Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind (22 page)

“These’ll be dry in a few minutes,” Lillian said, bundling up Binkie’s wet clothes. “Who wants coffee? Or lemonade, or what? Got some chocolate cake, too.”

Lillian passed around the dessert plates and poured coffee. It was the first time I’d seen Coleman ignore any food Lillian put in front of him. He was paying a lot of attention to Binkie, though.

“Thanks, Miss Lillian,” Binkie said, then looked across the table at me. “Miss Julia, I know you wonder what I’m doing, calling on you this time of day. I could’ve asked you to come to the office, but I thought it’d be better to talk here.”

That sounded serious. I glanced at Lillian as she stopped in the middle of the room and lifted her eyebrows. What did Binkie know, and who’d told her?

“What?” I asked, fearful of her answer.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Binkie said. She glanced at Coleman, then looked back at me. “Would you rather we talked about this in private?”

“I don’t think so, since I’m doing fine. Why’d you think I wasn’t?” The only thing to do was brave it out and deny everything. I tried a laugh, but it was a weak one. “What is this? Everybody and his brother is suddenly concerned about my health. First Pastor Ledbetter, then LuAnne Conover, and now you.” I looked around at all of them as they looked back at me. “Why, Binkie? What’ve you heard?”

“I’ve had a few phone calls,” she said, clipping her words as she did in her office. “And, since you’re my client, I wanted to be sure you were all right. I see you are, so that’s all there is to it.”

“No, that’s not all there is to it,” I said, about ready to break down with the strain. “Somebody’s telling tales, and I want to know what it’s about. Now, what’s supposed to be wrong with me? Heart attack? Gallbladder trouble? Brain tumor?”
Nymphomania?

“Nothing like that,” Binkie said. “Don’t be concerned about it. It’ll die down.”

“Binkie Enloe,” I said, “that’s not good enough. I want to know what’s being said because whatever it is, it’s not true.”

“Well,” she said with some reluctance. She scraped up some chocolate icing with the side of her fork, looked at it, then at me. “This is just street talk, but I’ve heard that you might be slowing down. You know, getting a little forgetful, a little confused. All perfectly normal after a certain age.”

“Me?” My mouth dropped open, not knowing if this rumor was tied to my recent shameful display or if it was something new. “They’re saying I’m getting senile? Is that it? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Lillian stood stock-still in the middle of the room, and Coleman listened with a bemused smile on his face. But this time it was for me and not Binkie.

“Lillian,” I said, “did you hear that? Am I senile? Do I look confused to you? Do I forget things?”

“No more’n you ever did,” she said.

“Who’s saying these things, Binkie? Where’d you hear them?” I swallowed hard, wondering if Binkie would help them put me away. By this time, I didn’t trust anyone.

“A couple of people from your church called me. They were concerned, wanted to know what they could do to help.”

“Thay Lord,” I said, slumping in my chair. “And they sent you to check up on me?” Pastor Ledbetter had promised not to tell, but it crossed my mind that he might’ve felt the Lord leading in a different direction.

“No, not me,” she said, slicking a strand of hair behind an ear. “I’m looking after your interests. Somebody else is trying to determine how competent you are.”

“Who?”

“Your pastor, Mr. Ledbetter,” she said. “And some psychologist from a Christian counseling service. A new member of your church, I believe.”

“Dr. Fred Fowler? Is that who you’re talking about?” I gasped and buried my face in my hands to hide the red flush that burned
through my skin. My Lord, that peaked little man was a mind expert and he’d said I was crazy. And no wonder, after what I’d done to him.

And my pastor knew all about it, maybe suspected something lurking in my character even before I’d given them proof. I jerked my head up, recalling my earlier suspicions about the two of them. Maybe they’d planned that fiasco at the church. And how had Pastor Ledbetter even known to read up on nymphomania, and him a man of God, unless somebody had put it in his mind? It certainly wasn’t covered in any theological library I’d ever seen.

I narrowed my eyes, thinking
entrapment
.

“Do you know what they’re going to do if they decide I’m failing before their eyes?” I wanted to fall on my knees and beg Binkie to save me, but I didn’t want to tell her why I needed saving.

“I’m not sure, Miss Julia,” Binkie said. “But there’s nothing they can do without a competency hearing, which, I warn you, is not hard to get. I want you to watch what you do and say around them. Don’t give them any ammunition, so to speak. You can call me anytime you get concerned about anything. Now, Lillian, if my clothes are dry, I’d better head on home. The rain’s slacked off some.”

I
SAT THERE
, too stunned to be hospitable, and let Lillian get her clothes. I had enough awareness to note that Binkie was a sight in her wrinkled linen, but she wouldn’t let Lillian plug in the iron.

I was still sitting and staring into space while Coleman insisted on driving her home, still sitting and staring when they said good-bye and left, and still sitting and staring when Lillian came to the table and stared back at me.

“It ain’t like you to take this sittin’ down,” she said. She put her hands on the table and leaned over toward me. “I thought you gettin’ some gumption since Mr. Springer passed and left you more’n anybody can spend in a lifetime. Now you actin’ like you used to when he was alive, all shriveled and shrunk up, takin’ whatever anybody hand out and scrungin’ down in yo’self. That preacher ain’t got no hol’ over you, so what you doin’ actin’ like you doin’?”

“Oh, Lillian,” I whispered. Tears stung my eyes, and the pain in my chest spread out to burn in my throat. “Seems like everybody’s got some kind of hold over me. And my pastor…It just hurts, that’s all.”

“It can’t hurt if it ain’t so. All you got to do is show ’em yo’ mind as good as it ever was.”

“I thought I was already doing that. But there’s a lot you don’t know, Lillian.”

“I know all I need to know, an’ then some. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with yo’ mind and you know it. Law, Miss Julia,” she said, straightening up and shaking her head, “ain’t nobody get the best of you yet. Why you think anybody start now? Now, get outta that chair an’ help me get some supper for Miss Hazel Marie and that little honey upstairs.”

By the time we’d fixed trays to take to them, Coleman had called to say he was eating with Binkie and wouldn’t be home till late. Which was pretty quick work on somebody’s part. So Lillian and I fixed trays for ourselves and carried them all up to Miss Puckett’s room.

“A picnic!” Little Lloyd cried. “I’ve never had a picnic before!”

“Well, you have one now,” I said, and busied myself distributing trays, helping Hazel Marie sit up in bed, and fussing at Lillian for not wanting to eat with us. “Sit down and eat, for goodness’ sake,” I told her. “If, that is, you’re not too good for us.”

“I’ll eat with you, Miss Lillian,” Little Lloyd said, hopping off the bed where he’d been sitting with his mother.

“Well, come on over here, honey,” she said, “an’ put yo’ tray on this desk next to mine.”

“I declare, Miss Lillian,” Hazel Marie said, “I believe you’re gonna steal my little boy away from me.”

“No’m, I’m not gonna steal him, I’m jus’ gonna love him up for you.” Lillian patted his shoulder and he smiled like he couldn’t be happier.

“Speaking of stealing little boys,” I said, “what’re we going to do about Brother Vern and this kidnapping charge? We can’t keep you two shut up in this room forever.”

“I know, Miz Springer,” Hazel Marie said, leaning back against her pillow and staring up at the ceiling. “And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. You, too, Miss Lillian. I ought to be able to get out of your hair by tomorrow, if you can put up with us one more night.”

I put down my fork. “And just where’re you going to go?”

“I don’t know. Back to my mama’s house, I guess. Her new husband won’t like it, what with his three kids there already, but I don’t know what else to do. Junior’ll have to start to school pretty soon, so I’ll have to settle somewhere and find me a job.”

Silence settled over the room, and I felt Lillian glaring at me. “There’s no need to make a hasty decision,” I said. “Besides, just going off on your own won’t solve the problem if Lillian’s arrested for kidnapping.”

“Lord, don’t say sucha thing!” Lillian stopped eating and stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I went on. “I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was, we may all have a charge of kidnapping hanging over us and we need to take care of that before going our separate ways. Now, Miss Puckett, think hard. Could Mr. Springer’ve made your uncle Little Lloyd’s guardian and you not know about it?”

“No, ma’am! He wouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Well, as long as the police think he did, we can’t just announce the boy’s whereabouts and go on about our business. I want you to think now. Did Mr. Springer indicate in any way that he might do that? Could he’ve told or just implied to Brother Vern that he was going to do it?”

“No way, Miz Springer,” Hazel Marie said. She moved her tray off her lap and sat up as straight as she could manage. “Wesley Lloyd wouldn’t’ve done any such a thing. He always said I took good care of Lloyd, and besides, he couldn’t stand Brother Vern.”

That was one thing I could still agree with Wesley Lloyd about.

“All right,” I said. “If you’re sure about it, then we can admit we’ve got the child and the police can’t take him away from us. If Brother Vern raises a fuss, we’ll demand to see a legal document. Then we’ll turn around and accuse him of kidnapping.”

“How you do that?” Lillian asked. “You the one let this chile go off with him. That ain’t no kidnapping.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Lillian,” I said. “The least he’s guilty of is false pretenses. Anyway, what we need is something to hit him with to counteract his charges against us. Miss Puckett, you haven’t had enough to eat. You’re skinny as a rail, as it is.”

“Brother Vern’s looking for something,” Hazel Marie said, picking at a cucumber slice. “I told you how he kept wanting to know what Wesley Lloyd left us, and how he was going to use Junior to make me give it to him. I still don’t know what he thought I had, ’cause I don’t have anything.”

“He probably thought you had a bank account,” I said. “Or maybe the deed to your house. There’s no telling what he thought, and from my recent experience, there’s no telling what Wesley Lloyd could’ve actually done.

“Now, if you’re sure we’re safe from Brother Vern, the thing to do is bring in Lieutenant Peavey and tell him to call off the Spartanburg police and the FBI. We’ll tell him all about Brother Vern. After we accuse him of everything we can think of, not even social services would put a child in his hands. But before we do that, I think I better talk to Sam and Binkie, just to be on the safe side.”

I
WENT DOWN
to the kitchen the following morning, way before my usual time of rising. Switching on the coffee, I pulled my robe closer against the coolness left by the thunderstorm. Wesley Lloyd’d had firm ideas about living on schedule. There’s a time, he’d often said, for sleeping and a time for waking. Of course, his
Thursday night bedtime didn’t stick to the schedule, but I guess he didn’t count that, since he’d likely been in bed part of the time at Miss Puckett’s house.

One of the nice things about being a widow, though, was that you could pretty much do what you wanted to without getting any cold looks or sharp words about it. I found I liked going to bed and getting up whenever the spirit moved me. And I liked not having somebody asking if I was sick or if my conscience was hurting me if I broke that somebody’s routine.

So, I sat there in the quiet kitchen, drinking coffee and considering all the things that I needed to straighten out: what to do about Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd, what to do about Lieutenant Peavey and the kidnapping charge, what to do about Pastor Ledbetter and the threat he held over my head, and how to fix Brother Vern’s little red wagon.

I stiffened and looked around the kitchen. I’d heard something, a scratching or scuttling sound. I thought of the night Hazel Marie’d shown up at the back door, and tiptoed over to peek outside. Nobody there, but as I turned toward the table I heard it again.

The pantry, I thought. My next thought was mice. And I shuddered at that thought. I stood still, listening. The refrigerator clicked on, but nothing else stirred. I wasn’t eager to confront a mouse, but neither did I want to eat anything that’d been rodent-nibbled. I looked around for something to throw and grabbed a saucepan by the handle.

I crept to the pantry door, leaning against it and listening. Nothing. But I had heard something, so something was in there. I jerked open the door.

“Scat! Shoo! Get outta there, you nasty things!” I cried, holding the pan high.

Nothing moved. I lowered the pan, thinking maybe Pastor Ledbetter was right on the money in more ways than one. Maybe
I was beginning to hear things now. I started to turn away, but then I heard a definite hiccup and a muffled sob.

“Who is that? Who’s in there?”

Little Lloyd answered from behind a stack of Bounty paper towels. “It’s me. Please don’t shoot.”

“Don’t shoot!” I exclaimed, and started laughing. “Child, I’m not going to shoot you! What’re you doing in there? Come on out here and talk to me.”

He edged out, ducking as he emerged from under a shelf. He wore the cowboy pajamas I’d bought him, and he had his Winn-Dixie sack in his hand. His hair, mussed from sleep, stood up at various points on his head. His glasses were crooked on his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, wiping his teary face.

“What’re you sorry about? I don’t care if you want to sit in the pantry at five o’clock in the morning, but sitting at the table is more comfortable. You want some coffee? Or a glass of milk?”

“Maybe some coffee, if you don’t mind.” He stood there in his baggy pajamas with his paper sack clutched to his chest, and I noticed a fine tremor running across his shoulders.

“Are you cold?”

“No’m. I just didn’t want to bother you.”

I poured a cup of coffee and set it on the table.

“You couldn’t bother me, Little Lloyd,” I said, pulling out our chairs. “Come sit down. I’m glad to have your company.”

“Yes’m.” He sugared and creamed his coffee with a heavy hand and, as he stirred, I wondered how he could drink the concoction. But to each his own.

I said, “Don’t tell Lillian I gave you coffee, okay?”

He glanced up at me, saw me smiling, and smiled back. “Okay.”

“So,” I said. “We’ve got to get you and your mother settled, don’t we? School’s going to start pretty soon.”

“Yes’m.”

“You looking forward to living with your grandmother?”

“No’m, I don’t reckon I am.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged and looked around the kitchen. “I like it here.”

“Well,” I said, surprised, “I’m glad you do. But I expect you’ll get used to whatever your mother decides on, don’t you think?”

“Yes’m, pro’bly so.”

We sat in silence, drinking our coffee and waiting for daylight. I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about except the things that were worrying me, which weren’t fit to share with a child.

He set his cup down and straightened his shoulders from their habitual slump. His eyes darted around from me to the table and back again. He took a deep breath. “Miz Springer?”

“Yes?”

“If somebody gave you something to keep, what would you do?”

“Why, I guess I’d keep it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes’m, I would.” He lifted the cup with both hands to his mouth, and blew on the hot coffee. Then he set the cup down without drinking.

He said, “’Cept, maybe you’d need to know how long to keep it. Wouldn’t you?”

I made a show of considering the question, twisting my mouth in deep thought. “I suppose so. You mean, I take it, if this somebody hadn’t told you when to give it back?”

“Yes’m, but more than that. I mean, what if you can’t give it back?”

“Ah,” I said. “Like, if somebody gave you something to keep and you happened to lose it?”

“Oh, no’m!” He looked at me, eyes wide at the very thought. “No’m, I wouldn’t never lose it.”

“Well, I was just speaking hypothetically, you know.”

“What? I mean, ma’am?”

“Hypothetically. Just in general, so to speak. I didn’t mean to suggest that you would.” Though of course that’s what I’d assumed the conversation was about.

I said, “Let’s start over. You want to know what I’d do if somebody gave me something to keep for them. I haven’t lost it, but I can’t give it back. And you want to know how long I should keep it?”

He nodded, watching me intently. Talking to a child wasn’t proving all that hard to do.

“Let me think,” I said, patting my mouth with my fingers and studying the problem. “I need some more information. It’s not broken, is it? That’s not the reason you can’t give it back?”

“No’m.”

“And you still have it. You haven’t given it to anybody else.”

He shook his head solemnly, from side to side.

“In other words, you’ve taken good care of it. Oh, I know. You’ve grown attached to it and don’t want to give it back. Is that it?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t want it anymore. I just don’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, just tell whoever gave it to you that you can’t keep it any longer. That’s what I’d do.”

He slunk down in his chair, his head tucked into the collar of his pajamas like a turtle. “I can’t. My daddy gave it to me.”

Oh, Lord, and here I’d thought I was doing so well playing a game with this strange child.

“Well,” I said, “that puts a different light on it. I guess, if he
didn’t tell you how long to keep it or who to give it to, he meant for you to have it. Yes, I’m sure he meant for you to keep it for your own.”