Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel (20 page)

I opened my mouth several times that evening to tell Sam what Lillian and I had seen Mr. Pickens doing, but each time I ended up closing it again. I’ll tell you this, though: When I thought of how that unstable man was reverting to his premarital ways, I could hardly hold it in. I wanted to tell Sam so bad I could taste it.

With great effort, though, I held my peace because I knew what Sam’s response would be. He’d tell me to stay out of it, that it wasn’t our business to interfere and that most likely I was worrying for nothing. And eventually he’d work it around so that I’d feel constrained to promise to leave well enough alone.

I knew I couldn’t leave well enough alone because the situation wasn’t well enough to be left alone. That left me with the possibility of breaking a promise to Sam, so all I could do was avoid making a promise in the first place. Sooner or later, though, I would tell him because I didn’t like keeping anything from him and only did it when it was best for him not to know.

So, because I couldn’t just sit there saying nothing, which would be unlike me, I came up with another subject that held far less peril.

“I mailed some letters for James this afternoon,” I said, picking up my needlepoint. “I couldn’t help but see who they were addressed to and, Sam, they were all to what looked like charities of some kind.”

“There’re all kinds out there,” Sam said placidly as he scanned the newspaper.

“Yes, but I’d never heard of any of the ones he was mailing to. Some seemed familiar but on a closer look, they weren’t quite right.” I glanced up at him. “Not that I was being nosy. I just couldn’t help but see, and neither could Lillian.”

“He’s probably sending small donations,” Sam said, then smiled. “Which means they’ll put him on a list, then sell the list, so he’ll get requests for more donations. I expect he’ll get tired of it pretty soon.”

“Well, I don’t know. He’s doing an awful lot of mailing. Lloyd went to the post office for him at least twice that I know of and each time he had a stack of envelopes to mail. And you know, Sam, that even legitimate charities don’t stop after getting one donation. They’ll keep on at you.” I let my needlepoint drop to my lap. “Besides, why would he be donating to a charity in Spain?”

That got Sam’s attention. He lowered the newspaper and looked at me. “In Spain? You sure it wasn’t Nigeria? That’s a different kettle of fish. Those international things are scams from the word Go. I’ll talk to him this weekend and warn him off. They prey on the elderly, you know.”

“He’s not that old,” I said primly, knowing that James was younger than I was. “But do talk to him. I’d hate for him to be sending his money to unworthy causes.” I smiled. “I started to say his
hard-earned
money, but that wouldn’t be quite right, would it? Would you like a snack before we go to bed?”

“No,” Sam said, a gleam in his eye. “I’d rather just go to bed.” So we did.

The following morning—Saturday, it was—I stayed home. No cooking lesson was scheduled so Hazel Marie wasn’t expecting me, and I didn’t want to go anyway. I assumed Mr. Pickens wouldn’t be working, although he often did on weekends. But I didn’t want to run the risk of having to be civil to him and not be able to.

Instead, I spent the morning on the telephone, checking in first with Mildred, who reassured me that the soup kitchen was on track.

“We’ve rented that place you found, Julia,” she said, “and I’ve been busy phoning around to have the utilities turned on. Oh, I tell you, it’s invigorating to have something so worthwhile to occupy my time.”

“And Brother Vern?” I asked. “What’s he doing to help?”

“He’s in charge of renting tables and chairs. He wanted to buy them, but I said renting was cheaper—until we see how well things go, at least.”

“That’s good, Mildred. You need to keep an eye on him.” Then, not wanting her to have any more second thoughts, I added, “Well, you’d have to for anybody—you know how easy it is to spend somebody else’s money.”

“Do I ever. Anyway, he’s already hired a cook and two workers, so that’s a good start. They’re all busy cleaning the place and he says it’s beginning to sparkle. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.”

“Uh, Mildred,” I said, trying to tread carefully, “I thought he was going to run it with volunteers.”

“Oh, there’ll be volunteers, all right. But first he has to have something they can volunteer for. You know, serving soup and so forth. But cleaning is hard work, so he happened to meet these people who needed jobs, so they’re on the payroll—at least temporarily. He can’t do it all himself—I mean with his health issues—and the sooner it gets done, the sooner he can open the doors.”

“When does he plan to move in?”

“Well, that’s a problem,” Mildred said as my heart sank. “I climbed those stairs, which wasn’t easy for me, and looked around. Those rooms really need refurbishing. I can’t expect him to live there the way it is, so I’ve called in Miss Parker—you know, the interior designer you used? She’s going to fix up that apartment so that it’s fit to live in.”

“Mildred . . .” I started to issue another cautionary statement, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“I know what you’re going to say, Julia, but don’t. I know what I’m doing and I’ve given Miss Parker a very tight budget. She’s to make it livable, and that’s all. In fact, I told her no special or custom orders. She has to buy everything off the rack, so to speak. And, besides, it’s giving me something to do.” She sighed. “Isn’t it wonderful when you find something that’s enjoyable as well as being a help to your fellow man?”

I gave up after that, realizing that the more comfortable Mildred made the apartment for Brother Vern, the more likely he was to move in and stay there.

I sat by the telephone for a few minutes, cogitating on what I should do. I no longer felt the urgency of working on the recipe book and scheduling cooks to teach Hazel Marie. Why knock myself out doing things to benefit such a man as Mr. Pickens, who was proving to be a low-down, tom-catting scoundrel?

I buried my face in my hands, just so torn up over the harsh words that were coming to mind. I
liked
Mr. Pickens. Even when he teased me and occasionally laughed at me, I liked him. And I was eternally grateful for his loving treatment of Lloyd. There were not many men who would so unhesitatingly take under their wing what Lillian would call a yard child.

But
why
was he doing what he was obviously doing? I had never pegged him as a man who was so shallow as to look elsewhere just because his wife was burdened with children and couldn’t cook worth a flip and was too busy to have her roots colored.

I sighed, then reached for the telephone. The only thing I knew to do was to continue on with the recipe book. Everyone would know something was wrong if I quit in midstream. There’d be questions if I did, especially from Hazel Marie. I couldn’t have that because I would have no answers. So I determined to keep on keeping on, and while I was at it I’d add up all I was doing for Mr. Pickens’s sake and, when the time came, I would put it to his account in no uncertain terms. Maybe that way, if he walked out on another wife, as he was wont to do, it wouldn’t break my heart.

So I called Helen Stroud. I hadn’t seen much of Helen since her husband had been convicted and jailed for fraudulent use of money or some such thing, then was found dead in a toolshed, overcome, apparently, by the sight of his erstwhile wife in the company of Thurlow Jones—a sight that would undo the healthiest of men. Helen was still coming to church, although there was a period in which she visited several other churches in an effort to rehabilitate Thurlow—which apparently hadn’t worked. But she hadn’t come back to the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, the class of which she’d been either president or teacher for as long as I’d known her.

I couldn’t blame her. Every woman in that class knew everything about everybody and made sure everybody else knew it, too. If I’d been in Helen’s reduced circumstances, I’d have stayed away, too. She was working now, I’d heard, at another part-time job—she’d had several. She’d been a receptionist for a while at some nonprofit organization, then for an orthodontist, and after that she’d worked in a dress shop in Asheville. It wasn’t that she couldn’t keep a job—Helen was the most organized and efficient woman I knew. More likely it was because she was ill suited for a low-level job. And the last one hired was generally the first one fired. The economy, you know.

“Helen?” I said when she answered the phone, then went immediately into my song-and-dance about Hazel Marie’s plight and my plan to write a recipe book. When I ended by asking for a main dish recipe that she wouldn’t mind demonstrating in Hazel Marie’s kitchen, I was shamed by her abject gratitude for being included.

“Anytime, Julia,” she said. “I would love to do that and at the same time see those babies and visit with you and Hazel Marie. Just tell me when you want me and I’ll be there.”

“Well, Hazel Marie has something to do on Monday and Emma Sue will be there Tuesday. Any day after that will be fine.”

“Then let’s do Wednesday morning. No, wait—I have a dental appointment then. And,” she went on, a bit sadly, I thought, “I’m working the rest of the week. I’m sorry, Julia, could I do it maybe the following week?”

“Of course, I’ll check with you before then. But I’ll go ahead and put your recipe in the book.”

“Could I have two?” Her eagerness only shamed me more because I was so aware of what a poor friend I’d been during her self-imposed exile from all the social activities of late.

“I’d love to have two from you, but you’ll only have to show her how to do one.”

“Oh, good, then I’ll give you the recipe for lasagna and for shrimp creole. Unless you already have them.”

“No, I don’t. Which one will you demonstrate?”

“The shrimp creole. It’s easier and doesn’t take as long to put together. Will that be all right?”

“It’ll be perfect.”

¹
/
₂
pound ground chuck

¹
/
₄
cup fine bread crumbs

2 tablespoons milk

1 egg, slightly beaten

2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese

2 tablespoons parsley

¹
/
₂
teaspoon salt

¹
/
₈
teaspoon pepper

2 tablespoons butter

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Combine all the ingredients and shape into balls the size of marbles. Heat 2 tablespoons of butter in a large skillet or Dutch oven. Brown the meatballs over moderate heat, stirring and turning occasionally, for 10 to 15 minutes.

Mix together the following and add to the meatballs:

Two 10-ounce cans tomato puree and
¹
/
₂
can water

One 6-ounce can tomato paste

Simmer the meatball sauce for up to 1 hour.

To put together, have the following ready:

¹
/
₂
pound lasagna noodles (cooked according to the directions)

4 ounces mozzarella cheese, sliced

1 cup cream-style cottage cheese

¹
/
₄
cup Parmesan cheese

Spoon 1 cup of the meatball sauce into the bottom of a 9 × 11 × 2-inch baking dish. Cover with a layer of cooked lasagna noodles, then layer half of each of the mozzarella cheese, cottage cheese, and Parmesan cheese. Repeat once, ending with sauce. Bake 20 minutes or so. Let stand for 15 minutes before cutting.

Serves 8.

(LuAnne looked at this recipe, Hazel Marie, and said you could use those no-cook lasagna noodles and save having to wash another pan.)

2 tablespoons butter, melted

1 cup chopped onions

1 cup chopped green pepper

¹
/
₂
garlic clove, chopped

1 pint stewed tomatoes

¹
/
₈
teaspoon paprika

Salt and pepper, to taste

¹
/
₂
pound shrimp, shelled, deveined, and cooked

In a large skillet, sauté the onions, pepper, and garlic in the butter until tender. Add the tomatoes and seasoning. Boil 5 minutes. Add the shrimp and simmer 10 minutes longer. Serve over rice.

Serves 4.

(Lillian said that you should add a couple of teaspoons of salt and a splash of vinegar to the water you boil the shrimp in—it will cut down the fish smell. Also, boil the water first, then dump in the shrimp. Watch it until it comes back to the boil, then remove it from the heat and cover it for 10 minutes. Drain the shrimp. Instead of doing all this, why don’t you just buy precooked shrimp?)