Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel (8 page)

“I’ll just put up what we’re through with and clean the counter,” Ida Lee said, then looked around as a loud voice called from the front hall.

“Hazel Marie! Where are you, girl?”

I knew immediately who was yelling his head off and turned toward the dining room as Brother Vern approached. Stopping at the door, he looked straight across at Ida Lee in her gray uniform. “Well, now, young lady, I sure hope you know how to cook better’n whoever fixed breakfast,” he said, grinning as if he’d paid her a compliment. “Thank the Lord Hazel Marie’s hired herself a real cook. What’s for dinner? I could eat a horse if you fixed it right.”

That was what I call starting off on the wrong foot—the one he always started with and the one he pretty much stayed on.

There he stood in the doorway, his head swiveling to survey the kitchen and those of us in it, his mouth dropping open at the sight of us staring right back at him. I hardly recognized him—gone was the shoe-black hair, replaced by a frowzy gray mop, while an extra twenty or so pounds had been added to a none-too-slender frame to begin with.

Realizing that four women were gazing at his rumpled pajamas that had seen too many mornings and an unbelted robe that needed to be closed—as did the slightly open fly of his pajamas—he yelped and snatched the robe around himself. Hazel Marie sat frozen stiff in her chair as I jumped up and Mildred leaned over to get a better look.

I grasped his arm and turned him away. “Julia Murdoch, Mr. Puckett,” I said, walking him back through the dining room. “You remember me, don’t you? Why don’t you run upstairs and get dressed—it’s eleven o’clock in the morning. Nobody comes to the table in their nightclothes, do they? In fact, you have just enough time to get dressed and go have your prescription filled. Why don’t you do that while we get lunch ready?”

I chattered on, talking over him when he tried to speak, and all the while leading him to the foot of the stairs. “Now, Mr. Puckett,” I said sternly, “you are a guest in this house so it behooves you to act accordingly. Hazel Marie has her own life to lead, which is what she’s doing this morning. You can’t expect everybody to change their plans because you’ve chosen to show up out of the blue. And,” I went on, “a word to the wise: Mr. Pickens will be here before long, and I’ll advise you to conduct yourself in a respectful way while you’re in his home. Otherwise, I doubt you’ll be receiving an overly warm welcome.”

“Oh, my Lord,” he said, his face flushed with embarrassment, “I didn’t know we had company. I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”

“I know you didn’t, so it’s all right for now. But go on up and get dressed for the day. If you don’t want to go to the drugstore, you can entertain yourself with the morning paper for a while. We’ll let you know when lunch is ready.” In other words, but more nicely put: Stay out of the way and leave Hazel Marie alone.

As he turned and started up the stairs, pulling himself along on the banisters, I said, “And don’t wake the babies.”

I started back to the kitchen until stopped by a whispered voice calling my name. I went to the door of the bedroom and looked in at James, who was propped up in bed with a pair of earbuds hanging around his neck. As he shifted his position, I heard the rustle and crackle of paper hidden under the sheets. I smiled to myself, thinking that Brother Vern would have trouble finding something to read.

“How are you, James?” I asked, surprised that he wasn’t in the den watching television. “You need something?”

“No’m. Lloyd, he let me play his iTunes, so I’m all right. But that ole preacher man, he ’bout to drive me crazy. I was real glad to hear you jackin’ him up, ’cause he need it. I can’t even watch my shows ’thout him comin’ in an’ tellin’ me I’m wallerin’ in hell watchin’ them things. He jus’ makin’ me feel so low-down I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry about that, James, but you know he’s Hazel Marie’s uncle so there’s not much we can do for now. But,” I said, with a smile and a glance toward the front door, “Mr. Pickens will be coming in anytime, and I expect we’ll see some changes made fairly quickly.”

I hurried back to the kitchen, concerned about Hazel Marie, who’d been so clearly mortified by the sight of so much of her uncle.

“Hazel Marie,” I said, ignoring the strained silence and acting as if business were going on as usual, “has Lloyd already left? I thought he was with James, but he’s not.”

“Oh,” she said, giving me a grateful look, “he was going to the post office, remember? Then to your house to work on his computer. Homework, I guess.” She glanced at Mildred and smiled in a self-deprecatory way. “He’s already so far beyond me that I don’t even understand the assignment, much less be able to help him.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” Mildred said airily. “I recall when Tonya was in school—of course that was when she was Tony. I told him then that if he didn’t get it in school, don’t expect to get it at home. But I’ll tell you this: I think the teachers assign too much homework, don’t you? Children need time to be children is what I think.”

“I think so, too,” I said quickly, falling in with the change of subject from that which was on all our minds. “Did you see in the paper about that couple who’s complaining to the school board because their child didn’t get in the school they wanted? Now they’re petitioning the board to rearrange all the school districts in the county.”

“I did see that,” Mildred said. “The whole thing is just ridiculous. Why should every child in the county be uprooted because of one child? Or rather, one child’s parents, when the solution is for them to move into the district they want. I’ve never understood people who think their wants come before everybody else’s.”

I nodded and started to agree, but Ida Lee said in her mild way, as she lifted the lid of the Dutch oven, “Miss Hazel Marie, I think we can finish this recipe now.”

Hazel Marie hopped up, eager to have something to occupy her mind other than the sudden and shameful appearance of her uncle.

“Now the first thing you do,” Ida Lee said softly, “is look over your recipe again and be sure you know what comes next. Let’s measure out one-third cup of tomato juice and pour it in this small bowl. Then take your measuring spoons and add two and a half tablespoons of flour. Smooth the top of the spoon with your finger so you have the exact amount. That’s right—now stir it together.”

While Hazel Marie stirred, Ida Lee went to the refrigerator and took out a large container of sour cream. “Now we’ll add two cups of sour cream. Just spoon it out, then stir it in.”

Hazel Marie looked at the sour cream container. “Don’t we have to measure it?”

“No, because, see? This is a pint container and two cups equal one pint.”

“Oh, my,” Hazel Marie said, “I didn’t know you had to know arithmetic. No wonder I keep messing up.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Ida Lee assured her. “And the more you do it, the more you’ll know without having to look anything up. I expect every cookbook you have has an equivalency list. Just use that until you know some of the basics.

“Now,” Ida Lee went on, “let’s add a teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce and mix it all together. Ordinarily at this point, we would stir this mixture into your cooked meat, add the mushrooms, heat it all up, and serve it right away. But since it’s not dinnertime, we’re going to stop and put the sour cream mixture and the Dutch oven with the cooked meat in the refrigerator. But about thirty minutes before you plan to serve it, take them out and put the Dutch oven on the stove over low heat and let it warm up. Then stir in the sour cream mixture and add your mushrooms. Let it all heat up, but don’t let it boil. And meanwhile, have your wide egg noodles ready—just follow the directions on the package—and serve the stroganoff over them.”

“Will you write all that down?” Hazel Marie asked. “I mean, in detail, so I won’t forget anything.” A wail came from upstairs and Hazel Marie lost interest in beef stroganoff. “Oh, they’re awake.” And off she took.

“Julia,” Mildred said, “we could watch the babies if Hazel Marie wants to keep on cooking.”

“That’s nice of you, Mildred,” I said, “but it looks as if the lesson is over, so our timing seems to be right. You are through, aren’t you, Ida Lee?”

“Well, Mrs. Allen wanted us to make a biscuit tortoni for dessert, but I can do that while Mrs. Pickens watches.” She smiled as she began to gather the ingredients she’d need on the counter. “Actually, we should’ve made that first because it has to freeze. But I wanted to make sure her main dish was done.”

In a few minutes, Hazel Marie came back to the kitchen, lugging those two fat babies, one in each arm. She moved two high chairs from a corner with her foot and strapped a baby into each one. “Here we are,” she said, smiling at her little girls. “Who’s ready for some green peas?”

“Ugh,” Mildred said, shuddering at the baby food jars that Hazel Marie took from the pantry. “I would offer to feed them, Hazel Marie, but I don’t think I can.”

Hazel Marie laughed as she tied a bib around each little neck. “It does look awful, but they love it. Ida Lee, I guess my lesson had better be over. These two will be up for several hours now, but I do thank you so much. It’s such a relief to know that supper is ready. Well, I mean I know I have to heat it up and then it’ll be ready. But I thank you so much—I would’ve never known how to do it without you.”

Ida Lee smiled and began crushing macaroons for the biscuit tortoni. “I’ll go ahead and fix the dessert since we have everything here. One little tip, though: When you plan a frozen dessert you can make it the night before and be done with it. And later this afternoon, you might want to make a tossed salad, but that won’t take long. I have everything you’ll need in the refrigerator.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hazel Marie said as she spooned baby food into eager mouths, adeptly angling the spoon away from grasping hands. “J.D. is going to be so surprised. I can’t wait to serve it all.”

Then she stopped with spoon in midair. “Oh!” she said. “I’ve got to fix some lunch, too, don’t I? James and Uncle Vern are probably starving. Here, little girls, hurry and eat up.”

“You know,” I said, noticing that Hazel Marie was losing the joy of cooking at the thought of having to do more of it, “that’s the problem with cooking. It never ends. By the time you clean up from one meal, it’s time to start the next one.”

“That is the truth,” Mildred said, sighing, as if she had that problem every day of her life. “A woman’s work is never done, is it?”

I started laughing—I couldn’t help it. “Mildred, here you and I are moaning about all the work that feeding a family entails, and we rarely put a foot in the kitchen. Ida Lee, you must think we’re crazy.”

Ida Lee smiled almost to herself and shook her head. “No, ma’am. I know what you mean. But, Mrs. Pickens, I can put some lunch together if you’d like. What were you going to serve?”

“Oh, no, Ida Lee. I appreciate it, but I’m getting real good with grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ll do them as soon as I finish here.”

“All right,” Ida Lee said, raising her voice as she began to whip the cream for the tortoni. “But I’ll put the sandwiches together for you, and all you’ll have to do is grill them.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, getting up from the table. “Mildred, would you and Ida Lee like to stay for lunch?”

“Thank you, but no,” Mildred said, shielding her eyes from the feeding frenzy of the babies. “As soon as Ida Lee finishes, we’d better run on.”

By the time the babies began refusing another spoonful and Hazel Marie started washing strained beef and pureed peas off their faces, necks, and hands, Ida Lee was sliding a loaf pan of biscuit tortoni into the freezer.

“Hazel Marie,” I said as I laid out bread slices and opened the mayonnaise jar, “I hope James and your uncle really like grilled cheese sandwiches. You have enough cheese here to feed an army.”

“I think James is getting kinda tired of them,” she said, lifting the babies out of the high chairs. Pushing the chairs back out of the way, she pulled out two little jumper chairs and plopped a baby in each one. “I don’t know about Uncle Vern. He hasn’t been here long enough. But cheese will keep a long time while sandwich meat won’t. At least,” she said, smiling, “I’ve learned that much.”

Ida Lee glanced at my sandwich layout. “You might put a slice of tomato on each one,” she said to me. “That grills up nicely, and will make a change from plain grilled cheese.”

So I did, while Ida Lee cleaned off the counter and put mixing bowls in the dishwasher. “Ida Lee,” I said, noticing that Mildred and Hazel Marie were cooing over the babies and paying no attention to us, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done this morning. You’re an excellent teacher, and even I might learn how to do it with your instructions. Not that I want to, but I mean you were so patient and encouraging with Hazel Marie that she’s beginning to feel quite competent.”

“I was glad to do it,” Ida Lee said, smiling.

After seeing Mildred and Ida Lee off, effusively thanking them both, I returned to the kitchen, where Hazel Marie was heating a skillet for the sandwiches. By this time, she was looking fresh and pretty, flushed with the morning’s success—excepting her uncle’s untimely appearance—and I was justifiably pleased that it had all been of my doing. What a wonderful idea a recipe book and cooking lessons had been!

Needing to get home, I served two sandwiches to James, who was still in bed, and helped Hazel Marie prepare a plate of sandwiches for the kitchen table, then I made my exit, leaving Brother Vern to her.

I had no desire to see any more of him than I already had, much less have lunch with him. I did, however, hate to miss seeing Mr. Pickens’s reaction when he got home and found another ailing guest there.

I sat at my own kitchen table and looked over the plate of tuna fish salad and cantaloupe slices that Lillian had set before me. “Thank goodness it’s not grilled cheese,” I said.

“I jus’ fixed one for Lloyd,” Lillian said, her eyebrows raised. “An’ almost made one for you, too. I thought you liked grilled cheese.”

“Oh, I do, but I’ve had enough of them lately.” Then I went on and told her about the morning’s cooking lesson, including the sudden appearance in the kitchen of a barely covered Brother Vern. “I thought Mildred’s eyes were going to pop out of her head.”

“Oh, poor Miss Hazel Marie,” Lillian said, shaking her head. “I ’spect she shamed to death with Miss Mildred Allen and Ida Lee there.”

“She was,” I said, “but Mildred and Ida Lee have such good manners that they carried it off without turning a hair. They didn’t make one comment or ask any questions—just acted as if nothing untoward had happened. I really admire that ability and always try to emulate it.”

Lillian grunted in response.

“Do you remember that woman?” I went on. “I can’t recall who she was, but I told you about her. Anyway, the one who served soup at her first dinner party after she married and her new husband slurped it? She didn’t correct him or mention it any way. She just never served soup again when they had guests. That’s what I call marital diplomacy. And what about the woman whose guest was so embarrassed because one of those little cherry tomatoes squirted across the table when she tried to spear it? In just a few minutes the hostess did the same thing on purpose. But as tactful as those women were, I expect even they would’ve been discomposed if they’d had somebody like Brother Vern on their hands.”

“Uh-huh,” Lillian said. “You better quit talkin’ an’ eat something.”

So I did, thinking over what I could do that afternoon with Sam still sleeping and Lloyd still busy with his homework.

Emma Sue,
I thought. After one successful cooking lesson, it was time to fill in my calendar with more cooks. I say
successful,
but of course the proof of the pudding would be how well Hazel Marie completed the recipe and got her first attempt on the table.

But I put those thoughts aside and called Emma Sue to be sure she was home. I almost had to make an appointment to see our pastor’s wife, she was always so busy with first one thing, then another. If it wasn’t a meeting at the church, it was visiting the sick and shut-ins, or preparing a dish to take to a new member, or collecting clothes for a missionary, or soliciting donations for some worthy cause. She did good works from sunup to sundown, never stopping until a migraine put her in bed for two or three days.

Because of Emma Sue’s proclivities, I was always leery around her for fear she’d give me something to do. That’s the problem with these active do-gooders: They try to rope everybody else into their enthusiasms. Whenever I know I’m going to see her, I make a mental list of all I have to do so I have a ready excuse not to take on anything else.

When we were settled at Emma Sue’s table—cups of hot spiced tea before us—and I’d told her about the cookbook I was putting together for Hazel Marie, a look of profound gratitude swept over her face. Emma Sue was essentially a needy person, who, I’m sorry to say, rarely got the credit or acclaim that she both craved and deserved.

“That is so thoughtful of you, Julia,” she said. “And to think you want
my
recipes.”

“Well, not all of them. Just a few favorites to remind Hazel Marie of you and only those you think she can manage to fix. I know you have some excellent main dish recipes that wouldn’t be too involved for her. Remember that she is nowhere near your level of expertise.”

As Emma Sue glowed under my complimentary words, I mentally asked for forgiveness because, in reality, she was a terrible cook. A willing, eager, and generous one, but terrible even so. The few times a year she had a luncheon or, even rarer, a dinner party, I snacked before leaving my house because I knew half of what she served would be inedible—undercooked, overcooked, or a concoction of flavors no other cook would ever put together.

I learned the reason for that one time when I offered to help her in the kitchen: She substitutes. I watched as she looked through her spice shelf for paprika to sprinkle over a plate of deviled eggs.

“Oh, well,” she said, grabbing a jar, “I guess I’m out. But all I want is a little color, so this’ll do.” And she covered those eggs with enough cayenne pepper to burn a hole in the roof of your mouth.

And she once told me of the time, not long after she and the pastor were married, when they were in their first pastorate. They were serving a small, rural church of some sixty or so members, barely half of whom attended services on a regular basis, so naturally, she said, she and the pastor were eager to receive a call to a larger congregation. Every stranger who appeared for Sunday worship put them in a state of high anticipation because he could have been a member of a pastor-seeking committee checking out the pastor’s expository style and delivery before issuing a call.

On a certain Sunday, she told me, when the ladies of the church had prepared a covered-dish luncheon, a nattily dressed stranger had appeared and, being warmly greeted, had stayed for lunch. Emma Sue had prepared a chocolate pound cake as her contribution to the luncheon, but unhappily found as she’d mixed it early that morning that she was out of vanilla extract. It was too early for a grocery store to be open, which wouldn’t have helped her anyway since the pastor frowned on unnecessary purchases on the Lord’s Day. So Emma Sue had substituted lemon flavoring in the chocolate cake.

Knowing what she’d done, the pastor tried everything he could think of to steer the stranger away from Emma Sue’s cake, but the man was having none of it. He took a large slice, ate it with relish, then declared it was the best cake he’d ever tasted.

Emma Sue still credited her cooking skills with setting the pastor on his rise up the ladder of ministerial success.

“Stop writing a minute, Julia,” Emma Sue said after she’d recommended a particular recipe from the cookbooks she’d spread out on the table. I’d been concentrating on copying a few of them into my notebook and had not noticed how quiet she’d become.

Putting down my pen, I glanced up at her, noting the look of stress on her face. “What is it, Emma Sue?”

“Well, I know you’re not a Bible scholar, but you do have some common sense and I’d like to have your opinion about something.”

Have I mentioned that Emma Sue could be blunt to the point of giving offense? I’ve never forgotten the time she ran up to a woman she barely knew one Sunday after the services and asked her forgiveness. “For what?” the woman had asked.

“For thinking so badly of you because of all the eye makeup you wear,” Emma Sue had answered. “I’m terribly sorry and I hope you’ll forgive me.” She was perfectly sincere about it, even though the woman had been completely unaware of Emma Sue’s disapproval of eyeliner.

I leaned back with a sigh. “I’ll try, Emma Sue. What is it?”

“It’s about Mary and Martha. I just can’t figure it out.”

“I don’t think I know them.”

“Yes, you do. The two sisters, you know, from the Book of Luke, where it tells about Jesus coming to visit and Martha doing what any hostess would do. She stayed in the kitchen, cooking and preparing a fine meal for all the guests, then was left to clean up by herself. And all the time she was working her fingers to the bone, her sister was sitting at the Lord’s feet, listening to Him talk without lifting a finger to help. And when Martha complained about it, the Lord rebuked her and said that Mary had chosen the better part. And I know I shouldn’t question it, but it just seems to me that
somebody
had to feed those people.”

I sighed because Emma Sue couldn’t get those two sisters off her mind, and I’d heard this story from her before. “Well, as you say, Emma Sue, I’m no Bible scholar, but maybe we’re not supposed to take it literally. Maybe it’s figurative or something.”

“Oh, I know that,” Emma Sue said. “It teaches us to put spiritual matters first and not fill our days with mundane busy work like Martha, who was cumbered with much serving. While at the same time her sister was sitting around doing nothing, yet it says that was the good part. Now it seems to me to be saying that both of them should’ve just let everybody—and I’m talking about
guests
in their home—go hungry.

“Oh, Julia,” she went on, as the tears I’d been expecting filled her eyes, “I try so hard to choose the better part, but I’m forever in the kitchen, and if I never had to put a foot in it again I’d be happy. But Larry expects three meals a day, every day except for when Rotary meets. And I thought when our boys were grown and gone, we might just occasionally eat out somewhere.” She snatched a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table, knocking over a salt shaker, and pressed the napkin to her overflowing eyes. “I get so tired, and I’m just so . . . so
cumbered.
”

“There, there,” I said for lack of anything else to say, as I put a comforting hand on hers. “I understand, Emma Sue. People load you down with work because you’re so willing and eager to help. But sometimes you have to put your foot down and say, ‘No.’ You can’t do everything, you know. And as far as the pastor’s concerned, he’s like any other man. If he comes home and dinner’s on the table, he’ll eat it and not give it another thought. But what if he came home and dinner was not on the table and not even started? What if you simply announced that the two of you were going out to eat?”

“Oh, Julia, I couldn’t do that. He
expects
dinner on the table. And if it wasn’t, all he’d do is look disappointed in me and go fix a peanut butter sandwich.”

“Then let him while you go out.”

“By
myself
?”

“Why not? Sometimes you have to show a husband that you mean business.” Of course, all the while I was telling her what to do, I was recalling the long, dry marriage to my first husband and realizing that there was a lot of Wesley Lloyd Springer in Pastor Larry Ledbetter. Both had unshakable ideas of what a woman’s job was and where her place was, as well. I would’ve never dared to contradict Wesley Lloyd or failed to have his dinner, via Lillian, on the table when he walked in at 5:45 every evening except Thursdays, when, unbeknownst to me, he was visiting his paramour while I thought he was doing bank business.

But those days were gone forever for me, now that I had Sam, who was the most thoughtful of men, except when he took off fishing or world traveling for days at a time.

So, having been through a similar marriage as Emma Sue was currently in without being able to make any changes, I was a poor one to be giving advice. Gradually, Emma Sue’s tears dried up and, as she wiped her face, she said, “I’ll be all right, Julia. I just get down sometimes, but whatever cross I’m given to bear, I know the Lord will help me carry it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. All I could think of was what a crying shame it was for a wife to think of her husband as the cross she’d been given to bear. Of course, Wesley Lloyd had been mine to bear until a sudden heart attack in his new Buick Park Avenue lifted it from me.

Emma Sue blew her nose, then, as she lifted her head, a troubled frown appeared on her forehead. “Wonder what she served,” she said.

Still thinking of bearing crosses, I was confused. “Who?”

“Martha, of course,” Emma Sue said. “Imagine a dozen or so people dropping in for lunch. What in the world would she feed them?”

“I don’t know, Emma Sue, but lamb would be my guess. Or a fatted calf. Maybe in a stew so she could extend it with other things.”

“Well, I guess she’d have to, especially after her brother was raised from the dead. Do you realize he hadn’t eaten in four whole
days
!”

It took a while but I was finally able to distract Emma Sue by praising the tuna casserole topped with crumbled potato chips that she’d taken to the last covered-dish supper. Then I was able to turn her attention to my mission by asking for the recipe for her famous dump cake that she dumped on anybody who was ill, pregnant, or celebrating some event.