Miss Julia Hits the Road Page 9

  But not today, for James, when he answered the phone, told me that he didn’t know where Sam was or when he’d be back.

  “I know where he is, James,” I said. “He’s helping the Willow Lane folks. But didn’t he tell you how long he’d be?”

  “No’m, I jus’ seein’ after Mr. Wills and Mr. Washington, what spend the night here. Mr. Sam, he tell me to feed ’em good an’ he be back sometime.”

  “Thay Lord,” I said. “Well, tell Mr. Sam when he does come home that Lillian’s making cakes and pies right and left, and that we’ll expect him to come over tonight and help us eat them.”

  “Yessum, I do that.”

  “Oh, and James,” I said, right before hanging up. “I am so glad that you didn’t live on Willow Lane, and therefore don’t have to look for a place to live.”

  “Yessum, me too. I been livin’ over Mr. Sam’s garage a long time now, ever since he retired. But I sure do hurt for Miss Lillian. You tell her that for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I will, and I know she’ll appreciate it.” Again, I almost said my good-byes, but another thought came to me. “James, have you noticed any changes in Sam lately? I mean, anything that we ought to be concerned about?”

  There was silence on the line, and I prepared myself for a dire diagnosis. Then he said, “No’m, I don’t see no changes, ’cept for that motorsickle he got out there, what pop an’ growl an’ carry on loud enough to wake the dead. But he like it, so I get used to it, too.”

  “Ah, well,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t say more and put ideas in his head. “I worry about him falling off the thing, but just give him my message, James, and I’ll talk to you later.”

  I did get off the phone then, and sat for a minute trying to decide what to do next. I knew what I should do, which was see if Clarence Gibbs would sell the property instead of erecting a bottling plant on it, which, if you want my opinion, was the most foolish idea I’d ever heard. There was no way I could see that he’d ever get a return on his investment. He needed to have that pointed out to him, so he’d listen to an offer to purchase.

  But before tackling Clarence Gibbs, I looked up Helen Stroud’s number and called her.

  “Helen, this is Julia Springer,” I said. “I have a proposal for the garden club, and I hope you’ll give it serious consideration. Now, I know I’m no longer a member, but I left in good standing, so I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  “Why, Julia,” she said, just as gracious as she could be. “Of course not. We do miss you, but I know you have your hands full now.” Then she quickly moved past that since she was, like so many people, uncomfortable with bringing up Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd and how they came to live with me. “Now, what can we do for you?”

  I told her about the soon-to-be destruction of Willow Lane, which she already knew about from a number of other telephone calls, and about my idea for starting a rebuilding fund for the people who’d lived there.

  “Oh, it is just so unfair,” Helen said. “You wouldn’t believe how upset people are about it. Why, Marlene Nixon called a while ago, practically in tears because the lady who does her washing and ironing is moving to Brevard to stay with family over there, and Marlene doesn’t know what she’s going to do about her laundry.”

  “Well, I think we need to set our sights a little higher than Marlene’s laundry problems,” I said. “Now, Helen, if people want to help, and I certainly hope the garden club does, here’s one way we can do it.”

  I told her about the home tour that Hazel Marie and I had come up with, and she was just delighted with the idea. “Oh, Julia, I love that idea. I’ve long thought that the club ought to be doing more for the community than just planting bulbs at the Town Hall.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, much relieved that maybe this would be one thing I wouldn’t have to do. “I know that the club will do a marvelous job, and I can leave the planning, the ticket sales, the advertising, and the actual tour entirely up to you. In the meanwhile, I’ll see that one of the banks sets up an account for the fund, so it’ll be ready for all the deposits we’ll have.”

  I’d probably said enough, but then thought I’d better let her know what else I expected from the club. “Oh, and Helen, I don’t know which houses you’ll want on the tour, but I was thinking that the Whitaker house would be good, and that modern thing somebody famous is building up on the mountain. And, of course, my house would be available. You know, I’ve completely redecorated the living and dining rooms since the garden club met here a few years ago, so everything is fresh and very different from what it once was. I know people will want to see it.”

  She thought those were great ideas, as I’d known she would. We finished our conversation and I was able to turn my mind to other things, knowing that the home tour was now in good hands. One thing I’ve learned in my years of volunteer work, if you want something done and done right, give it to a group of women to do.

  As I finished my task I heard Hazel Marie drive in and car doors slamming, so I went downstairs to see what she’d bought for Lillian. I probably should’ve stayed where I was.

  “Just wait, Lillian,” Hazel Marie was saying as I entered the kitchen and saw her dump a pile of boxes and shopping bags on the table. “Wait till you see what I got you. Now, of course, if something doesn’t fit or you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.”

  Her eyes were sparkling at having had a successful shopping trip. I’d never considered shopping anything but a chore, but Hazel Marie enjoyed it ever so much now that she had the wherewithal to do it.

  She turned to me. “Come look, Miss Julia. I got her the prettiest things I could find, and I want you to just see the lingerie I bought.”

  Lillian stood by the kitchen counter, frowning at the pile on the table.

  “I don’t know ’bout no lingerie,” she said. “I usually jus’ wear underwear.”

  “Oh,” Hazel Marie said, laughing, as she began to dig into the boxes and bags. “That’s what I mean. But there’s no reason not to have on something pretty underneath. It makes you feel so, well, nice.”

  “I don’t know I want no underwear makin’ me feel that way,” Lillian mumbled, still standing some way from the table.

  “Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, paying little attention to Lillian’s hesitancy. “I went by the uniform shop, too, but they were out of white ones in Lillian’s size. They’ll call us when they come in. They had her size on file, but I’d already done most of my shopping by the time I got there, so I might’ve gotten things a little on the small side. But,” she quickly added, “we’ll exchange whatever doesn’t fit. Now, Lillian, I want you to try everything on so we can see what needs to go back.”

  “Well, I better watch these cakes I jus’ put in the oven,” Lillian said. “I don’t want ’em to burn.”

  “I’ll watch them,” I told her, going over to her and placing my hand on her arm. “Lillian, you know you need clothes, so let us do this for you. You see the pleasure Hazel Marie is getting from this, and we want you to enjoy it, too.”

  She turned away, saying, “I know, Miss Julia, and I ’preciate it more’n I can say. It jus’ do me in that I too worriet to know what I was doin’ when I packed ever’thing.”

  “I’d have been just as bad, or worse,” I assured her. “But run on, now, and try them on. And don’t hesitate to say if you don’t like something.” Then, in an effort to lighten her up, I went on, “I’ll tell you the truth, I’d hate to have Hazel Marie picking out clothes for me. She’d probably come back with a miniskirt and a halter top, and wouldn’t I look a sight then?”

  The picture I conjured up brought us all to laughter, which was what I’d intended. Hazel Marie handed Lillian an armload of boxes and shopping bags and, taking some herself, they left to go upstairs for a formal fitting. I glanced through the glass door of the oven at the cake layers that were just beginning to rise, then began to rinse the mixing bowls Lillian had used, wondering what else I could do to lift
her spirits.

  Hearing Hazel Marie and Lillian coming down the stairs, I quickly put the last mixing bowl in the dishwasher, and prepared myself to witness Lillian’s new wardrobe. Hazel Marie was chattering on in a reassuring way, telling Lillian as they passed through the dining room that she shouldn’t worry, she’d exchange everything. Lillian was uncommonly quiet.

  “I declare, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said as they came through the swinging door. “I can’t believe how far off I was. Lillian always looks so slim and trim that I thought I could guess her size.” She laughed, trying to put a good face on the fact that Lillian had been considerably larger than all of Hazel Marie’s selections.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true, for as Lillian trailed in behind her, I heard a swish with every step. My mouth dropped open as she came into full view. My word, she was a sight in one of those nylon sportswear suits that people run around town in, trying to sweat off their extra pounds. It was navy blue with a red stripe down the side of each leg and a zipped-up top. The expression on Lillian’s face made me close my mouth and try to pretend that such a getup was perfectly normal for her size and shape. I gaped again, though, as I noticed the huge tenny-pumps on her feet. They looked like boats, but then, they did on everybody else who wore the things, too.

  “Don’t you say nothin’, Miss Julia,” Lillian warned me, as she lifted her head high and sailed over to the oven to check on her cakes, that nylon material rustling between her thighs with every step. “This the only thing what fit, an’ leastways I won’t mess up my good church dress.”

  “It’s very becoming,” Hazel Marie said with a tiny frown on her face. “Don’t you think, Miss Julia? Everybody wears them, you know, because they’re so comfortable.”

  “You look fine, Lillian,” I said, lying through my teeth, just as Hazel Marie was doing. “Hazel Marie, why don’t you go ahead and take the other things back and get the right sizes? No matter how good this outfit looks, she’s going to need something else to wear.

  “But before you go,” I went on, “what do you think of getting Sam and Mr. Pickens, and Coleman, and maybe Binkie if she feels up to it, over here tonight to discuss what we can do to get the fund drive off the ground? We’re going to need help to eat all this food Lillian’s fixing, anyway.”

  Hazel Marie twitched her face into a thoughtful expression and said, “Well, I want to do whatever I can to help, so I’ll call Sam and Binkie and Coleman for you if you’ll call the other one.”

  “What other one?”

  “Why, J. D., of course.”

  “Don’t you want to call him?”

  “I’m not speaking to him.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Well, I hope you can put up with his presence because I need a calm head to deal with Sam.” I stopped, struck with the thought that I wouldn’t ordinarily describe Mr. Pickens as having the calmest head around. Still, if you kept him away from trashy women and pitchers of beer, he could pretty much be counted on.

  “I been tellin’ you,” Lillian said as she began to peel apples at the sink, “they ain’t nothin’ wrong with Mr. Sam, an’ you need to quit thinkin’ they is.”

  “Well,” I said and let it drop. I knew what I knew, and I knew that Sam needed some careful watching, which I intended to provide regardless of what anybody else thought.

  Chapter 13

  After going upstairs and making sure no one could hear me, I nervously called Clarence Gibbs and made an appointment with him. Then I got in the car and backed out of the driveway in my usual careful manner. Two cars, one coming from each direction, had to wait for me to straighten out and get in my lane, but drivers on Polk Street were accustomed to doing that.

  I parked and walked into Patrick’s Pancake House, some little distance from the three blocks of downtown. Since it was mid-afternoon and long after breakfast time, the place was practically empty, so I had no difficulty finding Clarence Gibbs in the red leatherette booth at the far end of the restaurant. Why he’d wanted to meet in such a place, I didn’t know, but I’d learned since Wesley Lloyd’s demise that business is often conducted in unlikely places.

  He elevated himself slightly from his seat as I approached, giving me the simpering smile that he bestowed on all the women at church. I’d never had any dealings with the man before, so I tried to make a quick assessment as I took in his tan, silky-looking suit, narrow tie, and white no-iron shirt. I declare, I know better than to judge people by their looks, but what else do you have to go on when you don’t know a person? Trying not to stare, I took in his five o’clock shadow, even though it was barely mid-afternoon, and the dark circles under his eyes. And his posture! Even seated, his shoulders slumped over the coffee mug in front of him, and I knew, having seen him walk down the aisle at church often enough, that his coat tail hiked up in the back from the way he carried himself.

  “Mrs. Springer,” he acknowledged me with a nod. Then he settled himself again after his gesture of courteousness and motioned me to the opposite seat. With another gesture of considerably less courteousness, he raised his hand toward the waitress at the cash register and called out, “Another cup over here, Miss.”

  “No need to order for me, Mr. Gibbs,” I said, placing my pocketbook by my side and loosening my coat. “I’ve come to talk business.”

  Nevertheless, a mug of steaming coffee suddenly appeared before me as the waitress said, “You want anything else, hon?”

  Taken aback at the express service, I managed to say, “No, thank you.”

  Mr. Gibbs’s eyes sparkled as he watched me with that little half smile that verged on a smirk. “I tip heavy,” he said, as if explaining something to a socially inept person, which I most certainly was not.

  “I daresay,” I replied, pushing the mug away. “Now, Mr. Gibbs, I’m here to talk about that property on Willow Lane. I’ve been over there this morning, and I’ll tell you it is a doleful scene with all those people being turned out on the street and those wrecking machines already working away.”

  “Well,” he said, his face drooping in what I might have mistaken for concern if I hadn’t known he was the cause of the problem. “It is a shame, and that’s a fact. I didn’t expect ’em to wait till the last minute, though. I give ’em plenty of time to find somewhere to move to.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the law requires you to do that. But, Mr. Gibbs, you of all people know how few places there are to rent in this town—especially for those who can’t afford much. Those people are surely up a creek, and it seems to me that you’d want to keep those houses up, refurbish them a little, and continue to have a nice income.”

  He began shaking his head before I’d even finished. Then he picked up a salt shaker, turning it around and studying it. “I got no plans to stay in the rental business. Why, I couldn’t remodel or replace those houses and get a good return on ’em to save my life.” He pursed his lips and shook his head again. “No, ma’am, a bidnessman got to look after bidness first and foremost. Now, I’m sorry for those folks, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to the salt shaker again.

  “But what will they do?” I asked. “You performed a real community service, Mr. Gibbs, by providing affordable housing for people who don’t have much, and I’d think you’d at least consider their present plight.”

  He tried to straighten up but his shoulders wouldn’t let him. “Now, Mrs. Springer, I’m sure you understand that I’m not in the bidness of community service any more than you are.” I reared up at that, offended at being categorized as a business-at-any-cost property owner. But before I could set him straight, he went on. “I pay my taxes just like everybody else, and I say let the gov’ment worry over this. They got every kind of program you can think of—which is paid for by you and I—and I just don’t think I ought to be doin’ any extra subsidizin’.”

  “I understand that,” I said, and I did. I’d resent it, too, if anybody expected me to replace a government program. “So that brings me to this question. Would you co
nsider selling the property and, if so, for how much?”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “You interested?”

  “I could be.”

  “Well, selling is an option, I grant you.” He rubbed his fingers across his mouth as he gazed out at the blacktopped parking lot, then at the scrubby bushes next to the sidewalk and the cars passing beyond that. Then he turned back to me and said, “But I been working on plans for that piece of property.”

  I let out a long breath. “I’ve heard, Mr. Gibbs. Everybody’s talking about that water you’re planning to bottle out there. But do you really think that’s a good business move?”

  “Yes, ma’am. With the right kind of marketing and advertising, it’d be worth a fortune.”

  “Yes, and what will all that cost you? Besides, if you market that cow pasture water as being beneficial to men only, you’ve cut your customers in half right there.” I was most uncomfortable touching upon such delicate matters, but he needed to see what he was up against. “Consider that against a quick return if you sell the property. Money in your pocket, instead of a constant outgo for the next several years. Now, what would you take for it, if you decided to sell?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, still giving me the occasional sharp glance. “I had it surveyed not too long ago, and there’s ten acres out there, more ’r less. Plus, it’s not zoned so it can be used for anything. That makes it a real desirable piece of real estate.”

  I knew what he was doing—building it up before hitting me with what he’d take for it.

  “It’s right next to a residential area,” I reminded him, “which limits its uses.”

  “Not necessarily.” He raised a finger, not quite pointing it at me. “It includes that old pasture, which I own, too. So, you put all that together and you got a real nice piece of property. Not another one that size anywhere close to town.”