Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (21 page)

“Well,” Etta Mae said drily, “you didn't exactly dress for a hike in the woods.”

“True,” I acknowledged with a shrug. “But I wanted another sign on that big tree—Rodney couldn't fail to see that. I should've pushed on through and gotten it up. I mean, how much more damage could it have done?” I smoothed back the damp hair from my forehead, then used a dab of saliva on a Kleenex to clean a bloody scrape on my arm.

“A lot more,” Etta Mae said. “That was a
blackberry
patch,
which I didn't realize till we were in it. And where there's blackberries, you can pretty much count on snakes, too.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering if any of the scratches on my legs could be fang marks. I shivered, cranked the car, and headed south to the turnoff to Longview Road, which would take us up the other side of the property. It was a fairly long way to the turnoff, maybe half a mile or so, and I wondered who owned the thickly wooded area that bordered my property. Rodney might even now be negotiating to buy enough to fill out what was lacking in mine.

Or, I suddenly thought, negotiating for an acre or two on the north side—he could make up his thirty acres from either direction. There was a small farm on the north side, mostly pasture land with a few cows sleeping in the shade of clumps of trees. A thickly wooded area separated the pasture from the trailer park, in which I assumed we'd find the boundary line. If the kudzu-covered barbed-wire fence that enclosed the cows was any indication, the farm extended on the north to the back of a line of stores that faced the Delmont highway. And from the looks of the place, the farmer would probably jump at the chance to sell off any or all of it. Something else to worry about, except, as I kept telling myself, I wasn't going to sell, so why worry about any of it. It would be so much easier, though, if Rodney would just turn his sights elsewhere.

Easing the car along the road, I kept slowing to search for a streak of orange plastic on the sidelines. “My goodness, Etta Mae,” I said, as the car went over a couple of bumps in the road, “I didn't know there was a railroad out here.”

“Been here forever,” she said, “but I don't guess a train's run this way for years—not since I've been around, anyway.”

“Well,” I said, straining to see out her window, “looks like it runs through that tract next to mine. No wonder nobody's done anything there. Who'd want the possibility of a train running through the front yard?”

Finally, we found the orange-tagged stakes at the other three corners, although we had to get out of the car a couple of times to
search through the tall weeds. In fact, though, after climbing a steep bank at two corners, we found that the weeds and bushes had been trampled down by those who had come before us, so we were able to quickly nail up our signs and move on. I had a number of signs left over, so, unwilling to venture again into the wilderness, I asked Etta Mae to put them up all around the mobile homes when she had time.

When we got back to her trailer, she urged me to come in and let her put something on my scrapes and scratches. They were stinging by this time, and I was tempted. But it was nearing four o'clock, when I was to meet Sam, so I thanked her profusely for her help, assured her that I'd tend to my wounds when I got home, and anxiously headed toward Abbotsville.

But wouldn't you know it? The Highway Patrol had chosen just that time to conduct a driver's license check, so there I sat only two miles from Abbotsville with the car idling in line as time ticked on. My plan had been to hurry home, quickly shower, change clothes, do something with my leaf-filled hair, and get to campaign headquarters to meet Sam. Yet there I was, inching slowly forward as one car after another was checked, and each time I moved my foot from accelerator to brake and back again, I felt another run slide down my leg. With all the snags in my stockings, they'd be in shreds by the time I got anywhere.

On top of that, I suddenly realized that the skirt tail of my dress, along with my stockings, was covered with beggar lice. It would take hours, which I didn't have, to pick each one off. Maybe, I thought, they'd blend in with the floral design of my dress.

Tapping my fingers against the wheel, I fretted over the delay. Sam would worry or, worse, be disappointed, if I didn't show up, and as usual, I didn't have a cell phone with me. I declare, I couldn't get used to taking the thing with me every time I left the house, but this was one time I sorely regretted it.

When my turn came for a huge trooper to lean down to my window, I held up my license. He glanced at it, frowned when he took a look at me, then nodded, wished me a good day, and turned to the next car in line. I had to restrain myself from speeding away.

By the time I got to Main Street, I'd given up hope of making it in time. Four o'clock on the dot. I could either disappoint Sam and go on home, or I could give him and those with him the shock of their lives by going to preview his television ad just as I was.

I went straight to campaign headquarters. Deciding as I parked that I would not confirm the state I was in by consulting a mirror, I went inside. Campaign central, as they called it, was located in an empty store, rented for the duration, and consisted of one large room filled with desks with telephones on them and a large table covered with Murdoch posters, yard signs, and pamphlets. In the back were a couple of smaller rooms, one of which was being entered by several people.

Speaking quickly to a suddenly wide-eyed woman manning the front desk, I hurried back to the room, relieved to find as I entered that it was dark—well, somewhat dim. Sam stood at the front of two short rows of folding chairs, while Millard Wilkes, his campaign manager, checked a large television set. Six or so volunteers had taken chairs, waiting to see and critique the ad.

I slipped into a chair in the back corner, gave a wave to Sam, who smiled back, and hoped no one would notice how unkempt I was. Millard fiddled with the television set, finally inserting a disk or a cassette or whatever it was into the slot, and we all sat back to await the showing.

“We only have the one,” Millard said. “Two others are in the works, but we wanted your opinion on this one before proceeding. Let us know what you think.”

The screen lit up and there was Sam's image standing before a large wall map with our district oulined in black. He began to speak—the same words I'd heard a hundred times or more from other candidates—but with an ease and a directness that were his alone. At the end of the thirty-second ad, he smiled, not at the camera, but seemingly at each viewer. Sitting there in the dark, I glowed with pride, or maybe sunburn. I could've fallen in love again if I hadn't already been in as far as I could go.

When the ad ended, everybody clapped and began to express their approval. Just as the lights came on, I stood up, hoping to ease out before anybody could get a good look at my disheveled state. I slipped out into the hall, ready to make tracks, but Sam was right behind me.

“Julia, what in the world happened to you?”

“Don't ask,” I said, patting his arm as if nothing was amiss. “I'm on my way home to repair the damage.”

That didn't allay his concern, which was all over his face. “Did you have an accident? Are you hurt? Honey, what happened?”

The volunteers began to edge out around us, eager to get back to the telephones, but not before they gave me a good going-over with their eyes.

“I'm all right, Sam,” I assured him. “There wasn't an accident. I just took a stroll in the woods with Etta Mae, and, well, it was a little more strenuous than I'd imagined.” I brushed a trickle of sweat from the side of my face. “Really, I'm all right. And, Sam, the ad was perfect.” Trying to change the subject so I could get out of there. “You did such a good job, and the map showing our district was an inspired touch. I'm so glad you didn't stand in front of an American flag—not that I'm not proud of it, but it's so overused by candidates. I mean, voters generally know what country they're in, but they don't always know which district.”

I was at the door by that time, still talking fast to ease Sam's concern. It didn't seem to be working.

“Thanks,” Sam said, holding on to my arm even as I, wanting to make a hasty retreat, opened the door. “I appreciate that, but, Julia, what were you doing in the woods?”

I released his hand from my arm and said, “Keeping Rodney out of them.” I slipped through the door, giving him a carefree smile on my way. “Hurry on home. I'll tell you all about it.”

—

Restored to some semblance of my usual appearance by suppertime, I told Sam of our trek through the woods off Springer Road. With both Trixie and Lloyd eating at Hazel Marie's, we had a quiet meal, then retired to the new library. I'd hoped by that time to have put his concerns to rest, but in spite of my attempts to focus our discussion on his spectacular venture into television
advertising, Sam kept returning to my risky afternoon of putting up
NO TRESPASSING
signs.

“Whatever possessed you, Julia,” he asked, “to take that on yourself?”

“I didn't. Etta Mae was with me.”

“But that's a huge parcel of land to be walking around.”

“Oh, we drove it, mostly. Sam, I had to get those signs up. Rodney was out there this morning with
metal detectors.
He undoubtedly knows about that plus or minus mark, and he was making sure of the exact acreage. Something had to be done.”

“But, honey,” Sam said, “you've said you aren't selling it, so what did it matter?”

“I don't know, Sam,” I said, leaning my head on the back of the chair. “I've been asking myself that all day—especially since I'm eaten up with redbugs.” I reached down and scratched my ankle. “Anyway, I just don't want that property to come between Trixie and Rodney, because it will when I refuse to sell it—as I most certainly will continue to do. I know, I know,” I went on as he started to speak, “he's told her they should see other people, which is as good as dropping her, but she's still holding out hope. She thinks if his mortuary dream works out, he'll need her and want her back. I don't want to be the one who's blamed when he doesn't get the property and she doesn't get him.”

Sam smiled. “You have a soft spot for her, don't you?”

“Oh, Sam, I just feel sorry for her. I can't help but think that Rodney has known all along who the owner is, and he picked Trixie out of the other Internet applicants because of it. She's been beaten down for so long that I don't want to add to it. How much better it would be if Rodney got over his untenable attachment to that land on his own, and it's my intent that he, himself, decides that it won't do for his purposes. Oh, and by the way,” I said, looking up expectantly, “I use that word specifically, because I looked it up. Do you know what
untenable
means?”

A dictionary was rarely far from Sam's side, so he smiled. “Legally speaking—not defendable?”

“Well, yes, but it also means, and I'm quoting, ‘not suitable for occupation.' It's a perfect fit for this situation, and the sooner Rodney figures that out, the better.”

Sam laughed, then, at the slam of the back door and the hurried squeak of tennis shoes on the floor, we both sat up straight and looked around.

“Mr. Sam!” Lloyd yelled. “Mr. Sam! Where are you?”

Sam stood and started for the hall door. “In here, Lloyd. What's the matter?”

Lloyd skidded into the room, grabbed the door to stop himself, then leaned over panting. “I rode all over town . . . as far as I could . . . ever since supper . . . on my bike. And, and . . .”

I was up by this time, hurrying to him. “Slow down, honey, and catch your breath. Is anything wrong at home? Your mother all right? The babies?”

He shook his head, tried to speak, then took a deep breath. “They're okay, but, Mr. Sam, they're all gone. Every last one of 'em!”

“What!”
My heart almost stopped.
“Everybody?”

“Wait, now,” Sam said, putting his hand on my arm as he tried to make sense of what we'd heard. “Who's gone?”

“Not who, but
what
!” Lloyd cried, flinging out his arms. “
Your campaign posters!
There's not a one anywhere! See, I rode my bike home from the tennis courts, and I noticed there weren't any along Park Road—and I
know
we put some there—and I thought, well, maybe the rain or something got them. But I got to thinking about it, so after supper, I went riding around again, and
all
your posters on this side of Main Street are gone. And, for all I know, in the whole county, too! And, Mr. Sam, it was like whoever did it knew exactly where they were. It was like somebody came along and, and just
stole
every last one of 'em!”

“No,” Sam said, putting his arm around the boy's shoulders and leading him to a chair. “Nobody stole them. Somebody took them down deliberately.”

“That's right!” Lloyd said, as if the entire situation had suddenly become clear. “Because the posters for all the other candidates are still up. Who would do such a thing?”

“Jimmy Ray Mooney,” I answered, as sure as I could be.

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head, “not Jimmy Ray. He knows better than to get into that kind of trouble. But it had to be some of his supporters—thinking they were being helpful. Or it was somebody who really dislikes me.”

“I can't believe that,” I said.

Lloyd straightened his shoulders. “There's only one thing to do—put 'em all back up again. We still have a lot left over, so anytime you want to, Mr. Sam, I'll help, or I'll go by myself and do
it. I know the exact places we put them the first time, so it won't be a problem.”

“Thank you, Lloyd,” Sam said. “I'll take you up on that, but not by yourself. I'll go with you and maybe we can find some more help, as well.”

“I bet Rodney'll help again,” Lloyd said, eager to organize another poster-hanging outing.

Hm-m,
I thought, given Rodney's sudden loss of interest in Trixie and the sudden appearance of
NO TRESPASSING
signs on his chosen property, I somehow doubted he'd be eager to volunteer again.

—

After assuring Lloyd that such dirty electioneering tactics were both illegal and deplorable, but not entirely unexpected, Sam sent him home with the promise of another outing on Saturday. “We'll get 'em back up,” Sam assured him, “and it might all turn out for the best. It could be just the thing to get our volunteers fired up.”

When the boy left for his mother's house, I sank down on the leather sofa and leaned my head back. “Oh, me, Sam,” I said, “who could've done such a thing? It feels so personal, so deliberate and malicious. I hate thinking that anybody could dislike us so much.”

Sam sat down beside me and took my hand. “You can't take it personally, Julia. It would've been the posters of whoever was running against Jimmy Ray. I'll talk to him tomorrow, let him know what's happened, and he'll give his volunteers a dressing down.”

“I don't think that's enough—they could do it again. I think you ought to tell the sheriff.”

“I will, and the newspaper, too. A little publicity will do wonders to keep it from happening again. Everybody will think just what you thought—that it was Jimmy Ray's doing, or at least with his approval. Jimmy Ray will know that, so he'll do what he can to put a stop to it.”

“Well, the whole thing has given me a moderate to severe
headache.” I rubbed my head to ease the pain, then scratched my shin to ease an itch. “I know it's early, but I'm going to bed.”

Sam stood, then held out his hand to me. “I'm right behind you.”

—

Walking along the sidewalk on my way to Hazel Marie's house the next morning, I tried to put the missing posters out of my mind. Sam was taking it so well—not happy about it, of course, but accepting it as part of local politics—but I was still angry for his sake. He'd been singled out and deliberately targeted. Well, I mean his posters had been, and though I wished no harm to anybody else, I'd have felt better if the posters of a few other candidates had suffered the same fate.

As I stepped up onto the walk leading to the front porch of Sam's beautiful old house, which the Pickens family now called home, I steeled myself to deal with Trixie again. Hazel Marie had called while Sam and I were having breakfast, asking me to come over to see how the makeover was progressing.

When I rang the doorbell, Trixie opened the door. She stepped back, giving me room to enter. “Good morning, Miss Julia,” she said, her eyes slightly glazed as if she were studying a script. Then, with a practiced smile, she went on. “Please come in. It's so nice to see you.”

“Well, it's nice to see you, too, Trixie, and to see you looking so well.” And she did. No miraculous makeover, of course, but an improvement nonetheless. Her hair had been expertly cut much shorter and in layers, removing the brassy pink-dyed ends. Hazel Marie had undoubtedly gotten Trixie to Velma, and done it without Trixie throwing a fit—a miracle in itself.

Trixie's face was lightly made up—perfectly appropriate for daytime, especially since the bronze eye shadow she'd been so partial to had been left off. A little gloss on her lips and a soft glow on her cheeks were evidence of Hazel Marie's deft hand with cosmetic brushes.

Most impressive, though, was the fact that she'd looked in my direction as she'd spoken—not directly
at
me, yet what a difference even that made! Well, the barely noticeable fine line of eyeliner around her eyes made a difference, too—maybe the most difference, for now her eyes were no longer lurking deep in her head, nor were they hidden beneath lowered lids. I must admit that at one time, I had assumed that the presence of black lines around a pair of eyes were an indication that the woman who'd drawn them was slightly on the fast side. My judgmental attitude, however, had slowly evolved over the years—perhaps I had become inured by the enhanced eyes of both Hazel Marie and Etta Mae.

Following Trixie into the living room, I noted that the few days under instruction had not done much for Trixie's figure. Bless her heart, she was born short and stocky, and remained that way. Still, the tailored Bermuda shorts and soft linen blouse—tucked into the waist—that she wore streamlined the bulky muscles underneath. But it was her erect posture and practiced carriage that did the most to disguise her unfortunate frame.

“Hazel Marie,” Trixie said, speaking clearly but as if from memory, “Miss Julia has come to call.”

Hazel Marie jumped up from the sofa and hurried over to clasp me in her arms. She couldn't help it, she just had to fling herself on anyone she cared for, so I had about become resigned to enduring a hug whenever we met.

“I'm so glad to see you,” Hazel Marie cried, and I knew she meant it—she always did. And as always, Hazel Marie was neatly dressed and carefully made up—an ideal model for Trixie to emulate. “What do you think of Trixie?” Hazel Marie asked. “Isn't she lovely? Velma did such a good job on her hair, and Trixie has just about mastered a curling iron. Sit down, Miss Julia, sit down. The little girls are napping, and James is fixing us some lemonade. We can have a nice visit.”

As we seated ourselves, I noticed Trixie run her hand under her bottom as if she were smoothing a skirt before sitting. I mentally
nodded, approving also of Trixie's straight back as she sat, ignoring the soft cushion at the back of her chair. She crossed her ankles, turned her body to the side, and rested her hands in her lap—a perfect and attractive pose, perfected no doubt by balancing a book on her head. I wondered how long she would hold it.

“Well, I must say, Hazel Marie,” I began, “that the two of you have really been working. Trixie, you are looking exceptionally well, and I can see that self-confident glow which we always have when we know we're looking our best. That makes striving to look our best worth the effort. I hope you never listen to those who push you to look
natural
—that's what we look like when we first get up in the morning. Just keep on doing whatever you're doing, because you are lovely. Just remember,” I couldn't help but add, “that pretty is as pretty does.”

Trixie blushed, ducked her head, and murmured, “Thank you.” Not quite in the mumbling way she used to respond, yet quite appropriately for a compliment.

“Here we go, ladies,” Granny Wiggins called out as she carried in a tray loaded with glasses, a pitcher of lemonade, and a plate of cookies. “James has got his hands in a mess of collard greens, so he give me this job. Mrs. Murdoch, how's the world treatin' you? Real nice to see you again.” Granny set the tray on the coffee table, then peered closely at me. “You're lookin' a mite peaked. You're not sick, are you?”

Don't you just hate it when people draw attention to your looks? I couldn't help it if I had a lot on my mind, worrying me half to death day and night.

“No,” I said, as serenely as I could manage, “I'm not ill. But you're looking well, Mrs. Wiggins.”

Granny Wiggins was Etta Mae's grandmother, a widow lady who lived on a no-longer-working farm out in the country. During Hazel Marie's weeks of distress when her twins were teething and James was laid up and she was run ragged trying to care for them all, Granny had come to help and stayed. I had fretted that she was too old, too thin, and too weak to be much use, but Granny
could outwork us all. In a housedress that looked recycled from a flour sack, a practical apron, stockings that were rolled down her pencil-thin legs to her high-top tennis shoes, she flitted around the house, dusting, vacuuming, crooning to the babies, and endearing herself to both Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens. In fact, Mr. Pickens had occasionally teased Hazel Marie by saying that he had a mind to trade her in for Granny Wiggins. Granny Wiggins could do it all with—as she said—one hand tied behind her back.

“Sit down, Granny,” Hazel Marie said as she reached for the pitcher. “Have some lemonade with us.”

“Well, I got lots to do,” Granny said, her hands on her hips. “Them bathrooms upstairs need a good scrubbin', but I reckon I can set for a minute.” And so she did, accepted a glass from Hazel Marie, then commenced to give us her assessment of whatever entered her head.

“Well, I tell you,” Granny began, “I been watchin' Little Miss Trixie get all gussied up, and, honey, you're lookin' good, no two ways about it. But let ole Granny tell you what'll really do the trick if it's a man you're a-lookin' for. Learn to cook, and I don't mean all this fancy stuff that'll give you heartburn and dyspepsy. You jus' ask the man you got your eye on over for supper, an' give 'em fried chicken from a young and tender pullet you raised yourself. Give him beans and corn and 'maters and cukes and whatever else you got outta your own garden, and he won't care what you look like. Top it off with a caramel cake you made from scratch, and all he'll say is, ‘What time's supper tomorrow?'”

Granny nodded her head sharply, as if she'd just given the last word on the subject. But she had a few more. “Now that's for summertime cookin'. If it's winter, just go out and get a fat hen that's too old and tough for fryin', and you just boil her down, and drop some dumplin's in it, and, honey, I tell you, he'll be a-knockin' on your door ever' night.”

She stopped, took a long swallow of lemonade, then went on. “'Course it don't hurt none to look as pretty as you can when you're dippin' all that up for him. But it's the cookin' that'll get 'em
ever'time. An' I oughta know. I kept a husband for fifty-some-odd years, an' been a widder ever since 'cause I don't want another'n. I already turned down three offers, an' they sure didn't come sniffin' around on the basis of my looks.” She stood up, put her empty glass on the tray, and began to take her leave. “Well, this ain't gettin' it done. Whoops!” she said, whirling around as the telephone rang. “Y'all just keep on a-settin', I'll get it. You ladies have a nice visit now, an', Miss Trixie, you want any more man-gettin' advice, you just come to me.”

We were left staring at one another, not knowing whether to laugh or to take her advice seriously.

“Well,” I said, “that was interesting, but, Trixie, I don't think you need worry about keeping chickens and working a garden. You just keep doing what Hazel Marie tells you, and you'll be fine.”

Trixie had, by this time, lost her model's pose and was now slumped back in the chair. “I guess,” she mumbled. “ 'Cept I like raisin' chickens, but Rodney don't. He don't even like chicken, period. He says he could go the rest of his life without ever seein' another pulley bone.”