Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (22 page)

Fairly content that Trixie was following instructions when she remembered them and giving Hazel Marie no trouble, I walked home, turning my mind to other problems such as Sam's senate campaign and Rodney's campaign for my property.

As for Rodney, I decided, he could just knock himself out running around in my woods, metal detecting and tying orange plastic strips on stakes, and whatever else he was doing—it would do him no good. Well, actually it might do him some good in another way. Maybe he'd get so tired of dealing with briars, chiggers, redbugs, and snakes that he give up his dream of building a mortuary and turn his mind to something else—maybe a hot yoga business. I had a building I'd be happy to rent to him.

When Hazel Marie had walked me to the door, she'd whispered that Trixie had not heard from Rodney, but that she was still convinced she'd win him back.

“How's she going to do that?” I'd said, whispering, too.

“I don't know,” Hazel Marie said with a frown, “but she seems to have some idea up her sleeve. She's, well, just real confident that she can bring him around.”

I thought about that as I walked, wondering what in the world Trixie could have in mind. It was a settled fact that, in spite of Hazel Marie's ministrations, the girl would never be what one would call a raving beauty. Markedly and impressively improved, I was happy to concede, but never strikingly beautiful. More's the pity, but how many of us actually are? We all have to work with what we're given and try to make the best of it.

And then there was Sam. I had a bad feeling about his chances for winning the senate race, and the thought of him being disappointed hurt me deep inside. I had gone with him to a few
dinners and rallies, but the crowds had been sparse. The small numbers hadn't seemed to discourage him, though. He kept assuring me that the word was getting around and that things were looking up.

“All of a sudden,” he'd said with a pleased smile, “we've had an influx of donations—a couple of big ones, too. That means people want to get in on the winning side.”

“Who were the big donors?” I asked, wondering if my bundling efforts were paying off after all.

“Right now, I just look at the bottom line.” Sam glanced at me, his eyes twinkling. “I don't want to be influenced by knowing how much or how little anybody's contributed. And I'll tell you, it's come in at just the right time—we were scraping the bottom of our campaign barrel. So now we'll be able to flood the local airwaves with radio and television ads. I think we're going to see an uptick in the polls, too.”

Sam was also enthusiastically planning an all-out effort on the Fourth of July when people would be out celebrating. The holiday was fast approaching, and the day would be filled with barbecues, hot dogs, watermelon cuttings, bluegrass bands, a little beach music, parades, and speeches from one end of the district to the other, lasting long into a fireworks-filled night. He was looking forward to it and I was trying to.

“You don't have to go to everything, honey,” Sam had said, considerate as always. “It's going to be a long day, and Millard has a bunch of volunteers eager to make every stop. We're going to load up a van and start with a parade that morning in Polk City, then on to the next event and on and on for the rest of the day.”

Just the mention of riding around all day in a van decided me. “Thank you, Sam. I'd like to see the fireworks out at the park that evening. I'll meet you there.”

—

When I got home from my visit with Hazel Marie and Trixie, I went in the kitchen door as we were wont to do and found Lillian
waiting for me. I didn't get two steps through the door before she was right up next to me, whispering.

“You got some more comp'ny,” she said. “I tole him I didn't know when you be back, but he said he don't mind waitin' in the parlor, and that's what he been doin'.”

“Who is it?”

“Miss Trixie's young man. That Rodney, what buries folks. I tell you, Miss Julia, I'm glad you home. I don't like bein' here by myself when he come callin'. No tellin' what he have in mind.”

“Oh, I know what he has in mind, and it's about time he declared himself. Don't worry, Lillian, he'll be doing no burying around here or anywhere else, if I have anything to say about it.”

As I marched into the living room, Rodney sprang from Sam's chair as soon as I appeared and greeted me with a broad smile.

“Miss Julia,” he said, taking a liberty that I wasn't sure he'd been granted, “so nice to see you again. I hope you don't mind my dropping in like this, but, like I always say, when something's on your mind, better to go on and get it off than to let it simmer.”

“Have a seat, Rodney,” I said, having one myself as I decided to discompose him by letting whatever was on his mind simmer a little longer. “Trixie isn't here, I'm sorry to say, but I'm surprised you've come calling on her. I hear that the two of you have parted ways.”

“Well, uh, no, I came to . . .”

“I think—if it matters what I think—that you were wise to slow things down a little. Trixie is still young in many ways and has a lot to learn. A sophisticated young man like you quite turned her head.”

He preened just a little. “Yes, I did my best to help, but found that we had little in common—chickens, for one thing. In fact, though, when I suggested that we see other people, it was really for her own good.”

“It's certainly proving to be,” I agreed. “She's like a different young woman.”

“Oh?” he said, betraying some dismay that Trixie might actually be better off without him.

“Yes,” I said, laying it on thick, “I just saw her this morning and could hardly believe the transformation. And to think that she's only just begun. There's no telling what she'll be like when she's through. The telephone has already started ringing.” That much was true.

“Well, I, uh,” Rodney stumbled, “I'm glad to hear it.” Then he pulled himself together, sat up straight, and plunged into business. “Miss Julia, I'm sorry that Trixie and I didn't work out, but I've come to make you an offer on some undeveloped land that's giving you hardly any return. If you'll hear me out, I think you'll be glad for such an opportunity, not only to be rid of it but to make a profit on it.” He leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “I understand that county taxes are going up next year, and what you're making on it now will barely cover the increase.”

“Hm-m, well, Rodney, I own several parcels around the county. Just which one are you referring to?”

“The one on Springer Road, which is mostly unused and a drain, I'm sure, on your finances.”

I didn't care to discuss my finances with him, so I continued to pretend I didn't know what he wanted. “You mean where the Hillandale Trailer Park is? The income on that is quite satisfactory. But of course you must mean the remainder of the property—I'd guess some twenty or so acres?”

“No, oh no,” Rodney said, shaking his head, “I mean all of it. Those trailers can be moved—trailer parks are a blight on the landscape anyway, don't you think?” When he saw my expression, he quickly corrected himself. “Well, not that one, of course. It's well kept, but I'm sure it's a constant battle with the types of people who come and go out there—you must get all kinds. I could take that worry off your hands.”

Types of people
stung me—I thought of Etta Mae and wanted to smack him. Before I could respond, he launched into his spiel.

“Here's the thing,” he said, hunching forward. “I have a partner who, at his request, shall remain nameless for the time being. He owns the farm to the north of the trailer park, and he'll give me a
long-term lease—and I mean a
long
-term—on one condition. I can't ever dig a grave and bury a body on it. You know why, don't you?”

I shook my head, although I knew a little about it.

“Once you have a grave on a site, no matter how old or even if no family is left or anything, the state gets involved. You wouldn't believe what it takes to get permission to exhume bodies and rebury them. I mean, for all intents and purposes, the site is just about ruined for anything else unless you got the money and the time to fiddle with all the legal maneuvering you have to do. So,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I'll use his land for my public buildings—the mortuary itself, the garage for the hearses, parking areas for people who come for visitations, and so on. And I'll clear your thirty acres, which is just the perfect size for the cemetery itself. It's mostly level and slightly rolling, and I've already marked some fine trees that I'm planning to leave. A lot of people want their loved ones to lie in the shade, although . . .” He stopped momentarily, frowning. “Although roots can be a problem. Anyway, when it's all planted with grass—that'll make it what's called a lawn cemetery—well, you won't find a finer cemetery anywhere. You'll be proud of it.”

“No doubt, but of course it's not quite thirty acres, which, I understand, is the minimum requirement.”

I wasn't sure, but I thought Rodney winced just a little. “Oh,” he said, visibly recovering, “you have an old plat that was done years ago, don't you? I've seen it, too, and it's not accurate. The property's just over thirty acres—the perfect size.”

“You've surveyed it? Without permission?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't do that. Just kinda eyeballed it, and got a professional guesstimate—it's a good bit over thirty acres. I'm sure of that, else I wouldn't be interested. Have to have the state's thirty acres, you know.” And he laughed as if we were in it together against the bureaucrats. “Now, Miss Julia, here's the thing. I'll give you a good price—how does three thousand an acre sound?”

“Like it wouldn't buy half of it.”

“What?” Rodney leaned back, mock surprise on his face. “But, Miss Julia, you won't get a better price than that.”

“Rodney,” I said, leaning toward him, “you must think I'm ill-informed. First of all, that property is not for sale, and second of all, it's worth triple what you've offered, and third of all, it still wouldn't be for sale if you did triple it.”

That stopped him, but only for a moment. He quickly recovered, smiled a knowing smile, and said, “I should've known that an intelligent woman like yourself would know what it's worth. But,” he went on with a shrug of his shoulders, “you can't blame me for trying. Okay, let's say eight thousand an acre, which is the going price for undeveloped land in that location. That'll make you a nice chunk of change.”

“I don't think you understand me. The property is not for sale.”

“But, but
why
? It's not doing you any good, and I really need it. I tell you what, let me talk to my partner and we might be able to go a little higher. How does that sound?”

“It sounds as if you're not hearing me, Rodney. The property is not for sale.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me, unable apparently to understand why I'd turn down a good offer on something I wasn't using. I let him sit and study.

Finally he said, “I get it now. You're upset with me because of Trixie. Right? That's it, isn't it?”

I laughed. “Oh, Rodney, you're so far off, it isn't even funny. I simply have no intention of selling, and I'd feel that way if Trixie had never left Georgia.” I made a move to rise, indicating that his visit was over, but he sat where he was. “Believe me, Trixie has nothing to do with this. My suggestion to you is to look for another location for your cemetery. Mine is unavailable and will not be available.”

Until pigs fly,
I wanted to add, recalling some medieval story Sam had told me. I got to my feet, looked down at him, and went on. “I know you're disappointed, but I could've saved you a lot of futile planning and unauthorized metal detecting if you'd come to me earlier. It's never been for sale and won't be in the future.”

He finally bestirred himself and walked to the door, his face working as if he were grinding his teeth. I could feel the frustration steaming off him.

At the door, he turned and said, “I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. That property is ideal for what I want, and I'm not giving up on it.”

“Rodney,” I said, controlling a little frustration myself, “if it'll make you feel any better, you can have it resurveyed. When you learn that it's less than thirty acres, perhaps you'll thank me for not taking your money for an unusable tract of land.”

His face lit up. “You'll go fifty-fifty on the surveying?”

“Absolutely not. You're the one who's interested in the size. You can pay for it.”

He turned to leave, then stopped and said, “I saw the
NO TRESPASSING
signs that nosy manager out there put up. She threatened to call the cops on me, so maybe you better tell her it's okay.”