a wing chair across from him. “Oh, and now she wants, and I think
expects,
Hazel Marie to work some makeover magic to help her get even.”

“That's some pretty heavy blows to hit her all at once,” Sam said, stacking his papers and putting them aside. “Should I talk to Ms. Odell?”

“No, I think not. We should stay out of it. Even though I can't imagine that anyone would say such a thing, Trixie feels that's what Ms. Odell meant, so I doubt she'd go back anyway. No, if she's now willing to give Hazel Marie a free hand, let's let that play out and see if it improves not only her looks, but her attitude.”

I sighed and went on. “As for Rodney's wanting to see other
people, there's nothing we can do about that, either. Actually, the surprise for me was his interest in her in the first place.”

“I'm sorry to say it,” Sam said, “but I've wondered about that, too. A mismatch, if there ever was one.”

“I believe we've had this conversation before,” I said with a smile. “But of course, I agree with you. Well,” I went on, rising, “let me call Hazel Marie and see if she's up for it. I couldn't blame her if she's had her fill of Trixie's headstrong ways. And all that sulling up when anybody suggests something for her own good, too.”

“By the way,” Sam said before I left the room, “you remember Lamar Owens? We picked him up the other day when he'd run out of gas.”

I smiled. “You mean the man who offered to vote for you several times?”

“That's the one. He showed up at headquarters today wanting to volunteer. The ladies who were there didn't know what to do with him, even though he told them he could do anything—take out trash, lick envelopes, whatever we needed.” Sam laughed. “But they were really done in when he said if we'd put gas in his car he'd bring in voters by the dozen on election day. And make 'em vote right, too.”

“How in the world could he do that?”

“That's what they asked him, and he said he just wouldn't drive anybody to the polls until they swore up and down and sideways that they'd vote for me. He said that anybody who'd give a man a round-trip ride for gas was worth electing. And it was you, Julia, who made the round trip that got him on board, so,” Sam said, enjoying my dismayed expression, “thank you.”

“You're welcome,” I said. “I think.” Then I did a little teasing of my own. “I'll visit you both when you're in the Atlanta Pen for voter fraud.”