Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel (10 page)

I carried a tray laden with cups, saucers, and the coffeepot to the living room, making a wide detour around the edge of the room to avoid stepping over or on a baby. Setting it on the coffee table, I directed a hard look at Brother Vern, who had not moved a muscle to offer any help. He just lolled in that easy chair and watched, a pair of bedroom scuffs dangling from his sockless feet.

Hazel Marie followed me with a plate of cookies—Pepperidge Farm Milanos. She poured coffee for Brother Vern and took the cup to him. Instead of taking it from her, he pointed to the table beside him and she set it down.

“I take two sugars and a dab of cream,” he said.

And I guess you want it stirred, too,
I thought, which Hazel Marie ended up doing. My mouth tightened into a thin line as she waited on him.

My attention was taken by a commotion in the hall and I walked out to watch the rehabilitation therapy of James. Mr. Pickens was on one side and Sam on the other, with James teetering on one foot between them, holding onto a wobbling cane with his left hand. The cast on his right hand had been rigged up into a sling and was of no use to him. His left hand wasn’t much better, nor was the still-bound left ankle, which he barely let touch the floor.

“It don’t feel right,” James said, a look of stress on his face. “I never been much of a left-handed man. I do ever’thing right-handed, an’ I don’t think this ole walkin’ stick gonna hol’ me up.”

“We’re right here, James,” Sam said. “We’ll catch you if you start to fall.”

Mr. Pickens said, “Just think how much better you’ll feel if you can get around on your own. Besides, the Panthers are playing today. You want to watch the game, don’t you?”

“Le’s keep on, then,” James said, as he set his sights on the family room where the television set was.

I shook my head and turned back in to the living room. It was going to be a while before James would be able to trust his own two feet. When Sam and Mr. Pickens got James settled in front of the television set, they came back into the living room. Hazel Marie handed out coffee cups and offered around the plate of cookies, from which Brother Vern took two more.

“I got the high blood and the high sugar,” he announced, “but these’re too little to do much damage.”

My eyes rolled just a tiny bit, but I didn’t say anything. Hazel Marie sidled up to me and whispered, “I’m so glad you and Mr. Sam came over. I hope you can stay all afternoon. It gets kinda tense when J.D. has to talk to Uncle Vern by himself.”

So we continued our Sunday afternoon visitation, chatting comfortably while Lloyd played on the floor with his sisters. They seemed to love him, pulling themselves along to climb up on him, laughing and gurgling, reaching for his glasses, and examining his hair.

Mr. Pickens sat and watched, his face a picture of contentment. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was ever jolted by the way his life had changed. When we first met him, he was an unsettled man, bouncing from one woman to another, stopping now and then to marry a few, then pulling free and taking off again. Of course, Hazel Marie had caught his eye as soon as he saw her picture, and when he saw her in the flesh, well, I thought his bouncing days were over. It hadn’t been that simple, though, because they’d had their ups and downs and, I’ll tell you the truth, I had begun to think that she would be better off without him.

Then the babies came, or rather, they made known their imminent arrival, and Mr. Pickens decided it was high time to settle down for good.

I just hoped it would last.

Sam and Mr. Pickens began discussing the repair of the roof, necessitated by a fallen tree back in the summer, while Hazel Marie took coffee and cookies to James in the room across the hall.

Brother Vern, who was finding it hard to stay awake, suddenly roused himself. “Hazel Marie, I need some more coffee over here.”

She quickly veered over to him and refilled his cup.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Now, folks, settin’ around visitin’ is all well and good, but it being a Sunday, I think a Bible lesson might suit better. Lloyd, run up and fetch my Bible.”

Lloyd sat up, holding a baby and sending a questioning glance toward his mother, then toward Mr. Pickens.

I smiled and intervened. “We looked for you in church this morning, Mr. Puckett, which was when we had our Bible lesson. But I guess you decided to sleep in. Lloyd,” I went on, “hand Julie to me, then you come sit beside me with Lily Mae.”

He quickly complied, laughing as he said, “I’m not sure which is which. Mama needs to put different colors on them so I can tell them apart.”

Brother Vern didn’t pursue his Bible lesson suggestion, watching as we played with the babies. But he wasn’t through by a long shot.

Mr. Pickens seemed to be keeping a watchful eye on him, but staying silent even when Hazel Marie was given orders. From the look on Mr. Pickens’s face, though, he was keeping a mental list of demerits against Brother Vern, and I wondered when he would reach the end of his tether. The problem, as I saw it, was whether he’d send Brother Vern packing or start packing himself. Mr. Pickens had never been much of a family man to begin with.

But he was making an effort to keep the peace—something he rarely bothered to do. Watching Lloyd and me with the babies, he said, “I think those little girls take after you, Miss Julia. They both have minds of their own.”

We laughed, but it pleased me to think that I might have some influence on their little lives, even though they weren’t a lick of kin to me.

Then Brother Vern, not knowing when to leave well enough alone, decided to make another pronouncement. “They’re fine-lookin’ babies, all right, but it’s too bad one of ’em couldn’t of been a boy. Every man wants a son.”

Lloyd stopped bouncing Lily Mae on his lap and Hazel Marie’s eyes suddenly filled. I gaped at Brother Vern, astounded at what had come out of his mouth. Here he was, making a critical statement like that when, as far as I knew, he’d never had a child, regardless of gender, of his own.

Mr. Pickens aimed a hard look at him and held it there. His face tightened as he strained to hold his tongue. “Why,” he asked—and it wasn’t a rhetorical question—“would I want a son when I already have one?”

He aimed a tight smile at Lloyd, as I felt the boy relax beside me.

“Well,” Brother Vern said with an ingratiating grin, “you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Mr. Pickens said, his voice hardening as those black eyes swiveled toward Brother Vern again. “In fact, it’s a good thing we didn’t have a boy. He’d never be able to measure up to the one we have.”

Lloyd’s face was glowing by this time, a little red, too, as Mr. Pickens praised him.

Hazel Marie jumped up. “More coffee? I can put some more on if anyone wants it.”

Sam said, “No, don’t do that, Hazel Marie. We’ve got to go and let you folks have supper. Unless,” he paused for effect, “you want to sample my world-famous pancakes. Why don’t I cook up a batch for us all?”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Lloyd said, putting the baby on the floor, where she started crawling toward her daddy. “I’ll help you, Mr. Sam.”

“Pancakes is not on my diet,” Brother Vern announced, as I wondered if half a dozen cookies were. “All that syrup’ll send my sugar sky-high.”

I stood up to help in the kitchen. “That’s all right, Mr. Puckett. We’ll fix you a salad. Hazel Marie, let’s set the table.”

I declare, it’s too bad when a good idea—even one from Sam—turns out to be not so good. Which is what happened to that one. First of all, Hazel Marie was out of eggs, so Mr. Pickens had to go to the store, taking a list of a few other things she was out of—bacon, syrup, milk, and pancake mix. While we waited for him to return, the babies got fussy, so they had to be fed, their two high chairs taking up half the kitchen. Then James got restless, so as soon as Mr. Pickens returned, he and Sam helped him to the kitchen table, where he proceeded to critique Sam as he made pancakes.

And Hazel Marie didn’t have a griddle, so Sam used two frying pans, neither of which worked too well, not having been properly cured. As it always turns out with pancakes, we had to eat in shifts, James being served first, then Lloyd and Mr. Pickens. When Hazel Marie finished with the babies, Sam handed her a plate, then one to me. He ate last, after making another batch for all the second helpings.

I took a salad into the living room to Brother Vern, who still had not bestirred himself, not even to get to the table. He didn’t like the looks of the salad, telling me he was accustomed to a big supper and he didn’t know if a bowl of greens would last him through the night.

“I’ll bring you a glass of milk,” I said. “That should hold you.”

When we’d all eaten, Hazel Marie and I were left to rinse the sticky plates and load the dishwasher. I was glad to have her alone for a few minutes.

“Hazel Marie, have you heard from Etta Mae?”

“She called this morning and told me about her granny. She’s coming in the morning just to try it out. Did Etta Mae talk to you?”

“Yes, and I don’t know what I think about it. I tried to hint around that her granny might be a little old to take on two babies, but she insisted that wouldn’t be a problem. But, Hazel Marie, if you aren’t comfortable with it, just have Mr. Pickens tell her it’s not working out.”

“Well,” Hazel Marie said, stopping with a plate in her hands as she thought about it, “I might as well talk to her, kinda feel her out to see how she’d do, but you know how I am about babysitters.”

“I know, but as you interview her, you should get a feeling for how she’d work out. And, remember, you don’t have to hire her.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt Etta Mae’s feelings, and it wouldn’t be like I’d be leaving them with her—I mean, I’ll be right here in the house—so maybe her granny could entertain them while I cook. LuAnne is coming tomorrow, isn’t she?”

“Oh, she’ll be here, all right. She’s looking forward to it.”

“And you, too?”

“Yes, if you want me. And, while you’re mixing and stirring, I’ll keep an eye on Granny and see how she does with the babies.”

Hazel Marie smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Lloyd came home with us that evening because, as he said, our house was four blocks closer to school—four blocks he wouldn’t have to walk. And, of course, Brother Vern was still ensconced in Lloyd’s room at his mother’s house—another reason to spend the night with us.

I had a fitful night—whether because I had too much on my mind or too many of Sam’s pancakes in my stomach, I couldn’t tell. Whichever it was, I was anxious the next morning to get to Hazel Marie’s, arriving about nine o’clock to a house in turmoil. Nothing unusual was going on, just the normal run-of-the-mill activities of too many people wanting too many things at the same time. Hazel Marie was upstairs dressing the babies, James was still in bed but wanting help to get up, Mr. Pickens was putting breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, a tight look on his face, and Brother Vern, still in his robe—but belted this time—was watching a televangelist on the television set.

I decided that the better part of valor was to stay clear of the kitchen while Mr. Pickens was there and, after speaking to him—and getting a short reply—quickly left him to it. He was in no mood for friendly banter, so I went on into the family room to see what Brother Vern was up to.

“Good morning, Mr. Puckett,” I said decisively. “We’re having company this morning, so perhaps you should get dressed.”

He looked over his shoulder at me. “Again?”

“Yes. Two ladies, perhaps three, will be here any minute. Anyway, I thought you disapproved of watching television, so I’m surprised to see you doing it.”

“It depends on what’s on. Now this preacher here,” he said, pointing to the screen, where a young man with a mustache on his face and a Bible flopping over his hand was holding forth, “he’s got a fairly good presentation. Watch him—see how he walks back and forth? That keeps the congregation’s attention so nobody goes to sleep on him. And see how he whirls around when he gets to the meat of his message? That’s pretty good pulpiteering.”

“Well, I declare. I didn’t know there was so much to it.”

“Oh, there’s lots to learn, an’ I’ve taught a many of ’em. I could give this one some pointers he don’t know, too.”

“I expect you could,” I said offhandedly. I wasn’t interested in the finer points of preaching on television. Or preaching anywhere, for that matter. “But you do need to turn it off and get some clothes on.”

About that time, both babies started crying their lungs out. Although the wails were loud enough to reverberate from upstairs, I was already familiar enough with the sound to know that they were not hurt, just unhappy about being washed and dressed.

Brother Vern, however, frowned and pinched up his mouth. Turning off the television, which had been about drowned out, he said, “Hazel Marie needs to git them young’uns under control. Spare the rod and spoil the child, I always say.”

“Mr. Puckett!”
I said, shocked. “Those babies aren’t even a year old. If anybody picks up a rod around here, it’ll be taken to an adult, not an infant.”

“Well, I’m just sayin’.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but their daddy better not.” And I turned around and walked out, fuming. Why is it that people who’ve never raised a child can tell you how it should be done? You’d never catch me being so presumptuous.

Just as I crossed the hall, LuAnne, loaded down with bags of groceries, rang the doorbell. I let her in and relieved her of half the burden. We headed for the kitchen, LuAnne talking a mile a minute, excited about giving a cooking lesson.

Mr. Pickens was quick to abandon the kitchen to us as he headed upstairs to say good-bye to his wife and children. While we were unpacking grocery sacks, I heard him leave for his office, most likely relieved to be doing so. I glanced out the window and saw him walk purposefully toward his sleek black sports car, slipping on his dark aviator glasses against the glare as he went. And probably also to keep his gaze from burning up whatever it landed on. I shuddered and determined to stay out of his way.

While LuAnne and I sat at the table to await Hazel Marie, I leaned over and whispered, “I thought I’d never see the day when Mr. J. D. Pickens, PI, would be washing dishes.”

“I expect,” LuAnne whispered back, “he didn’t, either.”

Hazel Marie walked in, pushing her hair off her face and looking as if she’d been up half the night. “Well, they’re down, but I don’t know for how long. Morning, LuAnne, how are you? I’m really looking forward to this and I thank you so much for doing it.”

LuAnne jumped up and began bustling around, opening the packages of pork chops, arranging ingredients, and making a great show in general of preparing to prepare a meal.

“Now, Hazel Marie,” she said, “you just watch what I do. It’s so easy, you’ll be amazed. First I’m going to put the chops in this Pyrex dish and put a slice of onion on each chop. If you slice the onion under running water, it won’t make you cry. Some people hold a match in their mouth, but that doesn’t work for me. Now I’ll mix the barbecue sauce. See how I do it? Then you pour the sauce over the chops, onion, and all—like this—then you cover the dish with tinfoil. Tear me off a piece of tinfoil, will you?”

And that was the extent of Hazel Marie’s contribution—tearing off a length of tinfoil and handing it to her. Thinking back to Ida Lee’s hands-on teaching method, I wondered how much Hazel Marie had learned by being a mere observer.

“Now,” LuAnne said, “let’s put this in the refrigerator. What time do you eat supper? About six? Okay, take it out about four o’clock and put it in a 350-degree oven. Oh, you better take it out earlier than that—let it come to room temperature before putting it in a hot oven.”

“Why?” Hazel Marie asked.

“Because the glass dish might break, that’s why.” Hardly stopping to explain reactions to sudden temperature changes, LuAnne went right on. “You can put your potatoes in to bake at the same time, get your salad made, and you’ll be through. Now let’s do your cake. You’ll love this, Hazel Marie. Watch me while I put everything in one bowl and mix it together. Well, everything but the glaze. That goes on when the cake is done.”

I sat at the table watching as LuAnne combined the ingredients for the cake. Hazel Marie leaned against the counter watching along with me. LuAnne didn’t let her crack an egg even.

When LuAnne put the tube pan filled with cake batter into the oven, she washed her hands and said, “Whew, what a morning. I’m about tired. How about you, Hazel Marie?”

“I could sit for a while,” Hazel Marie said, as I remembered that she’d been up half the night, and leaning over a counter with nothing to do hadn’t been very restful. “I’ll pour us some coffee.”

I’d hardly had two sips of mine when the doorbell rang. Hazel Marie jumped up and hurried out, wondering who could be wanting something now.

While she was gone, LuAnne whispered to me, “Where’s her uncle? I heard how he goes around half naked and I wanted to see him.”

“Did Mildred tell you that?” I demanded. “I’m surprised she’d repeat such a thing. Mr. Puckett didn’t know we had company. He’s not well, you know, and has to spend a lot of time in bed. He was terribly embarrassed, so I expect you’re out of luck.”

“Too bad.” LuAnne giggled.

I let it go, because if I made one critical comment about Hazel Marie’s uncle, it would be spread all over town by lunchtime and it was nearly twelve already.

We looked up as a scurry of footsteps approached. Hazel Marie said, “Look who’s here,” and in walked Granny Wiggins, her bright eyes darting around as she smiled broadly.

She was no bigger than a minute, but there was something about her that made you think she was in constant motion. Her wrinkled face was animated and her dark eyes were alive with interest in the surroundings. She was wearing a cotton housedress and a heavy cardigan, her skinny, stockinged legs ending in huge white tennis shoes, reminding me of a big-footed bird. A bun sat on the back of her neck, her hair pulled back on her head so tightly that it was as good as a facelift. Her knuckled hands were red and rough, a testament to the years of hard work behind her.

Hazel Marie introduced us and offered coffee, which Granny Wiggins eagerly accepted. “I like my coffee,” she said, perching on the edge of a chair as she generously sugared it. “It’s a pure pleasure to meet you ladies. ’Course I know all about you, Miz Murdoch. My Etta Mae just thinks the world of you, so any friend of hers—and so forth.”

Before I could answer, she turned those bright black eyes on LuAnne. “But I never heard of you, which don’t mean nothing ’cause I don’t get around like I used to. You a Baptist?”

“Uh, no,” LuAnne said, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I go to First Presbyterian.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right,” Granny said. “The older I get, the more I think there’s hardly a lick of difference between ’em, just so you go somewhere. ’Course my preacher wouldn’t agree with me, and I doubt yours would, either. They all want you and your pocket purse comin’ in their doors. Well,” she went on, draining her cup, “this is nice and all, settin’ here talkin’ and visitin’, but I come to work and there’s one thing I want to know. Where’s them young’uns at?”