Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (36 page)

By this time, the tears were flowing while I searched frantically through my pocketbook for a Kleenex. Dr. Hargrove pushed a whole box across the desk, revealing his preparation for all contingencies.

“You certainly have a lot to be anxious about,” he said, his face grave and his voice filled with empathy. “Things haven’t been easy for you, have they?”

I shook my head, dabbed at my eyes and sniffed to get myself under control. How comforting to be listened to and understood, I thought.

He went on comforting. “I’ll be glad to talk to Sam, maybe even the two of you together. I’m not a counselor, but I am a listener. If he’s willing, we can meet a few times and try to get to the bottom of what’s troubling you.”

“It’s not
me
who’s being troubled! It’s
him
. He’s the one who’s feeling deprived or impoverished or whatever he’s feeling. I have everything I ever wanted in a marriage, and it’s just doing me in that Sam doesn’t feel the same way.”

“We can talk about that. He may just need an opportunity to express his feelings. But I’ll have to tell you, Miss Julia, I’ve never gotten a hint that Sam’s unhappy. Just the opposite, in fact.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” I said, clasping a wad of damp Kleenex in my hand. “Anybody who’d go to a counselor who bounces from one church to another dispensing secret erotic knowledge based on a warped view of the Bible has to be at his wits’ end.” I sniffed again and wiped my face. “If we did come talk to you, you’d stay away from such as that, wouldn’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t involve Dr. Fred Fowler and his teaching, would you?”

He smiled. “No, I think we could manage well enough on our own.”

“So do I.” I stood then, feeling relief and some optimism that all was not lost. I had an ally in Dr. Hargrove, and I was glad that I’d come even though it’d been Sam’s doing to start with.

“Thank you, Dr. Hargrove. You’ve been very kind, but I must be getting home. And you, too. Your dinner will be waiting. I’ll let you know when, or if, Sam is willing to come talk.”

He opened the office door for me, then put a hand on my arm and said, “Wait just a minute, Miss Julia. Something you said earlier has triggered something in the back of my mind.”

He walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a thick medical book. Flipping through the pages, then back again, he finally settled on an article that took a while for him to read. I was about to get restless, anxious to be on my way and just a little bit testy that he was doing research on my time.

“Ah,” he said, finally straightening up from the book. “I thought so.” He looked at me and smiled broadly. “When you mentioned that Shania Twain perfume, it rang a bell. A patient came in not long ago who was wearing it, and my office help went crazy over it. That’s all I heard for days, Shania Twain this and Shania Twain that. It got so the whole office smelled like a cosmetic counter because they all went out and bought it. But I’ll tell you this, it does not smell like collards.”

“It certainly doesn’t. But what’s the point?”

“The point is something called dysosmia. You said the Pitts woman reported smelling a foul odor after she was hit on the head? Well, it happens that way sometimes. A head injury can produce dysosmia, a condition that distorts the sense of smell. It can cause a person to hallucinate a foul or unpleasant odor. That could be what happened to your friend.”

“She’s no friend of mine!” I said, then, as what he’d said began to sink in, I went on more calmly and with some wonder. “She was
hallucinating
? All this turmoil from hallucinations? That would be just like Francie Pitts, and poor Miss Wiggins has had to suffer for it. But how that woman could confuse perfume and collards is beyond me. Goodness knows, collards smell to high heaven when they’re cooking, but I’m not sure you could call it foul, exactly.”

“Well, I could,” he said, laughing. “But here, read it yourself—a blow to the head can distort the sense of smell.” He held the open book out to me. “And apparently, there doesn’t have to be another odor to stimulate it—the foul odor is dredged up by the brain itself.”

I scanned the page, stopping on the few sentences in plain English that I could understand, and, sure enough, there it was as plain as day: an explanation for the odor that Francie had smelled, and it hadn’t needed a whiff of anything else to set it off. It had come out of her own head, and furthermore, there was not a single solitary mention of Miss Twain. Or Mr. Stetson, either.

Hurrying across the parking lot to my car, it was all I could do to contain myself. My nerves were so on edge that I felt jittery all over and had trouble getting the key into the ignition slot. I could hardly wait to get home and tell everybody, so full of what I’d learned that I wanted to speed through the streets to get there. Finally, an explanation for the mysterious odor that had assailed Francie’s nose, on the basis of which she’d accused Etta Mae and caused her to be suspected and interrogated, when all the time it had been concocted in her own head or sinuses or wherever. An olfactory hallucination, would you believe! I was sure that Francie wouldn’t believe it, but when scientific proof from a medical textbook was placed before Lieutenant Peavey, I had every reason to believe that he would. I mean, collards, of all things!

It was amazing that the answer had been sitting in a book on an office shelf all along, and none of us, including Lieutenant Peavey, had known it. After all, that’s what having an education means—not that you know everything, but that you know where to look for it. So it wouldn’t surprise me if Dr. Hargrove hadn’t supplied the very thing that would completely clear Etta Mae.

It was as if the skies had cleared and the sun was shining to have that problem taken care of, leaving me with only Sam and Dr. Fowler to deal with. And with that thought, I noticed that the skies weren’t all that clear, and that it was, in fact, later than I’d thought. Dusk was falling and night wasn’t too far behind.

I sped down Harding Street, passing the front of the church, and turned right along the side to get to my house on the far corner of Polk. Streetlights were already on, as they were timed to do on an overcast fall evening.

Running over in my mind how I’d tell Etta Mae what I’d found, then how I’d present it to Binkie and Lieutenant Peavey, I patted the pages that Dr. Hargrove had copied from his book, which were on the seat beside me. Proof positive that there’d been more to meet the nose than Francie had claimed.

As I drove past the side of the church, I caught a glimpse of a certain flashy car parked in front of the Family Life Building. I almost stood on the brake, so unnerved that I could barely catch my breath. Francie’s car! Who could miss it? There wasn’t another like it in all Abbotsville, and there it was parked not a hundred yards from my front door. I hadn’t been able to turn around the whole day without running into her.

But what was she doing here? Visiting Sam? Creeping in to see him when I wasn’t there? What was she telling him? I knew, oh yes, I knew. If she wasn’t trying to entice Etta Mae to work for her, she’d be playing on Sam’s concern about my health—worrying him to death with intimations of my downhill slide and assuring him of her eagerness to nurse me and comfort him. Of all the sneaky, underhanded things to do, that took the cake.

Well, I was not going to stand for it. The woman needed taking down, and I had the means to do it. Deciding to forgo parking in my driveway, so as not to announce my presence, I pulled in behind Francie’s car on the side street.

Fully intending to walk across the street and show up at home before Francie knew I was on the premises, I noticed lights on in Pastor Ledbetter’s office and suddenly changed my plans. I took myself straight to the back door of the church and went in. Francie might be making herself alluring to Sam, but I’d just thought of a strategy to outflank her.

I walked purposefully through the large Fellowship Hall, located under the sanctuary, toward the pastor’s office, my footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. I assumed the pastor was working on his sermon or perhaps gathering himself for the enrichment meeting, which I noted from my watch was only an hour or so away.

I hurried through Norma Cantrell’s dim office, glad that it was after hours and I didn’t have to contend with her officious gatekeeping. Not wanting to interrupt if the pastor had someone with him, I tapped on his closed door and waited for him to respond.

He did, opening the door himself, and seemed somewhat taken aback to see me.

“Why, Miss Julia,” he said, “what brings you here? You’re a little early for Dr. Fowler’s meeting.”

“I didn’t come to see or hear Dr. Fowler. I have a matter of some import to share with you, Pastor, and I think when you hear it you’ll be just as concerned as I am.”

“Well, come on in. I was just going over a few things, but they can wait. Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.” He quickly went around his desk, covering the booklet he’d been studying with a stack of papers, but not before I saw an illustration that made my eyes water. He’d been looking at Dr. Fowler’s graphic depictions of how to stoke the marital embers.

I filed that away for future reference because I had more on my mind than the pastor’s study habits. Besides, he might learn something that Emma Sue would appreciate.

“Pastor Ledbetter,” I began, perching on the edge of a damask-covered wing chair, “I know, because Emma Sue told me, that you and Dr. Fowler have been having prayer with Francie Pitts Delacorte, and counseling her, too, for all I know. But I have just come into possession of some information that you should have before you get too deeply involved with her.”

“Why, Miss Julia, any soul that seeks help from the church should receive it. It surprises me that you would not rejoice with us that Mrs. Delacorte is right before recommitting her life to the Lord. She will make a fine member of our congregation. She’s so outgoing, so eager to be a part of our church family, and it is my privilege to be called upon to guide her more deeply into the faith.”

“Even though she has a demon?”

“What?” His eyes bugged out at my quiet comment. “A demon? Miss Julia, that is a dangerous allegation and should not be thrown around lightly.”

“I’m only quoting your wife, although she’s planning to tell you herself. I would never have thought of such a thing on my own—I’m not even sure I believe in them—but when Emma Sue speaks, I listen. She knows her Bible, and if anybody can recognize a demon, it would be Emma Sue. Now, I thought Francie was just mean and self-centered, but Dr. Hargrove has pointed out to me that most likely she’s suffering from hallucinations. Although he’s never treated her, he recognizes her symptoms. So whether it’s from dysosmia, as he says—here, you might want to read this article,” I said, handing the copied pages to him, “or a demon, as Emma Sue thinks, or just plain meanness, as I think, it doesn’t matter. The woman is dangerous, and you and Dr. Fowler are playing with fire.” I nodded my head for emphasis, then added, “And I’m not talking about playing with the specific embers that
he’s
concerned with.”

Pastor Ledbetter stared at me, then scanned the pages I’d handed to him. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “I hardly know what to say.” His eyes darted around, then he thought of something. “These could be libelous accusations, Miss Julia, and we must tread carefully. We tamper with demons at our own peril, although demonic activity has been misdiagnosed as hallucinatory in the past. There’s apparently a fine line there. But I’ve seen no evidence of such activity in or around Mrs. Delacorte.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, studied the papers a little longer, then said, “I can’t, however, discount Emma Sue’s perception of the situation. She is, as you say, keenly sensitive to such matters. So I must admit that you’ve given me food for thought.”

“Well, while you’re at it, think about this: what kind of people have hallucinations? Crazy people, that’s who. And I’ve been suspecting Francie was crazy for some time. Just look at what she’s already done: fingered my friend Etta Mae Wiggins as a thief and an inflicter of great bodily harm at a time when the young woman was miles away in Delmont, spewed invective at a person in her employ who might even be a relative, buried five husbands and been questioned about the demise of at least one of them, put it about that I am on my last legs with absolutely no basis in fact—she just made that up—and now she’s so deluded that she thinks Sam will have her in my place. That, Pastor, is what you’re dealing with, and if you and Dr. Fowler continue to woo Francie into this church, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

He swallowed hard, then murmured, “I didn’t realize . . . And you say that Emma Sue thinks . . . ? Well, I’ll discuss this with Dr. Fowler. He knows more about demons than I do.”

I got to my feet, ready to leave, having done what I’d come to do. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said, and saw myself out.

I left the pastor to his ruminations and proceeded through Norma’s office and out into the dark Fellowship Hall. It was large and empty with only one light on near the back door, which was where I was headed, intent on rescuing Sam from Francie’s clutches. But as I walked across the expanse, I realized I was hearing the murmur of voices coming from the corridor on the opposite side of the Fellowship Hall, the corridor that led to the two-story addition of Sunday-school rooms. My nerves froze in their tracks when I recognized Francie’s tittering laugh floating out of the darkness of the corridor. Without a conscious thought, I practically leaped into the alcove where folding chairs were kept for the Wednesday-night covered-dish suppers.