Miss Julia to the Rescue (11 page)

As Etta Mae rounded a curve and topped a rise, the fog fell away and we both gasped at the sight. Far off, between clumps of trees, we could see the road dipping and rising, twisting and turning off in the distance. And not one thing between us and a horrendous drop-off but a measly little guardrail and a lot of air.

It wasn’t often that I liked to relinquish control of anything, but I was glad Etta Mae was driving. She hunched over the wheel, holding it with both hands, and concentrated on the road as the car headed downhill and into a steep curve. Then we started climbing again.

“Oh, Lord,” Etta Mae said as we crossed a bridge over a river far below, “look at that!”

A huge logging truck laden with logs was barreling down toward us. I rared back and clung to the armrest. The truck’s passing swayed the car and threw up water from the road onto the windshield.

“Whew,” Etta Mae said as the truck went by. “I would’ve pulled off if there’d been a place to pull off on.” Then, as she maneuvered through another S-curve, she regained her confidence. “Something ought to be done about those loggers. They always speed and they’re a menace on the road.”

I couldn’t reply. I was too busy trying to restart my heart.

Finally, as the rain began to slacken, I glanced at the GPS. “Just thirty-nine more miles, Etta Mae. But, I declare, I don’t know what kind of town we’ll find. Looks like nobody lives up here.”

“I saw a house a little ways back. A cabin, maybe. It was way high up and I just got a glimpse of it. I don’t know how in the world anybody’d get to it, though.”

“Fog’s getting thicker,” I said, just to keep the conversation going. I was feeling more and more lonesome the farther we went. If Mr. Pickens hadn’t been at the end of the road, I’d have told Etta Mae to turn around and go back—if there’d been a place to turn around in.

“It may be more cloud than fog,” Etta Mae said. “We’re pretty high up, and—look up there—you can’t even see the tops of the mountains.”

Not particularly wanting to look, I said, “You know, there hasn’t been a crossroad, an intersection or anything the whole time we’ve been on this road.”

“Well, look,” Etta Mae said, raising one finger from the wheel to point ahead. “There’s a filling station.”

And sure enough, a two-pump gas station on a narrow gravel lot hunkered near the side of the road. It looked as lonesome as I felt.

“Closed, though,” Etta Mae said. “I could use their restroom, if they had one and if it was open. But it’s Saturday afternoon, so I guess they close for the weekend.”

I wished she hadn’t mentioned it, because I, too, would’ve welcomed a stop.

After a good while of steady driving, Etta Mae said, “I love this car, Miss Julia. It takes these climbs like they’re nothing and it really hugs the curves.” She laughed. “I feel like it could almost drive itself.”

“Well, don’t let it. Look, Etta Mae, there’s a town limits sign.” I sat up straight as we passed a sign reading mill run, speed limit
20
. “I think we’ve made it.”

Etta Mae eased our speed down, although we hadn’t been going fast in the first place. Small houses began to appear on each side of the road, which had begun to level off to some extent. To our left, though, the terrain slanted upward, while trees covered the right side of the road. Gradually, with Etta Mae watching our speed, we drove into town. It looked as tired as we were. Hardly anyone was on the sidewalks and only a few cars and trucks on the streets.

“Goodness,” Etta Mae said. “It’s Saturday night and this place is dead.” She stopped at a blinking traffic light—not enough traffic to warrant a stop light—at what seemed to be the main intersection. “Which way, Miss Julia? You want me to drive around, check the place out?”

“Yes, let’s do that. Turn left here and let’s see if we can find the sheriff’s office. We have to find a place to stay, too.”

“Oh.” Etta Mae glanced at me. “We don’t have reservations anywhere?”

“Well, no. Lloyd said he couldn’t find any motels listed here, so we better look for rooms for rent. Or something.” I belatedly realized that I’d been too anxious to get on the road and had failed to ensure that we had beds for the night. “I’m sorry, Etta Mae. We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

“I’m not worried. We can sleep in the car if we have to. Oh,
look,” she said, pointing to a building on the corner. “Is that the courthouse?” She pulled to the side of the street and stopped before a narrow two-story redbrick building that sat flush with the sidewalk. Double doors faced us, while above them the words crayton county courthouse 1869 were carved in a stone pediment. “Not very big, is it? I’m gonna make a right turn here,” and she went on and did so. “A lot of times the Sheriff’s Department is close to the courthouse.”

She was right. Attached to the back of the courthouse was a one-story cement-block addition with a sign out front that let us know we’d found the sheriff. Or at least his office, because from the looks of it neither he nor anybody else was there. A single light burned above the door, but none inside. A lone patrol car looked forgotten in the shadows of the parking lot.

“They must not have a very big force,” Etta Mae said, leaning down to look through my window.

“Maybe they’re all out on patrol. Let’s go on, Etta Mae. I’d like to find the hospital before it gets too dark.” A soft rain was still falling, the kind that seemed to have set in for the night. With the lowering clouds and high mountains around the town, the late afternoon was dark, lit only by a few streetlights and the few car headlights that passed by.

“I bet the hospital is on the outskirts. They usually are. Oh, look there,” Etta Mae said. “It’s a café. Why don’t we stop and eat, and maybe ask around for the hospital and a place to stay.”

“That’s a good idea. I could use a stop, and I’m hungry, too.”

She went around the block, then parked on the side near the restaurant behind four or five other cars. Reaching into the back floorboard, I drew out the umbrella I always kept there. “I only have one, Etta Mae, but we can both get under it.”

“You use it,” she said. “I don’t need it.” And she dashed from the car and waited under the awning that extended over the sidewalk. All the businesses that we passed on our way to the restaurant were closed, some apparently for the night, others forever. The restaurant seemed to be the busiest place in town, but it
wasn’t full. I hoped that Bud’s Best Burgers, Etc. lived up to its name, while wondering what the Etc. entailed.

At least it was a family restaurant, for I saw a few children seated with their parents when we walked in. Maybe Saturday night was eat-out night and Bud’s Best Burgers was a treat for the whole family. Everybody looked up at us as we stood by the cash register, not knowing whether to sit down or wait to be seated.

“Jus’ grab any place you want,” a waitress yelled from behind the counter. She wore a white uniform and had her blond hair tied up with a red ribbon.

We slid into a booth, one of five or so across from the counter. After studying the sticky laminated menus, we both decided on the special: meat loaf, mashed potatos, lima beans and sliced tomatoes. I guessed that was part of the Etc.

A young lank-haired girl, who kept looking up from her pad to glance at us from under her heavy eyebrows, took our order. “You want coffee?” she asked, a broad twang in her voice.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Ah, miss, we’re just passing through, but we need to stop for the night. Can you recommend a motel or inn where we can get a couple of rooms?”

She stared at me with her dark eyes, and I wondered for a minute how bright she was. “Ain’t no motels, but they’s cabins for rent all around. For the fishin’, you know.” She took our menus, leaned across the table and stuck them back behind the ketchup bottle, sugar, salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll ask Bud. He might know who’s got some empty ’uns.”

Well, that brought out Bud himself, a short, overweight man with a toothpick in his mouth, his round body wrapped in a soiled apron. “Say you folks’re lookin’ for a place to stay? How long you here for?”

“Yes, we are,” I said, although the man had addressed Etta Mae, as most men usually did. “And just overnight, I think.”

“Well, Pearl Overstreet might have a cabin for you. I ’spect that’s about the only place you’ll find. She don’t usually fill up till late in the season. Go back to the highway and turn left. Keep on
a-goin’ and you’ll see her place about a mile out. You can’t miss it. She’s got a bait and tackle shop right in front. Turn in there and you’ll see the cabins behind it. That’ll be your best bet this late.”

“Thank you so much. And,” I said, as the young waitress slid our plates in front of us, “this looks delicious.”

It wasn’t bad, not exactly delicious, but welcome after a long day of travel and fast food. I dithered over the tip when we’d finished, not wanting to draw attention by being overly generous, but also wanting to leave good feelings behind us.

“Just do fifteen percent,” Etta Mae whispered, understanding my dilemma. “That’s probably more than she usually gets, but it’s not too much.”

Actually, it was the cheapest meal I’d had in a long time, so fifteen percent more hardly put a dent in my wallet. We waved and smiled at the waitress, who did not respond, and left the café with every eye in it following us.

“Let’s go find Pearl’s cabins, Etta Mae,” I said. “We’ll look for the hospital first thing tomorrow, but right now I am on my last legs.”

As we drove through town, following Bud’s directions to Pearl’s cabins, we passed a dark drugstore, a boarded-up movie house and a convenience store, which, besides Bud’s, was the only downtown business open. On the edge of town, I saw a gas station selling a brand of gas I’d never heard of. Nonetheless, it was open, so I said, “We better stop and fill up, Etta Mae.”

She glanced over and grinned. “Good idea. We’re almost half empty.”

“I like to be prepared,” I said rather primly, then smiled at my own picky ways.

Before Etta Mae could get out to pump the gas, a young, coverall-clad man with a full head of red hair ran out from the station and leaned down to the window that Etta Mae lowered. “Fill ’er up?”

“Yes, please. Premium,” she said, then turned to me. “I can’t believe it. This must be the only full-service station in the country.”

While the tank filled, the young man—Junior, from his sewn-on label—quickly cleaned the windshield, then he leaned in toward the window. “Pop ’er hood an’ I’ll check the oil.”

When that was done and he’d slammed the hood closed, he ran around the car and disconnected the gas pump. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he reappeared at the window.

“Mighty fine car you got there,” he said, “but she sure takes the gas, don’t she? That’ll be twenty-eight, sixteen.”

I handed two twenties to Etta Mae, who passed them to him. “Be right back with your change.” And he dashed off, the oily rag flopping from his back pocket.

“Industrious young man, isn’t he?” I said. When he returned with the change, I leaned over and asked, “Ah, Mr. Junior? Are we far from Pearl’s cabins?”

Leaning over with his hands on his knees, he studied us for a few minutes. “No’m, not far. ’Bout a mile or so. Y’all not here for the fishin’, are you?”

“Just passing through,” Etta Mae said, picking up on what I had told Bud earlier, “but we need to stop for the night.”

“Well,” Junior said, “they mostly take them that wants to fish an’ stuff like ’at. A few others slip in now an’ then. But it’ll do for the night, I reckon.”

As Etta Mae thanked him and turned the ignition, he slapped the roof of the car and said, “Y’all be careful now.”

Pulling out onto the road, Etta Mae said grimly, “He didn’t quite give Pearl a glowing recommendation, did he?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” I said. Then sitting up, I pointed to a sign. “Look, Etta Mae, the hospital’s up that street. Just think, Mr. Pickens is only a little way from us. We could go see him now.”

Etta Mae took her lower lip in her teeth, then shook her head. “No, let’s wait. I think we ought to check in at Pearl’s first and be sure we have a place to sleep. Then if you’re not too tired, we can come back. Visiting hours are usually till nine, so there’s plenty of time.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “From the way everybody’s talking, Pearl might be our only hope for a bed. Let’s get that settled, then see how we feel.” Actually, at the thought of Mr. Pickens being so near, I was feeling quite rejuvenated.

The feeling didn’t last long as we passed small clapboard houses, looking dismal and rain sodden, interspersed with trailers, all with blue television lights emanating from their windows. Cars of all stripes and ages, a few up on blocks, filled the yards as well
as the driveways. Large yellow plastic toys—tricycles and baby slides—had been abandoned in the yards.

After almost a mile of this unedifying stretch of road, Etta Mae turned in beside Pearl’s Bait & Tackle and drew up in front of a small office with peeling paint and a listing porch. Several, but not many, other cabins were dotted around under the trees, and as we got out of the car, I could hear the rippling sound of a stream behind the cabins.