Miss Julia Paints the Town (16 page)

“It sure needs scraping,” Etta Mae said, spinning the wheel as my car, bought for the Florida trip and now turned into an off-road vehicle, lurched along the ruts of the long dirt drive. “Boyce is supposed to keep up Granny's place. At least that's the arrangement.” Etta Mae's voice took on an edge. “He lets things go too long.”

Granny Wiggins's house sat a goodly way from the gravel road, squatting beneath a cluster of huge oak trees in the middle of what looked to be an acre or two of grass and weeds. A sagging fence enclosed a pen near the barn, and chickens wandered around the yard, scratching out a living.

As we approached, I could see a garden laid out in rows along the side of the house, and behind that several tilted out-buildings in bad need of paint, as was the house. Corn stalks were about a foot high in the garden and stakes for bean runners were already set out. The house took my attention as Etta Mae pulled the car under one of the trees and switched off the motor. We sat for a few minutes looking around at the display on the front porch. Clay pots, plastic pots, Maxwell House coffee cans and Crisco lard cans filled with ferns and geraniums and begonias lined the railing and the steps.

“Your grandmother certainly has a green thumb,” I said, for lack of any other comment to make.

“She sure does,” Etta Mae agreed. “She takes cuttings everywhere she goes. I caught her snipping a few at Home Depot one time, and nearly died. I thought they'd arrest her for shoplifting or something. She'd even brought some damp paper towels to wrap them in. Which showed prior intent, I guess. But she crammed them in her pocketbook and walked out of there, telling me to stop worrying because the plants needed thinning anyway.” Etta Mae couldn't help smiling at the memory. “The cuttings all rooted, too. You're probably looking at some of them now. Well, let's go in before she wonders what we're doing.”

As we opened the car doors and began to step out, I was struck by the lack of grass up close to the house. Too shady, I supposed, noticing the raked lines in the hard-packed dirt under the trees and around the front steps. But beyond the house site, green pastureland rolled away on all sides, broken occasionally by clusters of trees in the distance. Far away and surrounding the valley were the Blue Ridge mountains with a few white clouds scuttling over them.

The three of us stood for a minute enjoying the scenery and the warm breeze ruffling through the trees. An old tire swing hanging from a limb swayed to and fro.

“We live in a beautiful part of the country,” I murmured, then regretted calling Mr. Kessler's attention to the fact.

He stood, eyes narrowed, gazing off in the distance, then slowly turned in each direction, surveying the prospect. “How much of this does your family own?” he asked Etta Mae.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “Granny has about a hundred acres, I guess. My great-granddaddy staked out this whole valley, but, well, hard times came and she's down to this.”

Before he could respond, the screen door banged open and a tiny white-haired woman came barreling out onto the porch, her face squinched up like she was getting ready to run us off. Her hair was up in a bun, except for what was flying around her face, and a pair of glasses sat crooked on her nose. She had on a pink housedress dotted with blue flowers and a white apron over that. Tennis shoes, huge and clunky in comparison to her skinny legs, were on her feet with thick stockings rolled down around her ankles. She came to a stop at the edge of the porch and put her hands on her hips, staring down at us and looking for all the world like a hen ruffling her feathers.

“Whoever you are,” she yelled from over the railing, “I don't want any.”

“Granny,” Etta Mae said, “it's me. I brought some friends to see you.”

Granny squinted down at her, then broke into a beaming smile that revealed a too-perfect set of teeth. “Why, Etta Mae, honey, come on up here and give me a hug. And bring your friends, too, but don't expect me to hug any strangers.”

That was fine with me, since I didn't care for such familiarity. Mr. Kessler followed me up onto the porch, but he seemed just a bit hesitant about doing it.

Etta Mae introduced Mr. Kessler and started to introduce me, but Granny broke in. “Why, I know you. Old man Springer was the tightest human ever lived when he ran that bank. He kept trying to buy my place out here for the longest, but I wouldn't sell it. Not to him, not to nobody.”

“I'm married to Sam Murdoch now,” I said. “Mr. Springer's been gone for some time.”

“Good for you!” she said, cackling. “I'd say that was a move up, wouldn't you? But y'all set down. Take a load off. We could set in the front room, but there's a nice breeze out here. I'll have to apologize for the way the yard looks.” She suddenly swung around and grasped Etta Mae's arm. “Etta Mae, you got to talk to Boyce and tell him to start down by the road when he brings that Toro riding mower over here. I don't want him running that thing up around the house at the crack of dawn. I can't hear a word Diane Sawyer says for all the racket that thing makes.”

“I'll tell him, Granny,” Etta Mae said soothingly. “But you know he wants to do it before it gets too hot, and he does have to be at work early.”

“Work! Ha! That boy don't do a thing at work but hang on the counter and ring up the cash register. And before I turn around, that Betty Sue's over here, snooping and prying in everything in the house.” She turned back to us. “Set down! Set down! It's been a age since I had comp'ny. Park it in this rocking chair, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. And Mrs. Springer, take that swing over there.”

Mr. Kessler mumbled, “Kessler,” at the same time I said, “Murdoch,” but she didn't catch either one.

Granny plopped herself down in another rocking chair, her legs spraddled out because they barely reached the floor. “Well, this sure is nice,” she said, smiling at us. “I knew I was going to have comp'ny sometime today. My nose's been itching all morning and it never fails that somebody'll show up. Remember that, Etta Mae? ‘My nose itches. I smell peaches. Here comes a man with a hole in his britches.'” She leaned toward Mr. Kessler. “Guess that don't mean you, though, does it?” Then she sat back in the chair and pushed off with the toe of her foot to set it rocking. “Not with that fancy suit, it don't.”

Before anybody could say anything, she suddenly sprang to her feet. “What am I thinking of! You folks're hungry and me just a-settin' here. I got a good pound cake on hand, just made it last week. And some Fig Newtons not even open yet. I'll be back in a minute, just make yourselves at home.”

Etta Mae grabbed her arm. “Wait, Granny, we don't need anything. We came to visit with you. Mr. Kessler wants to talk to you because you've lived here so long. Sit down, now, and let's just talk.”

Granny did, but she eyed Mr. Kessler suspiciously, and I didn't blame her. He'd been noticeably quiet, although to give him credit, he'd hardly had a chance to say anything.

“You work for the newspaper?” Granny demanded. “Or you one of them college professors wantin' to put me on tape?”

“Ah, no,” he said, clearing his throat, “neither one. I…”

“Well, good. I've had a bellyful of people stickin' a tape recorder in my face, wantin' me to put down history before I kick the bucket.”

Mr. Kessler gathered himself and began again. “I assure you, Mrs. Wiggins, it's nothing like that. I'm getting ready to develop some property…”

“Not this property, you're not. Etta Mae, I told you and I'll tell anybody else that I'm not selling. Why'd you bring a land-hungry
developer
out here?”

She said
developer
the way I thought it.

“No, Mrs. Wiggins,” Mr. Kessler said before Etta Mae could reassure her. “I'm not interested in your property, although it's a fine place.” He glanced quickly at me, hoping, I expect, for a little help, but this was his problem, not mine.

“My property is downtown,” he went on, although I wanted to correct him on that. It wasn't his yet. He leaned toward Granny and laid on what little charm he had. “I just wanted to meet a native of Abbot County, somebody who's seen this area grow from a farming community to an up-and-coming retirement area.”

“It's growed enough, if you ask me,” she said, giving him a sideways look. “But do what you want downtown. I got no business down there anyhow. But you can leave the farms and orchards and mountain ridges alone. You folks come in here and first thing you know there's stores everywhere you look. If it's not a McDonald's, it's a Hardee's. Don't nobody cook at home anymore, not with a hamburger here and a hamburger there. Every time Betty Sue takes me to Delmont to the Winn-Dixie something's closed down and two more's took its place. I can't find my way around anymore, and I'm tired of it.”

Mr. Kessler opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't know where to go from there.

But Granny took up the slack. She jerked straight up in her chair and said, “I tell you what, though, you put one of them chain Dollar Stores in Delmont and you'll be doing a good thing. We got a halfway one already, but Betty Sue took me to a real one over in Abbotsville and I like that place. Etta Mae, you ought to give it your business. You can go in there lookin' any way you want. You don't have to dress up or anything, not like when you go to Wal-Mart or something.”

Mr. Kessler leaned back in his rocking chair and sighed. He fidgeted a little and looked longingly at the car.

Etta Mae finally got Granny to talk about the old days, drawing her out about how cows used to wander along the wide dirt track that was now Main Street in Abbotsville, and how once the Abbot County sheriff had the bright idea of using the volunteer fire department to hose down Main Street after a winter storm had piled up huge drifts of snow.

“Why,” she cackled, “it didn't even get up to twenty degrees that whole blessed day, and that stuff froze over like nobody's business. Ended up with a solid layer of ice from one end of Main Street to the other, as any fool shoulda knowed would happen. Couldn't nobody, man nor beast, walk on it for a week.” She sat back placidly and said, “What else you want to know?”

“Well, uh,” Mr. Kessler said, “how long have you lived here?”

“Since the day I married Mr. Wiggins. I come here as a bride and I'll stay here till they carry me out, feet first. Ain't nobody gonna move me out before that. This place's been bought and paid for many times over, if you want my opinion, what with taxes going up and up. Etta Mae helps me with that, 'cause I'll tell you something, Mister, them Social Security checks ain't hardly worth spit in a bucket.” Granny rocked a few seconds, then went on. “'Course I'm plenty glad to get 'em.”

“Now, Granny,” Etta Mae said, “Boyce helps, too.”

“Huh!” Granny said, dismissing Boyce with a wave of her hand.

By this time Mr. Kessler began to get restless and I could tell he'd about had enough of viewing the natives. I gathered my pocketbook and suggested we let Mrs. Wiggins get on with her day. He was immediately on his feet, thanking her for her time and for the hospitality. Etta Mae hugged her again and spoke softly to her, promising to come back soon for a longer visit.

“You do that, honey,” Granny said. “Anytime you want to. The door's always open.”

She stood watching us from the porch as we got into the car, Mr. Kessler taking the front seat again, which I thought was ungentlemanly of him as I crawled into the back. Etta Mae started the engine and began to back around to head out, waving to Granny one last time.

Mr. Kessler, craning his neck to look back over the fields, said, “You and your uncle going to inherit this place?”

“I guess,” she said. “We're all that's left anyway.”

The car dipped and swayed on the dirt track, then scratched off when we reached the gravel road.

“I'll give you a bit of advice,” Mr. Kessler said. “One of you ought to get a power of attorney before your grandmother loses her mind completely. That way, you can put her place on the market and get her into a nice retirement home where she'll be taken care of. And,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and holding out a card, “when you do, call me. I've been looking for some land for a golf course. I'll make you a good offer.”

Etta Mae slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a standstill in the middle of the road. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, her shoulders hunched over, as she stared straight ahead. I saw her breathe deeply a couple of times in an effort to control herself. It didn't work too well.

Ignoring the card he still held out, she turned to glare at him through narrowed eyes. In a voice tight with anger, she said, “I want you to know I was raised to respect my elders and to treat others as I want to be treated, but I'll tell you here and now, my granny is not going to a retirement home. Not as long as I'm around. If I'd known what you were after, I'd have never brought you out here, so you can get it off your mind. Her home is not for sale.” She mashed down on the gas and the car moved off with a rattle of gravel against the underside.

Mr. Kessler smiled. “No offense intended, but keep it in mind. You never know when you might need to sell it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to watch the scenery out the window. Probably, I thought, calculating the worth of every plot of ground we passed.