Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (4 page)

I made another hospital visitation the following morning. Alone this time, for LuAnne had other things to do and Mildred was still in bed. I went not because I wanted to but because I was hoping to find Mattie mentally sound so I could stop fretting about having her care on our hands.

I just hated feeling guilty about the possibility of having to do something I not only didn't want to do but also didn't feel I should have to do. But that was the quandary I was in. So if Mattie showed any signs of being in the present day, rather than in another era, I was going to ask her about that contingency plan that Sam had mentioned.

How much better it would be to know exactly what she wanted, given her present inability to know not only what day it was but what year. Some people plan ahead, but most of us don't, assuming, I suppose, that we'll live forever. I've even heard of people who go so far as to plan their own funerals years before the need arises, even down to the particular hymns they want sung at the service. They say they do it to take the burden off their families, but I think some of those preplanners enjoy the thought of still being in control. LuAnne's husband, Leonard Conover, for instance, had already planned his funeral. He'd gone to the Good Shepherd Funeral Home, selected his casket, bought a cemetery lot, specified a vault, and paid for it all up front. But
that made sense for him, because who would want to leave such arrangements to somebody like LuAnne?

But such thoughts were too far in the future for Mattie. There was no reason in the world to think she wouldn't recover from a broken hip—many did and had a lot of good years ahead. Although, I conceded, most of them weren't burdened with as many years behind them as Mattie had.

_______

I walked down the hall toward Mattie's room, swerving around empty gurneys and wax polishers and the occasional robed patient shuffling along. As I neared her door, a short, paunchy man in a three-piece suit swung out into the hall, almost running into me.

“Pardon me, madam,” he said, without a glance but with a brief nod of his head as he strode with authority on down the hall, a briefcase swinging at his side.

Now, that looks like a lawyer,
I thought, and felt immeasurably better. Unless he'd been visiting Mattie's roommate.

As far as I could tell as I leaned over Mattie's bed, there was no marked improvement in her appearance. In fact, she looked worse. Her face was sallow and gaunt, the wrinkles deeper, and her hair in tangles, but this time her eyes were open.

“Mattie,” I whispered, “how're you feeling?”

She frowned as her gaze flitted around until it landed on me. “Did you find them?” she mumbled.

I frowned, too. “Find what?”

“My gloves,” she said somewhat sharply. “I have to have them.”

Now, what do you do in a case like that? Go along with whatever was on her mind, or tell her she had no use for gloves in a hospital bed?

“Well, Mattie,” I said, temporizing, “I'll try to find them. What do they look like?”

One hand—the one with a needle stuck in it—grabbed my arm. “My
kid
gloves, the long ones that go up over the elbow.
They're required.” She released my arm and turned away. “You know that as well as I do.”

“You're right, I do.” Deciding to humor her, I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “Our youthful days were exciting, weren't they?”

“Maybe for you,” she mumbled, trying to turn over. “But not for me unless you get busy and find my gloves.” Then she slung herself over in the bed and in a loud voice said, “I do my curtsy better than any of the other girls, and don't tell me I don't!”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't for the world. You do it beautifully, Mattie, so deep and graceful.” I stood up, deciding that I'd visited long enough. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring you? Besides your gloves, I mean.”

She glared at me. “Don't come back without them.”

“Yes, well, I'll look for them.” I backed away from the bed, turned, and started out of the room.

The woman in the other bed lowered her magazine as I walked past. “Good luck with that,” she murmured, but I hurried past, anxious to be on my way.

Seeing a nurse busily writing at her station, I stopped for a minute. “Excuse me, but can you tell me how Mrs. Freeman is doing?”

She looked up, frowned, and said, “Well, her surgery went quite well. We'll be getting her up later today and she'll soon begin physical therapy. There's every reason to believe she'll fully recover,”

“That's good to hear, but somehow she doesn't seem quite herself. Mentally speaking, that is.”

The nurse pushed back her bangs and sighed tiredly. “That's another problem, but fairly typical for her age. Perhaps you should speak to her physician. I really can't comment on that.”

“I understand,” I said, “but, I declare, it's distressing to hear a ninety-something-year-old woman go on and on about a debutante ball.”

_______

By the time I got home, I'd decided that I had done all I could do for Mattie and I could strike her off my list. I had no authority nor any particular desire to make arrangements for her, and all I can say about what I'd done so far is that I had felt
burdened
to do it. Pastor Ledbetter was often led to preach on the topic of bearing one another's burdens. It seemed, according to him, that the Lord puts these burdens—which I would call
worries
—on us so we'll do something about them.

Well, I was ready to have the burden of Mattie lifted from my shoulders because I couldn't figure out why the Lord would choose me to bear it. I mean, I wasn't any closer to her than a dozen other women I could name, so why had I been selected to worry about her?

I decided right then and there that other than visiting occasionally and taking the odd gift now and then—as others would also do—I'd done all that I was being called upon to do.

So by putting aside my fretting over Mattie, I decided that I should concern myself with more current problems—possibly those that I could do something about. To that end, I did what I'd been meaning to do for a day or so.

I phoned Mildred and asked if she wanted to take a walk with me.

“What for?” she asked.

“Why, just to get out for a while. It's a beautiful day, Mildred, and everything's in bloom. Besides, I need the exercise.”

“Well, you can get it without me. But why don't you stop by here when you're through and have a snack with me?”

I had to laugh, but that meant I'd have to come up with some other way to get Mildred moving. Maybe a pedometer would be just the ticket.

Just as I finished putting that on my shopping list for the next time I was downtown, the phone rang.

“Julia? It's Helen Stroud. How are you?”

Surprised at the call, considering how infrequently she was in contact these days, I responded warmly. “Helen! How nice to hear from you. I'm doing well. And you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm calling to see if you're still interested in a flower-arranging class. I remember your mentioning it at one time, and I'm getting a few people together to go over the basic elements of form, composition, and so on.”

“Well, I guess I'd about forgotten about that. To tell the truth, Helen, the only time I really think about it is in the fall when the garden club has the flower show. That's when I realize how little I know. Will you be teaching it?”

“Yes, but only because a couple of people have asked me to. I'm not an expert by any means.”

“Why, Helen, you're more of an expert than anybody else in this town. You've won more blue ribbons and best-in-shows than anybody I know.” Actually, Helen was an expert at anything she attempted because she studied and experimented with whatever took her interest. Take flower arranging, for example. She had a natural flair for anything artistic, and had trained herself to such an extent that she had become an accredited judge of flower shows.

And there was no telling what else she'd become, not out of personal interest, but rather out of personal need. Once a leading matron in town, wife of a successful businessman, keeper of a perfect home, and the serene and capable ideal of many of us, Helen had suffered a great downfall. Richard, her husband, had had money problems—not that he'd lost it, but that he'd taken it. Other people's, that is, and he ended up in one of those white-collar prisons in Florida after a very public arrest in Mildred's backyard. It had taken every cent the Strouds had to repay what Richard had stolen, and the shame of it all had taken the heart out of Helen. She had quickly sold their home, moved into a small apartment, taken whatever part-time jobs she could get, dropped out of or off all the clubs and committees that had counted on her leadership, and divorced Richard. I admired her more than ever.

All of this flashed through my mind as I realized that Helen might be indicating that she was ready to be sociable again. And
far be it from me to stymie her efforts. “So, yes, Helen, I would be interested in learning something besides how to cram a bunch of flowers in a vase. And if you're teaching, then all the better. Just let me know when you want to meet. And, oh,” I went on, “let me know whatever the class will cost, because I do hope you're charging for your expertise.”

“Thank you, Julia. I regret that I have to, but it will be a minimal charge. I'll let everybody know what they're to bring to each class, but it'll be mostly things you already have. A particular kind of container, for instance, or a piece of driftwood and one or two flowers will be all you'll need.”

“That sounds easy enough. I'm looking forward to it. Maybe I'll even put my name on my next flower show entry.”

I hung up feeling uplifted—not so much about learning to arrange flowers, but because I had missed Helen and was glad that she seemed to be coming out of her self-imposed exile. And if I was going to cut down on worrying about everybody and his brother, I would need other things to occupy my mind. Learning to arrange flowers in a formal manner could be just the thing to keep me busy—even though Japanese minimalism was not exactly my cup of tea.

In spite of my good intentions to lay aside the problems of others and tend to my own business, the Lord still had me in His sights. Before I knew it, there I was again—in spite of the prospect of taking ten thousand steps a day and placing one chrysanthemum on a piece of driftwood—with not only Mattie but Etta Mae and Mildred as well weighing heavily on my mind. Did that mean I was supposed to be doing something for them or to them or about them? If so, I wished to goodness I knew what it was.

I knew that there was a fine line between helping and meddling, and far be it from me to meddle in someone else's business. I would have to watch that and curb my impulse to jump in and help.

I had to double down on my intention to stick to my own knitting and let these so-called burdens roll right off. My first responsibility was to Lloyd and Sam. Then came Lillian, Hazel Marie, and their little ones, and after them would come a number of others. To my way of thinking, I had my hands full, and I intended to remind the Lord that He'd already piled my plate quite high enough.

_______

“Lillian,” I said, walking into the kitchen for a late morning cup of coffee. “Sam says I worry too much, so I'm turning over a new leaf.”

“Uh-huh, I b'lieve it when I see it.”

I turned to look at her. “Do you think I do?”

She laughed. “Miss Julia, you worry 'bout the sun comin' up.”

“Oh, I'm not that bad. But anyway, I'm putting a stop to it. I don't have to take on the problems of everybody I know, so I'm not doing it anymore. You want some coffee?”

“Yessum, I can stop for a minute.”

We settled at the table and I watched as Lillian stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. I started to caution her again, but stopped before a word slipped out. She knew I worried about her.

Instead, I looked away and said, “I've made up my mind, Lillian. In fact, I've already started to fill my time with something constructive, so I won't have time to worry about things I can't do anything about.”

“You stop all that worryin' you do, you better have a whole lot of something else to fill up the time.”

“I know, so I'm thinking about having a party, maybe a reception for Mattie, for one thing. That's if she gets well and regains her senses so she knows where she is. And for another, I'm going to be counting my steps around here, as well as learning something about putting flowers in a vase. But I need more than that. I'm also thinking of volunteering at the Literacy Council. Lillian, did you know that there're a lot of people—
adults,
I mean—who can't read?”

“Yessum, I know some what can't.”

“You
do
?”

“Yes'm, but they get along all right 'cause most things have pitchers on 'em, an' that's what they read.”

“Pictures? Like what?”

“Well, like a can of peaches have a peach painted on it, so you know you won't get beans when you open it up. And signs have pitchers, too. Like arrows pointin' the way or curves curvin' one way or the other. An' I 'spect they learn stop signs and such by heart, so they get along all right.”

“But they miss so much by not being able to read. What about books and magazines and, well, things like medical information?”

“They make do, Miss Julia, an' likely as not they got chil'ren what can read.”

“Well, that decides it. I'm going to spend some of my time helping someone learn to read. I can't fathom a life without that ability, and we take it so for granted. Why, Lillian, imagine Sam without a book at hand. He'd be a different person entirely.” I stopped and tried to imagine what Sam would be like if he couldn't read. Then I discounted that image—he would've learned somewhere along the way, either on his own or with the help of someone who could teach him.

And, of course, that's what people who went to the Literacy Council were doing, and I determined to be one of those someones who offered the help they needed.

I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the sense of well-being that swept over me at the thought of how noble it would be to open up the world to some benighted soul.

Just as I was about to announce to Lillian how I was going to allocate the time I spent worrying to something both constructive and fulfilling, the phone rang.

Lillian was quicker than I, as she usually was. To her, answering the phone was her right and privilege.

“Miz Murdoch's residence,” she intoned, then cut her eyes at me. “Yessir, she right here.”

She covered the receiver with her hand and held it out to me, whispering, “He say who it is, but I forget. He sound like he mean bus'ness.”

I took the phone. “This is Julia Murdoch.”

“Ernest Sitton, Mrs. Murdoch. Attorney at law. Forgive the intrusion on your day, but I think it's time to meet so that some urgent decisions can be made. When would be convenient for you?”

“I'm sorry?”

He repeated what he'd said, ending by saying, “I'm sure your
time is as limited as mine, so the sooner we get this done, the sooner it can be put to rest.”

My first thought was that somebody was suing me, and my heart rate sped up and my breath caught in my throat. I racked my brain to think of what I could've done to incur such a threat.

Clearing my throat, I clasped the phone tighter, and said, “It seems to me, Mr. Sitton, that you might've first contacted my attorney, Binkie Enloe Bates. And while you're rectifying that oversight, I shall be consulting my husband, Sam Murdoch, also an attorney at law, although no longer specifically
at law,
being retired.”

“Indeed. I only thought that it would be more to your liking for you to tell me what you have in mind so I could begin the proceedings. But it will certainly be a pleasure to see Sam again, and Ms. Enloe Bates as well, if that is your preference.”

That didn't sound like any lawsuit I'd ever heard of. Since when was a person being sued given a preference?

“So,” Mr. Sitton went on since I was being less than forthcoming, “perhaps you're still considering the various possibilities, but, having dealt with a number of these cases before, I may be able to help you come to some conclusions. I am simply offering my services, Mrs. Murdoch. Anything I can do to help you, I will be happy to do.”

And since when did a suer's attorney offer to help the one being sued? Mr. Ernest Sitton had the reputation of being an outstandingly aggressive lawyer, but surely he wouldn't be offering to represent both sides, would he? I'd never heard of such a thing.

“That's . . . that's very kind of you, I'm sure. I'll talk it over with Sam and Binkie, and let you know.”

“That will be fine,” he said. “But time does appear to be of the essence. Things continue to go downhill, and it is incumbent on you to stay apace. Legally speaking, that is, since you are responsible to the court for any decisions—or lack of same—that are made. Or not made, as the case may be.”

“Ah, Mr. Sitton,” I mumbled, then cleared my throat again.
“I'm afraid I'm not following you.
I'm
responsible to the court? What court? And what am I responsible for? If someone is bringing suit against me, then it would seem that all I'm responsible for is defending myself.”

There was silence on his end now. Then he did a little throat clearing of his own. “Mrs. Murdoch, I know of no one who is bringing suit against you. The court, of course, may become involved if you are unable to meet your obligations, but I'm sure the court will be understanding if you can present a petition with viable reasons for being unable to serve.”

“Oh,” I said with great relief, “I see. You're calling about jury duty. I can certainly serve if I don't have a conflict on my calendar. Even though, I think at my age, I would be automatically excused.”

“No, no, not jury duty. And I assure you, madam, I would not discuss a lady's age for all the tea in China. Mrs. Murdoch,” he said, then paused as if thinking how he should go on, then went on anyway. “Mrs. Murdoch, I am speaking of the power of attorney-in-fact as well as the medical power of attorney that Mrs. Mattie Freeman has granted you, which means that you are in charge not only of directing her medical care but also of making all monetarily related decisions. So I'm urging you to shoulder those responsibilities as quickly as possible. Further delay may prove disastrous. Decisions must be made immediately.”

The phone slid out of my hand and dropped into my lap. Lillian grabbed it and spoke into it, “She be back in touch,” clicked it off, then took me by my shoulders.

“Miss Julia, you all right? You 'bout to slide outta that chair. Come on now, set up straight an' tell me what he say. Here, drink some of this coffee. It cold, but it don't matter. There you go, you feelin' better now?”

“Lillian,” I managed to say after a hard swallow, “I may
never
feel better. You won't believe what the Lord has burdened me with now.”

“You set right there,” Lillian said firmly. “Look like this a case for Mr. Sam.”