Miss Julia Hits the Road (25 page)

“It’s not my problem if you got ahead of yourself,” I said, trying to sound as firm as I felt. “I’ll just call off the whole deal if you destroy those houses.”

I listened to him breathe some more, then he said, “Okay, I’ll send ’em back, but in three weeks those houses’re coming down.”

Not if I can help it, I thought as I hung up. I thought also that I’d finally gotten Clarence Gibbs’s number. He was playing both ends against the middle, trying to have his cake and eat it, too, and risking a little to gain a lot. The bottom line was that he wanted it all, and thought he’d found a way to get it by stringing me along. But if I had anything to do with it, he was heading for a fall he wouldn’t soon forget.

That’s what I had to keep my mind centered on—outwitting Clarence Gibbs—and not on the very real possibility of my home ending up as a pile of rubble. I leaned back in my chair, thinking, Oh, Lord, if I only had someone to tell me I was making a good move. But I knew there wasn’t a soul who would back me up. I could just see Binkie springing out of her chair, saying, “You did
what?
” And Sam, he wouldn’t believe I could be so headstrong. Lillian would likely cry and call on the Lord. Even Hazel Marie, who wouldn’t know a good business deal if it hit her on the head, would be stunned. So I had to either do it or not do it, all on my own. And I was going to do it.

Then I leaned my head on my trembling hand, wondering what in the world I was letting myself in for.

As I drove through the streets toward Willow Lane, I felt myself becoming more and more unsettled. It’s not every day that you decide to gamble with your own home, but I had my back against the wall. That Poker Run, backed by Thurlow Jones to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars plus the money for however many fifty-year-old quality ladies we could round up, was our best bet for raising the money, and to save my house, we’d need every cent we could get. Which meant that I had to personally hit the road on a motorcycle—the last thing in the world I ever thought I’d do. When I’d been bargaining with Thurlow, it had seemed far off in the future, something that might not even happen. I’d been so thrilled with getting those checks from him, all but assuring that we’d be able to buy the property, that the fact that I would have to actually crawl on one of those machines was something I hadn’t wanted to think about.

I wondered if there were any way to get out of it.
And
keep Thurlow’s money.
And
keep my house.
And
purchase Willow Lane. Maybe I’d get sick or break some little bone or something so I’d have a doctor’s excuse. Maybe Sam would have a spell of some kind so that Mr. Pickens would judge him unfit to drive a motorcycle. That would do it, I decided, and then I could be so disappointed because I wouldn’t be able to participate, either. And nobody would blame me for dropping out.

Oh, Lord, that wouldn’t do it. They’d just assign me to Big Bill Beasley, whoever he was, or somebody of equal quality, and there I’d be, hanging on to a half-naked, tattooed driver who didn’t have a sidecar and wouldn’t use it if he did.

No, better to take my chances with Sam, failing though he might be.

I turned into Willow Lane, stopped the car, and stared at what used to be a place of activity, home to people who’d lived there for years. Now it looked cold and lonesome, with no one at home.

But Clarence Gibbs was there. He got out of his car and walked over to my window. He was wearing another one of his shiny suits, but this time with heavy brogans on his feet. They were much more appropriate for the surroundings, I had to admit, than my Red Cross lace-up oxfords. He leaned over as I rolled down my window. “You want to walk the property lines, Mrs. Springer? See what you might be getting?”

“I’ll walk out in the field with you, and you can point out the boundaries.” I got out of the car and walked along with him on the proposed demolition site.

“Careful, now,” Mr. Gibbs said, taking my elbow. “Don’t want you to turn an ankle or something.”

Thinking that that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, I said, “How far back does the property run?”

He pointed to the west. “Up over that ridge, there’s a logging road. The line runs along it.”

I nodded, not mentioning that I’d become acquainted with it the night before. He continued talking as I walked carefully over the rough grade of what had once been the site of the fallen-in house, and on over to the grassy pasture. Wondering if cows had left any calling cards, I picked my way alongside of Mr. Gibbs, just about ruining my shoes and working up a head of steam about what I was fixing to do.

As I sidestepped a large clump of weeds, I decided to try one last time to dissuade him from attaching my house.

“Mr. Gibbs,” I said, “I wish you’d just outright sell this property. There’s no reason in the world to include my home of almost fifty years in the bargain. But if you must have something to bind our agreement, I’ll offer any other piece of property I own.”

“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as we stood in the middle of the pasture. “I guess it depends on how bad you want this property, as to what you’re willing to do to get it. I’m already about to regret giving you three weeks, even with your house thrown in. And there’s nothing else you have that I want, so it’s take it or leave it.”

I didn’t believe for a minute that there wasn’t something else I owned that he’d want. I was convinced that he’d lit upon my house in an effort to make me refuse the bargain. Then when I surprised him and accepted it, he must’ve realized what a good deal it was for him. I knew he didn’t think we could raise the money. I intended to give him another surprise.

“I heard the rumors about bottling that water up there,” I said, delaying the moment I’d have to sign the agreement. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to create a little doubt in his mind as to the value of the property.

He slid his eyes away from me, a know-it-all half smile on his face. “Maybe. Maybe not. I got several irons in the fire. I could pull one out any minute.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, Mr. Gibbs. Just tell me what’s going on. I’m not about to risk my home if you’re cooking up something behind my back.”

“I’m a public-spirited citizen,” he said, still playing with me. “And I told you it would be on the market long enough to give you folks a crack at it. But, even with your house as a sweetener, three weeks is pushing it for me.”

“Let’s sign that agreement,” I said, resigning myself to whipping along a mountain road in Sam’s sidecar.

“Before we do that,” Gibbs said, abruptly stopping, “I need to know how you folks plan to raise enough money to buy this place.”

“That, Mr. Gibbs,” I said, “is not your concern. We either raise it or we don’t. And if we don’t, you’ll end up with two pieces of property instead of one. You are running no risk at all.”

He gave me a sharp glance. “How much y’all raised so far?”

I opened my mouth to tell him we had pledges for almost half of his asking price, then thought better of it.

“It’s not going so well, I’m sorry to say,” I said, figuring that I could poor-mouth as well as he could. Besides, no good businessman or -woman tells everything he or she knows. And there was one thing I was convinced of: if Clarence Gibbs knew how close we were to meeting his price, he’d renege on the deal so fast it’d make my head swim.

“That’s too bad,” he said, giving me a full-fledged smile. Then he took my arm and began walking me back toward my car. But not before I got a glimpse of two men up along the ridge, carrying some tools or instruments or something.

Before I could ask him what they were doing, he said, “I had the agreement drawn up yesterday.” He pulled out a sheet of folded paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. “You might want to look it over.”

“I certainly do,” I said, unfolding it and taking note of his lawyer’s letterhead. It was written in fairly plain English for a change but, even so, I longed to have Sam and Binkie look it over. I’d never before done anything of a business nature without good legal advice, but I determined to do this for Lillian and, if I lost my house because of it, then I’d just have to live with the consequences.

I read the thing over again, then laid it on the hood of my car. I took a deep breath to steel myself, then signed my name before I lost my nerve.

After a few strained pleasantries on my part, I got in my car, knowing that I’d just committed myself to the worst business deal of my life. And knowing that I was going to have to ride that motorcycle if it killed me, which it just might do.

When I got home, I went straight to the telephone, bypassing Lillian and Hazel Marie. I had to get things on the road, in more ways than one. Quality ladies, I thought, as I looked up phone numbers. What other kind did Thurlow think I knew?

I called LuAnne, Emma Sue, Norma, Helen Stroud, and, to be on the safe side, Mildred Allen. Every one of them met the age requirement, which I didn’t intend to mention. I couldn’t imagine Mildred Allen would want to climb on a motorcycle. She was a heavy-set woman, don’t you know. But she was a woman you didn’t want to leave out of anything, even something she was unlikely to be interested in. She was bad for passing along her own speculations on matters that she knew nothing about. And as everybody knows, speculations soon take on a life of their own.

I invited them all to my house later in the morning to discuss an urgent matter having to do with the people of Willow Lane. They all agreed, each one wanting me to tell them on the phone what urgent matter I had to discuss. I didn’t fall for that, knowing none of them would show up if they knew what I was going to propose.

After reaching the last one, I hung up the phone and sat for a while, wondering if there were anyone else I should call. It just did me in that Binkie was in no shape to ride with us; her enthusiasm for all things different and unusual would really put us over the top. It was my bad luck that she was in an expectant condition just when I needed her. Of course she wasn’t old enough to qualify for a donation from Thurlow, but she would’ve had a ton of sponsorships from the sheriff’s department and the lawyers in town.

“Hazel Marie,” I called as I approached her room, where she was changing the sheets on her bed. I took a seat in the chair by the window and watched her flip the spread and smooth it out. “They’re all coming, and I hope I haven’t forgotten anybody who ought to be in on the planning stages. Now, Hazel Marie, I’m counting on you to help me present this idea in a way that they won’t reject it out of hand.”

“If they’d just try it one time, I know they’d love it.” She suddenly straightened up, a new idea lighting up her face. “I tell you what! Let’s get J. D. to come over and ride each one around the block, just to give them a taste of it.”

“Why, you know, that is a fine idea,” I said, thinking that Mr. Pickens had a good bit more experience with two-wheelers than Sam, and therefore a better choice not to scare anybody to death before we could sign them up. Then again, he had a somewhat more persuasive way about him than Sam did, when it came to the ladies. Though, on second thought, Sam was hardly a slouch in that department. “Why don’t you call and ask him to be here, say about eleven? That’ll give us enough time to present it to them, serve refreshments, and let them go to the bathroom before they climb on.”

“I guess I could call him for that,” she said, musing over the propriety of talking to him when she wasn’t speaking to him. “I’ll just keep it on a businesslike basis.”

“Good. Now, Hazel Marie, help me go over this before they get here. I asked LuAnne because she’s an old friend and she’d be hurt if I didn’t include her. Besides, I’ve noticed in the past that she’s not averse to an occasional flirtation, as unbecoming as that is in a woman her age. Which might make her open to what she’d call an adventure.” I stopped, recalling LuAnne’s attraction to a certain race car driver of our acquaintance. Maybe a motorcycle driver would have the same effect.