Miss Julia Paints the Town (22 page)

The first order of business, though, was to get Sam in bed and sound asleep. I heard Lloyd walking around upstairs and was relieved when he called down to wish us good night. That, I thought, would bestir Sam, but he kept reading something in the
National Geographic,
a magazine he'd become attached to ever since, he'd told me, as a boy he'd discovered pictures of naked natives in it. By now, though, I assumed he'd had his fill and was reading instead of looking.

Becoming more edgy and irritated, I flipped through the pages of the
Time
issue that I'd been trying to read. Hearing a low rumble of thunder off in the distance, I looked up. “Is that thunder?”

“I hope so,” Sam said without raising his head. “We could use some rain.”

Well, I couldn't. At least not tonight. All I could do was pray that it would hold off until morning. But it was one more thing that was urging me to get down to the courthouse and get our business done.

“I declare, Sam,” I said, snapping through one page after another, “there're more ads than articles in this thing. And the lead article is on the brain, of all things. I thought this was supposed to be a news magazine. I'm tired of seeing something on health or exercise or how to lose weight or some other such thing every week that rolls around. If I wanted to read such as that, I'd buy a medical magazine, not a
Time.
I don't know what those editors are thinking, do you?”

“Uh-uh,” he said, continuing to read without showing one sign of sleepiness.

“Well,” I said, slapping down the magazine and standing up, “I'm going to bed.”

That got his attention. He looked up at me over his glasses, his eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“I'm on my way,” I said, walking toward the bedroom.

Down went the
National Geographic
and up off the sofa he came. “I'm right behind you,” he said.

It was all I could do to stay awake, especially with Sam sleeping soundly beside me.
Finally,
I thought, as the clock on the bedside table flipped to twelve-thirty. I carefully eased out of bed and, with a last glance at Sam, walked barefoot out of the room and down the hall.

I felt my way through the living room and then the dining room, both lit dimly by the streetlight on the corner, and slipped into the kitchen. Thunder, sounding closer, rumbled again as it had been doing off and on through the night.

Lord, I thought, please don't let it rain, but if it has to, I could do without a storm. Blindly, I ran my hands along the wall, avoiding chairs, fearing to make the least noise, since I didn't dare turn on a light. As I reached the pantry door at last, I eased it open, slid inside and closed it behind me. Switching on a light, I pulled out a dress, underclothes and shoes from behind a ten-pound sack of Martha White flour where I'd hidden them earlier.

I dressed hurriedly, wishing briefly for the green, cropped, polyester pants I'd bought in Florida but thrown out once I was back in Abbotsville. That's the problem with keeping a neat clothes closet. Just as soon as you get rid of something you think you'll never wear again, you'll wish you had it back. As it was, though, a print housedress and my clunky gardening shoes would have to do, especially since I'd only be giving a pep talk to Poochie to start him up and a payment when he came down with the statue. It wasn't as if I'd be doing anything active like ransacking an SUV.

When I was dressed, I switched off the light and opened the door into the kitchen. I had to stand there a minute or so until my eyes adjusted to the dark. Thunder, still some ways off, rolled around, and I waited and listened to see if it had wakened anybody.

Tiptoeing to the back door, I unlocked and opened it, cringing with each click of the lock. As soon as I stepped out on the back stoop, I felt the soft, steady fall of rain.
So much for prayer,
I thought, and slipped back inside. It took ages for me to slide steathily back through the kitchen, the dining room and the hall to the coat closet. I found Hazel Marie's yellow rain slicker—with hood, I might add—and my umbrella. Just as I backed out of the closet, I had a second thought. Hanging my umbrella back on the hook, I felt around for Sam's old bumbershoot, thinking I might need something more serviceable than a little fold-up number. Four people, if they were friendly, could huddle under the bumbershoot.

I tightened the hood around my face as I stepped off the back stoop and onto the drive to the sidewalk. It was all I could do to open the huge umbrella, but after struggling with it a few minutes it provided a welcome shelter. I hurried past the house and around the corner toward the place on Jefferson Street I'd told Etta Mae to wait. I'd not dared crank up my car. Sam or Lloyd, one, would've heard and raised a hue and cry about hijackers or something.

It was a strange experience to be walking the lonely streets of Abbotsville on a dark and rainy night all by myself. The rain wasn't heavy, but it tapped steadily on top of the heavy canvas of the bumbershoot. The glow from the streetlights wavered in the downfall as I looked around for Etta Mae, parked somewhere along the silent street.

Although feeling fairly dry and cozy under the canopy, I was beginning to worry that we'd missed connections. My feet were getting wet, and I'd about had enough of walking in the rain. But a car door opened ahead of me, and Etta Mae stuck her head out.

“Miss Julia!” she said in a loud whisper. “Is that you?”

“Why, yes, it is, and thank goodness you're here. I'm about to drown.”

“Hurry and get in,” she said, closing her door and leaning over to open the one on the passenger side.

It took me innumerable minutes to maneuver myself into her low-slung car and to manhandle the huge umbrella in with me. At last, I was inside with the door closed and the dripping bumbershoot sticking up between my knees.

“Is that a tent?” Etta Mae asked.

“Just about. Where's Poochie?”

“He's meeting us on the side street on the other side of the courthouse. He needed his truck for all his equipment.”

“I just hope he's there,” I said, wiping my face with a wadded-up Kleenex that Hazel Marie had left in a pocket. “Lord, I wish this was a rainy night in Georgia or any place besides here.”

Etta Mae giggled as she cranked the car and drove to the corner to turn toward the courthouse. I looked back, but no lights had come on in my house. So far, so good.

I jerked in surprise and possibly emitted a little shriek—I'm pretty sure Etta Mae did—as lightning lit up the world.

“My word!” I gasped. “How close was that?”

“Not very. Listen, six one-thousand, seven one-thousand, eight…, nine…” She paused, then said, “Hear the thunder? It's miles away and headed south. I checked the weather station before I left.”

“That's reassuring. Be sure and tell Poochie, too. I expect he'll be glad to hear it.”

As our destination was barely six blocks from my house, Etta Mae was soon easing down the street that ran along the side of the courthouse. She pulled in behind a pickup truck that gave off a dull, black glint from the streetlight. I could tell, even in the dark, that the truck had seen better days a long time ago. The bed of the truck was piled high with what looked like junk of one kind or another. I could make out bedsprings and something that looked like slats sticking up over the cab, not to mention a barrel or two and a paint-smeared canvas drop cloth hanging out over the muddy tailgate.

The door of the cab opened as Etta Mae parked and switched off our lights. Hunched over against the rain with his hands in his pockets, Poochie Dunn ambled over to her window.

She rolled it down and said, “Hey, Poochie. Crawl in the back seat.”

He slid inside, along with a sharp, wet dog odor, leaned back against the seat and grinned. “I changed my mind. I ain't goin' up there.”

“Well, for goodness' sake, Poochie,” I said, twisting around to look at him. He was a small man, not much bigger than Lloyd in my estimation. From what I could see, he was wearing a pair of striped coveralls and some kind of ball cap, and though the light wasn't good, I do believe he had a number of teeth missing.

That announcement along with his complacent grin about undid me. “Why'd you get us out on a night like this if you weren't planning to do it? We could all be in bed instead of skulking around, acting like sneak thieves or something.”

“I was plannin' on doin' it, but I ain't goin' up in no storm. Uh-uh, not me.” I don't know how he did it, but he could talk and grin at the same time and he kept proving it. “That thing up there's nothin' but a lighnin' rod. My granddaddy tole me to stay on the ground when it storms, and he knowed, 'cause that's where he watched for enemy planes.”

Etta Mae turned to look at him. “
Recently?
”

“Naw,” Poochie said, shaking his head. “He was a air-raid warden in Dubya-Dubya Two.”

“Oh.” Etta Mae nodded, then flinched as another lightning flash lit up the town, followed by a roll of thunder.

“It's still a long way off,” I said, then with exasperation heavy in my voice went on. “Poochie, do you know me?”

“Yes, ma'am. Etta Mae tole me, but I knowed you before that. You brung my mommy a ham for Christmas one year, an' I don't never forget a kindness.”

That set me back a minute, for I didn't remember anything about that particular charitable act. Which just goes to show how careful you have to be. People remember, for good or bad, what you easily forget.

But it was all for the good on this particular night. “Well, now I need you to do me a kindness. I want that statue up there in the worst way, and you're the only man in town with the know-how and the
courage
to go up and get it. How's your mother, by the way?”

“She died.”

“Oh, well, I'm sorry, but listen. You could already be up there instead of sitting here talking. Just tell me what it'd take to encourage you and you've got it.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Too dangerous.”

“Poochie, I'm begging you. They're going to bring that building down
tomorrow,
and just shatter that beautiful statue.”

“It don't look so good up close.”

“Well, of course not, being exposed to the weather for all these years. But it's worth preserving, and we have to get it down tonight. You're our only hope.”

“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head but still smiling. “They put a big hole in the back wall today. The whole shebang could come down with me on it.”

I turned back to the front and stared out the windshield, my mouth tight with frustration. “What would it take to get you to at least try?”

He was silent for so long that I had to turn back to see what he was doing. He was smiling. “A new used truck.”

My heart lifted. “You got it! Etta Mae, did you hear that? He's going to do it.”

Etta Mae frowned. “You sure it's not dangerous?”

“Of course it's dangerous,” I said, almost euphoric at the thought of having what I wanted. “But Poochie knows what to do.”

“I mean the lightning.”

“Why, Etta Mae, you're the one who said it was miles away. See, there's another flash, but it wasn't nearly as bright as the other one. Now, Poochie, how long will it take? We'll sit right here until you're back down with the statue. We won't leave you, be assured of that.”

“No'm, I have to have some help,” he said, opening the car door. “It's gonna take me, you and her to get my ladder up there.”

Etta Mae and I stared at each other, her eyes as big as mine felt. We hadn't bargained for this.

I hope to goodness I never have to struggle with two made-to-order, wet and slippery wrought-iron ladders with minds of their own ever again in my life. What I'd thought were slats turned out to be two twenty-foot-long extensions, both curved to fit over the dome. And, if I understood it right, the plan was to attach one curved piece of the ladder to the bottom of the dome, then Poochie would climb it while Etta Mae and I lifted the other piece up to him. He would then fit it into the sockets on the first piece, allowing him to climb to the top of the dome and, thus, to the foot of the statue. Or something like that. I didn't see it as necessary that I understand the logistics of his getting there. I just wanted him there.

Poochie strapped a tool belt around his waist, looped a coil of rope over his head and across his shoulders, then stuck a few mechanical odds and ends in the pockets of his coveralls. After gearing himself up, he pulled the two ladder lengths out of the truck bed with enough clanking and scraping to wake the whole town. Cringing, I looked around to see if we'd alerted anybody, then opened the bumbershoot to hide under. I'd already tightened the hood around my face, so I doubted anybody would recognize me. And I also wanted to protect my hair from what had now become a thick drizzle since it was unlikely that Velma could fit me in for another set before the soiree.

After aligning the two pieces of the ladder side by side, Poochie took the front end and Etta Mae the back. I walked in the middle, bearing as much of the weight as I could one-handedly. It was all I could do to manage that much, what with holding on to the umbrella with my other hand, especially when a gust or two of wind assailed us. We climbed the steps from the street to the level of the courthouse and across the lawn to the steps leading to a side door.

“Put 'er down,” Poochie said, leaning the ladder against his thigh. “I got to find the right key.”

“For goodness' sake, Poochie,” I hissed. “There's not a thing in there. Everything's been moved to the new courthouse. It couldn't be locked.”

“Vandals,” he said. I rolled my eyes. The building would be torn down in less than twenty-four hours. Who cared if it got vandalized?

After fiddling around with a ring of keys, he opened the huge door, and Etta Mae, who'd been taking a breather, lifted her end and followed him inside.

The wide hall that had courtrooms and offices leading off it was dimly lit by streetlights gleaming through the gaping hole in the back wall, courtesy of Arthur Kessler's last-minute wrecking fit. Another gust of wind blew through the hole, lifting and swirling papers that had been left strewn around the floor.

“I don't know,” Poochie said, shaking his head. “She may not be steady enough to hold us.”

“Oh, it's fine,” I said, encouraging him. “This floor's like the Rock of Gibraltar. How're you getting up there, Poochie? I thought you'd climb the outside.”

“Uh-uh,” he said as he turned and led us down a narrow hall to an interior door. “They's stairs up to the cupola.” He said
cup
ola, as in a cup of coffee.

And we began to climb up one narrow flight, turning, then on up another flight. It wasn't easy maneuvering the curved ladder pieces around the turns, and several times I got scraped against the wall. But the bumbershoot was now folded and I was able to manage fairly well. Etta Mae didn't have much to say, just kept her end of the ladder extensions lifted as she followed in Poochie's wake. She was puffing and straining every step of the way, though, and as we climbed into the exteme heights of the building, I began to worry about her stamina.

“Here's where it gets tricky,” Poochie said as he stopped at the head of the last flight of stairs which had led us into the dark, musty-smelling attic.

Etta Mae stopped, too, and let the ladder lean against the wall. “If it gets any trickier,” she said, gasping for breath, “I'm done for.”

I wanted to spur her on, but had to wait while another roll of thunder, much nearer, rumbled overhead. I shivered as we heard the wind whistling through the hole far below us. We all looked at each other as the building creaked and groaned around us. It was all I could do to encourage myself, much less Etta Mae, to keep on.

“You're doing fine, Etta Mae,” I said. “Don't give out on us now. So, Poochie, where do we go from here?”

“Up,” he said, lifting his end and leading us across the creaking floor. Dust was stirred up by our footsteps, and Etta Mae sneezed, almost dropping her end.

“Hold on,” Poochie said, stopping again beside a wall. “I gotta get that hatch up there open. When I get up where the colyums are, y'all lift up the ladder and I'll pull it through.” And up some rungs on the wall he scampered, pushing up a door in the ceiling and disappearing from view.

“I don't like this, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae whispered. “This whole thing's going to come down with us in it.”

“We're almost there, Etta Mae. Keep your spirits up. Poochie knows this building better than anybody, and he wouldn't be doing this if he thought it'd come down.”

“He's thinking new pickup,” she mumbled.

Poochie's head appeared above us. “Lift 'em up,” he called down. “Then y'all come on up.”

After heaving the heavy ladder pieces up through the trap door and having my hood scraped off during the process—just ruining my hairdo—Etta Mae and I began to climb the rungs, the bumbershoot hung on my shoulder. What an interesting experience! Terrifying, too, I might add, and I couldn't have done it without Etta Mae melded to me, occasionally giving me a lift from below.

As I crawled out onto the floor of the cupola on my hands and knees, the wind swirled my dress tail over my head. Lord, we were out in the open, ninety-something feet in the air with only a ring of columns to keep us from being blown off. Afraid to stand up, I scooted over, bumping into the ladder that took up most of the space, so Etta Mae could gain access.

“Oh, my Lord,” she said, looking around in awe. “You could see for miles up here if it wasn't so dark.” Her hand clamped down on my ankle. “Miss Julia, I want to go home. I don't like heights.”

“Me, either, but we're too close to quit now. What's next, Poochie?”

He stuck a finger straight up at another trapdoor near the edge of the cupola's roof. “Up there.” Then he leaned one of the ladder extensions against a column. “When I get up, lift me up that other 'un, then y'all climb up and we'll pull this'n up after you.”

A blaze of lightning lit Etta Mae's frightened face, and when a gust of wind came close behind it, I said, “Well, listen, Poochie, we'll hand up the ladder, but if it's all the same to you, we'll just wait right here.”

“No'm. I got to have help puttin' the ladder together once it's on the dome. Don't be skeered. They's a little walkway 'round the dome with a ledge on it. You won't fall off if you don't look down. 'Sides, I can't manage by myself.”

I wished I'd known that before engaging him, but it was neither here nor there at the moment. I'll not go into how we got up on the parapet that surrounded the dome. Suffice it to say that it was similar to our first trapdoor experience, with the added indignity of having my dress tail blown up around my head. A good thing that I'd left the bumbershoot on the floor of the cupola or I might've sailed off over Abbotsville like Mary Poppins.

I'd never been so scared in my life when we gained the open-air parapet, and Etta Mae was equally petrified. Having come so far, I had a sudden fear that Poochie would tell us we had to go higher. I could see myself inching up that rounded dome, then suddenly slithering down it.

While Etta Mae and I crouched below the parapet, Poochie busied himself with anchoring the first extension of the ladder to the foot of the dome. He moved around easily and confidently, as if there were no danger of hurtling off into space.

I reached up and tugged at his shirt sleeve. “Poochie, I hope to goodness you'll go the rest of the way by yourself. You won't need us up there, will you?”

He grinned, shook the ladder to test its stability and said, “No'm, y'all just stay right here. Up there's no place for wimmen.”

I would've rolled my eyes if they'd been in their sockets, for it was no place for women where we were. “How're you going to manage?” I managed to ask, just as lightning lit up the sky again.

“Oh, I'll just put this rope around 'er, unbolt the base, and swing 'er down to you. She ain't heavy, so you won't have no trouble.”

Not heavy? I thought statues were made of marble or granite or something. But I had no time to think of that, for Poochie commenced to climb the first extension. When he got almost to the top of it, clinging halfway up the dome, he called down. “Hand me up the other'n, and don't drop it.”

“Etta Mae,” I said, hovering as close to the dome as I could, “get a grip now. We're almost through. Help me get this part of the ladder up to him.”

She was hugging the dome, her arms spread wide embracing it for all she was worth. Looking up at me with the most pitiful expression on her face, she whimpered, “I'm scared to death.”

“I am, too. But just one more heave of this thing, and that'll be it. We can rest while he gets the statue loose.” The wind whistled around the dome, swirling the tail of my dress every which way. I tucked it between my knees and bent to lift the top end of the ladder extension.

Etta Mae was a good and brave girl. As scared as she was, she helped me get the rest of the ladder to Poochie, then we crouched down on the parapet, huddling close together as the wind whipped around and the building groaned below us.

“I hope he's got what he needs,” I said, leaning close to Etta Mae's ear. “A lug wrench or whatever it takes to loosen the statue.”

Etta Mae started trembling and shivering, scaring me into thinking she was going into convulsions. From the altitude, you know. Then I realized she was laughing. “Not a lug wrench,” she managed to say. “That's for tires. Maybe a crescent wrench, I don't know.”

A gust of wind blew rain sideways across the dome, so I pulled the hood tighter around my face, doing what I could to save my set. Having left Sam's big umbrella in the cupola, I now wondered why I'd wrestled with the thing that far not to have it when we needed it.

“Awright down there!” Poochie's voice was thin and hard to make out, but I slid up against the dome and came to my feet, holding on for dear life. “I'm a-comin' down. Reach up and get this thing.”

“He's got it, Etta Mae! Look lively.” I glanced up to see the shadowy figure of the statue dangling above my head as Poochie lowered it by a rope. It swayed in the wind, clanking against the dome. “Come on, Etta Mae, help me. It might be heavier than he said.”

I reached up and grasped Lady Justice's feet just as she whirled around in the wind, hitting me in the head with the scales she held out in one hand. I saw stars for a minute, then thanked the Lord that I was still on the parapet and that it hadn't been the sword in her other hand that had gotten me.

Etta Mae leaned into me, reaching for the statue, and as Poochie played out the rope, we lowered it to the floor of the parapet. “My Lord, Etta Mae,” I said, “it's not heavy at all. Look, it's barely as tall as I am, and as light as a feather.” I gave the statue a rap with my fist and got a dull tink in response.

“Why, it's tin!” Etta Mae said, running her hand over the figure. “That's all it is. Two pieces of molded tin welded together with nothing inside. Miss Julia, we've risked our lives for a tin can.”

“Well,” I said, wondering why the French would've used such a common material, “it's a well-crafted tin can. What's this stuff on it?” Some kind of coating was flaking off the figure and I had to wipe my hand on my dress.

“Comin' down,” Poochie called, just as something pinged against the dome. Then kept on pinging.

“What's that?” Etta Mae cried, clinging to me as I clung to Lady Justice. “Oh, my Lord, is it hail?”

“Hey!” Poochie yelled above us, as another salvo of pings sprinkled the dome. “
Aye God,
it's the Germans! They're dive-bombin' us!”

Etta Mae dropped to the floor of the parapet, pulling me and Lady Justice with her. We crouched below the ledge as another barrage sprayed the dome.

Poochie slid down the ladder and sprawled out below the ledge, covering his head with his arms. Cursing the Germans up one side and down the other, he slithered through the trapdoor and dropped to the floor of the cupola.

“Go, Etta Mae,” I said, pushing her toward the opening. “We've got to get off this thing.”

“Somebody's shooting at us,” she wailed, scrambling for the trapdoor.

“Well, it's not the Germans,” I muttered, crawling after her while dragging the tin statue with me. “Oh, Lord, Etta Mae, how're we going to get this thing through the trapdoor? Her arms're so spread out, we'll never get her through.”

Etta Mae's feet were dangling through the trapdoor, but there were no rungs and both ladder extensions were still on the dome. She leaned over and yelled, “Poochie! Where are you? How do we get down?”