Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (13 page)

Sam and I were up before daylight the following morning, getting dressed to go shake hands with people who rose from their beds at that time every morning. I watched Sam carefully, searching for any signs of discomfort that he might show, still fearful that he was pushing himself too hard. It was somewhat disconcerting, though, to realize that he was moving faster and easier than I was, and I hadn't had surgery.

In fact, he had a cup of coffee waiting for me when I finally got down to the kitchen. “Just enough to get us started,” he said. “We can stop at a drive-thru and get a biscuit and more coffee. I want to be at that hubcap plant on Airport Road by six-thirty.”

And so we were. I parked near the gate to the yard surrounding the large Morton building and sat in the car while Sam stood greeting workers as they arrived. I watched as he shook hands, gave out pamphlets, and spoke briefly to each person. I marveled at how easily he laughed and conversed with perfect strangers, and it struck me that the reason was because he truly enjoyed meeting them. I couldn't have done it that comfortably in a million years—too self-conscious for one thing, and too aware of feeling like an idiot to be accosting people before the sun was halfway up.

“That was good,” Sam said as he slid into the car. “Must've shook twenty-five hands, which I hope will turn into twenty-five votes.”

“How're you feeling?” I asked, turning the ignition.

“I'm feeling fine.” And he looked it, too. Maybe this was exactly what he needed, if he wouldn't overdo it.

“Where to now?” I asked as I pulled onto the highway.

“Well,” Sam said, studying his notes, “the problem is that most plant workers go to work and get off at the same time, and I can only
be at one place. Let's save that big ceramic company on the south side for this afternoon. We'll get there about three when they get off. But for now, drive out Ridge Road and let's see what's going on at some of the packing houses. It's too early in the season for many folks to be working, but probably a few will be hanging around.”

So I went back through Abbotsville and took the two-lane road which wound for miles around orchards and fields where the large open-sided packing houses were located. After a number of miles, I turned in at the largest and parked on the side of the hard-packed dirt yard. As Sam got out of the car and walked toward the dock, I opened all the windows, for the sun was high and the heat was building up. There was no shade in sight. I watched as Sam wandered around, speaking to a few people who seemed to be doing little but counting and stacking empty crates. The place would be a hive of activity in a few weeks when big trucks would come roaring in to be loaded with apples and beans and other produce, then pull out to head for grocery stores all over the country.

“We need to come back in August,” Sam said as he got back in the car. “September, too. But no visit is wasted, and I have to get votes where I can. The owner promised a campaign contribution, so it was worth the trip. Hurry, honey, and get the air-conditioning going. I'm about to melt.”

I turned the car to get us headed back toward town, and soon we were cruising along in the cooling car at about thirty-five miles an hour, which was the limit on the narrow, curving road. We passed a dusty, hard-used car parked on the shoulder of the road, all its windows down, except for the cardboard in the passenger's window.

A half mile or so farther on the empty road, I spotted a small, scrawny-looking man with a gas can trudging along in the weeds on the side of the road. He looked as used up and out of gas as the car I presumed he'd just left.

“Pull over, honey,” Sam said. “Let's give him a ride.”

I lifted my foot from the accelerator, slowing the car, and looked at him in surprise. “You want to pick up a stranger? Sam, it's not safe.”

“Not for you alone, but we saw his car and obviously he's going for gas. It's a good five miles to the nearest station and too hot to be walking.”

“Well, my goodness,” I said, bringing the car to a stop alongside the man. “One might think you're hard up for votes.”

Sam laughed and I did, too, but I was uneasy about inviting a stranger into our backseat. But not Sam, for he rolled down the window and offered the man a ride. The man, who was hardly larger than Lloyd, accepted with alacrity. He crawled into the backseat bringing fumes from the gas can with him. He was wearing a thin cotton shirt and blue jeans so long that they were rolled up on his sockless ankles. His belt—I had to look twice to be sure—was two plastic grocery sacks tied together and run through the belt loops to end in a knot in front.

“Sam Murdoch,” Sam said, offering his hand over the seat. “And my wife.” I nodded, and made a mental note to keep some hand sanitizers in the car from now on. No telling what Sam would pick up from all the hands he was shaking.

“Much obliged,” the man said, grinning broadly and settling into the leather seat. “Name's Lamar, Lamar Owens from Mills Gap. I sure 'preciate this, but I figgered if I took it easy an' didn't push myself, somebody or other'd come along an' gimme a lift. Them sheriff's deputies don't let this road go too long 'fore givin' it a pass, an' they pretty good 'bout lendin' a hand. 'Course,” he went on, with some complacency, “they all know me.”

I cut my eyes at Sam, fearing that Mr. Owens was telling us something I didn't want to hear, namely, that he had been arrested numerous times.

“You run out of gas often?” Sam asked.

“Naw, sir, but that ole car breaks down ever' other day, seems like. You know how it goes, if it's not one thing, it's two more. But
them deputies, they're pretty good guys. Most of 'em, anyway. 'Course it takes one to know one, an' they know I'm in the same line of work as them.”

Sam's eyebrows shot up as he turned sideways—as much as the seat belt would allow—to look at our passenger. “You're in law enforcement?”

“Sure am,” Mr. Owens assured him. “ 'Course I don't have no badge or nothin', but I take care of things them deputies don't get to know about, kinda 'round behind the law, if you get my drift. Take, for instant, the other night when I heard about this sorry piece a work—I happened to know him and I knowed he wadn't no good an' never has been. Anyway, I heard he beat the livin' . . . uh, daylights, I guess . . . sorry, ma'am, my manners ain't too good. But, anyway, he beat up real bad on his ole lady, an' I don't hold with that atall. So I looked him up and beat the you-know-what outta him. He won't raise a hand to her again anytime soon, I tell you that. No, siree, he won't.”

“Well,” Sam said, somewhat at a loss for words. “I expect she appreciated it.”

“Naw, she didn't, but she will next time he gets drunk. An' he'll know what he's in for if he whups up on her again. And that,” he said, hunching forward to make his point, “is what you call Outlaw Justice, an' she might not 'preciate it, but them deputies sure do. See, I handle a lot a cases like that an', you know, kinda give them boys a helpin' hand.”

“I declare,” I murmured.

And Sam said, “Well, Mr. Owens, it's a pleasure to meet a man who is so supportive of local law enforcement. I hope I can count on your vote in November.”

“What?” Mr. Owens's face lit up. “You runnin' for sheriff?”

“No, I'm running for the state senate.”

“Well, sure, I'll vote for you. Two or three times if you want me to. But I'd sure like to see somebody else be sheriff. The one we got, he holds to the law too much to suit me.”

Sam had a sudden coughing fit just as I saw the first gas station. I gratefully pulled in and parked by the gas pumps.

Mr. Owens hopped out with his gas can, thanking us profusely, and I, with a sidewise glance at Sam, said, “Fill up your can, Mr. Owens, and we'll drive you back to your car. It's too hot to be walking.”

When he closed the door and headed for the pump, Sam said, “I'd just as soon let him walk. Did you hear him say he'd vote two or three times?”

“Well,” I said, making an effort to keep a straight face, “you did say you had to get votes where you could.”

Lillian looked up from the counter where she was working as we walked in late that afternoon. “Glad y'all home,” she said, drying her hands. “If you need to rest 'fore supper, you better get to it. Miss Trixie, she invite her gentleman friend to eat with us tonight.”

“Already?” I asked, surprised at how quickly Trixie had asked and her friend had accepted. Although how much of a friend he could be was an open question—they couldn't have known each other more than a day or two. I wasn't going to quibble over it, though, for Hazel Marie's suggestion was proving effective. So far. “What're we having? Did Trixie help you with the menu?”

“Yes'm, she tell me he like hot dogs and spaghetti, an' I say 'tween the two, I fix spaghetti. But it don't feel right to serve something that don't have no rice an' gravy to go with it.”

I knew what she meant. She was referring to a normal Southern company meal complete with two or three vegetables and a roast along with rice or potatoes with gravy. “You made the right choice, given the choices. I say, hot dogs!” I shook my head at the thought of serving a guest such casual fare. “Well, a nice big salad will help fill out a one-dish meal.”

“Yes'm, I got all the fixin's for a salat, an' I talk to Miss Hazel Marie an' she tole me how to make a anti-somethin'-or-other platter. Which I already got in the 'frigerator.”

“You asked Hazel Marie?” I said, stunned that Lillian would discuss food preparation with the most inept cook in town.

“Yes'm, Mr. Pickens an' her like to go to that spaghetti place over in Asheville, an' what she tole me was real easy to fix. You jus' buy what you want an' lay it out on a plate so it look nice, an' that's all there is to it.”

“Then I'm sure it'll be fine. Sam,” I said, turning to him as he stood looking bemused at our conversation, “you'll have time to rest before our guest arrives. Why don't you lie down for a while?”

“I'll take a shower, then do that,” he said, heading toward the stairs. “I'm looking forward to meeting Trixie's undertaker-in-training.”

Addressing Lillian, I asked, “Where is Trixie, anyway?”

“She over to Miss Hazel Marie's gettin' her makeup put on.”

“Well, that's an encouraging sign,” I said, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down. “At least she recognizes a special occasion when she sees one. Oh, me, Lillian,” I said, leaning my head on my hand. “It's been a long day, and I could do without this tonight. But we asked for it, so I can't complain. I just hope he's better at conversing than Trixie is. It'll be a long evening if he's not.”

“Yes'm, but I as soon not hear 'bout no dead folks while I'm servin'.”

About that time, Trixie eased through the door, glancing around as she came to see who was in the kitchen. I sat up and took notice.

“Why, Trixie!” I said. “You look beautiful.” Which was not entirely true, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. At least an effort had been made, for Hazel Marie had done a remarkable job on Trixie's face. The rest of her was another matter.

“I got to fix my hair,” Trixie said, pushing a hank of it from her face. “The babies started cryin', an' Hazel Marie didn't have time to do it. But she loaned me her curlin' arn an' I'm gonna do it.”

“You need any help?” I asked, hoping she didn't because fixing hair was not my strong suit.

“I can do it.” And off she went without one word of thanks or an offer to help with preparations for her guest.

Lloyd came in just then, forestalling any further comments, although I still had many to make. He was looking a little worse for the wear—his shorts and T-shirt rumpled from the heat, his hair standing on end, and his face sunburned from a few hours in the swimming pool at the club.

“I was going to eat at Mama's,” he said, “but she told me that Trixie's undertaker friend is coming over. Is it all right if I eat here? You have enough for me, Miss Lillian?”

“I always got enough for you,” Lillian said, smiling at him.

“I need to take a shower if I have time.” He looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a question. “What should I wear?”

“Oh,” I said, “we want this to be a casual family dinner, so just wear some khakis and a nice shirt. A tie isn't necessary.”

“Okay,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. I followed to take care of my own ablutions and preparations for observing the progress of a match made not in heaven, but on an online dating service.

—

Sam was waiting in the library when I came down, both of us prepared to welcome a stranger into our midst. Sam, as usual, was dressed appropriately for the occasion in summer-weight trousers and a tie and a light blue shirt, the color of which was his bow to a casual evening. His more formal wear would have been a white shirt and silk tie under a suit coat.

That man pleased me in more ways than I could count and always being dressed in a fitting manner was close to the top of my list. That was not often the case with men as they aged. I had noticed among those I knew around town and in church that many of them became less and less careful of their personal hygiene and of their outward appearance as the years passed. Some allowed themselves to become downright sloppy, feeling, I supposed, that they'd spent a lifetime dressing for work and, now that they were retired, no further effort was required. So they made none.

I smiled at Sam, but before I could speak, Lloyd walked in looking neat and clean in khakis and a plaid shirt. And before I could speak to him, Trixie appeared, and I kept my mouth closed. Lord, the girl—or, now that I knew her age, the woman—had no idea of how to prepare herself for a special occasion. She had
curled her hair with Hazel Marie's curling iron, but she had been able to reach only the hair around her face. She'd made an effort to curl the back of her head, but it had been a failure. I sympathized because I'd never been able to wield one of those devices without burning myself in half a dozen places.

But I gave her credit, for she was wearing an outfit that I assumed Hazel Marie had helped her select—a sleeveless blouse and a floral skirt. Unfortunately, though, she had on high heels or, rather, a pair of those high wedge-heeled sandals that caused her to mince instead of walk. The worst, though, was the pair of earrings that dangled to her shoulders. No, the absolute worst was the additions she'd made to Hazel Marie's application of makeup—gold eye shadow and another layer of rouge.

Sam immediately complimented her, saying how lovely she looked. She ducked her head, smiled, and blushed, making me realize how important this evening must be to her. I determined to do whatever I could to make it a success.

“Can we sit in the living room?” Trixie asked. “So I can watch for him?”

“Of course,” I said, and we all adjourned to the front room where Trixie could watch from the windows. I wanted to tell her that, when wanting to impress a young man, it wasn't good policy to appear too eager, but I refrained. This was her evening, and I didn't intend to spoil it for her.

Trixie went immediately to a front window, looked out, then hurried to the door. “He's here!”

She had the door open before he could ring the bell. I heard him tell her how nice she looked, making me wonder even more about him. But I clamped down on my usual critical attitude and hoped that his compliment reflected proper raising.

They walked into the living room, Trixie beaming with pride and her friend seeming perfectly at ease to be withstanding an appraisal by her family. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't his smooth manner and polished exterior.

Trixie said, “This is Rodney.”

“Rodney Pace,” Rodney said, striding over to meet Sam in the middle of the room and offering his hand.

“Welcome,” Sam said. “Good to meet you. Are you an Abbot County Pace?”

“Lived here all my life except for my years in college. And, yes, sir, I'm kin to all the Paces.”

Sam introduced him to me and to Lloyd, then, as we all seated ourselves, said, “Well, I expect they call you Rod?”

“No, sir. I go by Rodney. In my line of work, it's important to avoid nicknames and abbreviations. Formality is the desired image we like to project.”

Sam nodded sagely. “Understandable, I'm sure.”

They chatted amiably about Rodney's family, many of whom, as it turned out, Sam knew. Trixie, who couldn't move her eyes from Rodney, and Lloyd, who was eager to ask a few questions, listened in, giving me the opportunity to assess our guest. He was tall and lanky, closer to thin than merely slender, with dark, well-cut hair, except for his sideburns, which were just a tad long. He was wearing a dark gray suit, a white shirt, and a somber tie. He looked ready to conduct a funeral.

As for his age, if I had to guess, I'd guess somewhere in his thirties, and I wondered at his unmarried state. Most local young men were married by that age, but maybe that was why he'd taken to advertising on a dating service, which was the way I assumed he'd met Trixie. He had a mature air about him, but as the evening drew on, it seemed to me to be an assumed manner, something learned rather than a natural progression toward maturity. And all the while, in spite of my determination to squelch any critical assessment, I wondered what he could possibly see in Trixie.

Lillian came to the door of the living room. “Dinner is served,” she said, and we all rose to go to the table.