Miss Julia to the Rescue (20 page)

That was the longest forty miles of my life. Not only did I fear that we’d be stopped before exiting the state, but Mr. Pickens was becoming more and more agitated. He couldn’t get fixed, regardless of how often he turned and changed positions. He mumbled and moaned and groaned, talking out of his head and flopping around until I began to worry about his state of mind.

“He’s getting worse,” I said to Etta Mae. “You think we ought to do something?”

Etta Mae kept driving. “Sometimes those medications can have reverse reactions, but … whoops!” She slammed on the brakes at a red light on the outskirts of Beckley, and Mr. Pickens slammed to the floor again, yelling and cursing, as he scrambled back onto what he thought was the bed.

“What?” he mumbled. “What’s happenin’? I’m hurtin’, damn it.” Then he yelled, “Nurse! Orderly! Somebody!” After crawling back onto the seat, he continued to moan and mumble.

“It’s all right, Mr. Pickens,” I said, trying to calm him. “We’re getting you some help. Just stay real still so you won’t hurt yourself.”

He didn’t hear me, but Etta Mae chimed in with something else to worry about. “I hope he hasn’t opened up his wounds with all that falling around. We better check his bandage when we stop.”

“Not
we
,” I said. “I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“Blood,” she answered, as I shivered. “Hey, here’s the interstate. We can make some time now.”

And we did, heading for the state line as fast as the speed limit would allow. When we crossed into Virginia, Etta Mae and I glanced at each other and grinned. We both felt the anxiety of being chased and stopped by cars with blue lights flashing ease off. I knew we weren’t entirely out of the danger zone—Sheriff McAfee had telephones, after all—but it felt better to be out of his immediate reach.

When Etta Mae put on the blinker and turned onto the ramp leading to the welcome center a few miles south of the line, I sat up to look around. The place was well lit with pole lights, and big trucks were already lined up with their night lights on. Etta Mae drove around to the parking area for cars, where she pulled in and stopped a good distance from the three cars there before us.

“If you have to use the ladies’ room, you better run on,” she said. “They probably close at midnight and it’s almost that.”

“What about you?” I asked, opening my door.

“I’ll take my chances, but we can’t leave J.D. by himself. I’m going to check his bandage, then I have an idea I want to look into.”

Wondering about her idea, I didn’t wait to hear about it, being in too much of a hurry to get to the restroom. As it was, I had to talk my way in, for a caretaker was headed for the doors with a key in his hand just as I pushed through.

When I got back to the car, I saw that it was the only one left in the parking area. And when I saw what Etta Mae’s idea was, I was glad there was no one around to see us. She had the trunk open and was stacking our bags on top of each other in order to clear a space on one side.

“You’re going to put him in there?” I couldn’t believe he’d fit.

“No, not
in
here, but
through
here. If we can get him through.” And she hopped up into the trunk and began fiddling with a latch. “I think, I
hope
, this will work. Miss Julia, go around and get him out of the car. I’m gonna push the back of the seat down and open this up. I can’t do it if he’s lying across the seat.”

My goodness
, I thought,
I didn’t know my car would do that
. But I went around, opened the back door and began to coax Mr. Pickens out. It was a trial and a tribulation because he couldn’t sit. The best he could do was to get down in the floorboard and crawl out, and it was a wonder he was willing to do that.

I found out why when he finally got out of the car and hung, bent almost double, onto the door. He told me in a graphic word what he needed to do.

“Just hold on to the door,” I told him, propping him as well as I could. “And don’t fall.”

With that, I took myself back to the trunk to help Etta Mae, giving him some privacy in spite of the car’s interior lights putting him on full display. That apparently didn’t bother him because he went and went and
went
and went.

I knew that if I looked at Etta Mae, we’d both laugh our heads off—that nervous tension still with us—so we both pretended not to hear anything.

“Good thing we stopped,” Etta Mae said dryly, and I almost lost it.

By the time silence reigned again, she and I hurried back and grabbed Mr. Pickens as he tried to walk away from the car. We held on to him and walked him to the trunk, where I told him to crawl into bed, hoping he wouldn’t know the difference. He bent over and used his arms to pull himself part of the way in. With Etta Mae in the backseat guiding him through, I lifted his legs, bent and pushed them, one after the other, into the trunk. He was docile enough, probably much relieved and eager to lie down again.

Etta Mae guided his head, then his shoulders through the opening into the body of the car. His shoulders almost created a problem—they wouldn’t squeeze through—so we had to angle him, then push and urge him on through so that he ended up on his stomach with his upper body from the waist up draped over the backseat and his lower parts stretched out into the trunk. It was unfortunate that the car seat wouldn’t fold down flat, but the
slight slant didn’t seem to bother him. He sighed with relief at being able to stretch out, no longer scrunched up like a pretzel, and began snoring.

“Don’t look, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae said, as she came around and crawled into the trunk beside him, “unless you just want to, but I’m gonna check his bandage.”

Not caring to witness a medical procedure, I went to get the blanket from the backseat, and in the doing, stepped in a soggy place on the ground. And in my good Ferragamos, too.

After covering Mr. Pickens’s feet, legs and back end with the blanket, Etta Mae hopped out and we carefully closed the lid of the trunk.

“Looks like one side’s bleeding a little,” she said. “We could stop for the night and take care of it, but we don’t have any bandages or medication, and no way to get any. So I think the best thing is just keep on going and get home as quick as we can.

“And speaking of going,” she went on, “I really have to.”

“The restrooms are all locked up now. Maybe we can stop a little farther down the road.”

“No way,” she said. “I’m finding a bush.”

And that’s what she did, with me standing as lookout, although I didn’t know what I’d do if anybody came.

I blew out my breath as we at last left the welcome center, Etta Mae stepping on the gas as she merged onto the interstate. Mr. Pickens was sleeping peacefully, although at a slant, and I thought I might be able to nod off for a little while.

“Etta Mae?” I said. “Are you all right, driving? You want me to relieve you?”

“I don’t think you can,” she said with a laugh. “J.D.’s right up against my back, and I’m up closer to the wheel than you’d be. Besides, I’m okay, but let’s stop at a McDonald’s when we see one. I could use some coffee.”

After a good while of steady driving, with me trying to stay awake out of courtesy to Etta Mae, who
had
to stay awake, she said, “I’m going back a different way from the way we came—too
many big trucks on 81. We can stay on 77 and pick up I-40 at Statesville. That okay with you?”

“Whatever you think. I’m feeling bad for not relieving you. You’ve done nothing but drive almost the whole time we’ve been gone.”

“I like to drive, so don’t worry about that. We’ll stop in Statesville and get some coffee, and I’ll be good for the last two hours home.”

And that’s what we did, but to our dismay the McDonald’s there was closed and we had to cross the street to a combination gas station and convenience store. Etta Mae filled the tank without my suggesting it, although I’d been fretting about getting low on gas. Then, one after the other in order for one of us to stay with Mr. Pickens, we went inside, used the facilities and looked around for something to eat besides corn chips and stale Little Debbie cakes.

It was my first experience of eating a hot dog off a rotating spit in a gas station, but it had been long hours since we’d made sandwiches in one of Pearl’s cabins.

“Should we wake Mr. Pickens and see if he’s hungry?” I asked when Etta Mae got back to the car, her hands filled with a coffee cup, two hot dogs, potato chips, a package of raisins and one of Twinkies. And napkins.

“I say let him sleep,” she said, looking back at him. “He’s easier to handle that way. Besides, we’d have to back him out of the trunk if we woke him up.”

That was a job I could do without until we reached home, when we’d back him out for, I hoped, the only time. But with James’s help. Then I had another thought.

“Etta Mae, should we take him home or to the hospital—in which case the orderlies can get him out?”

“I’ve been wondering about that, too,” she said. “But I don’t know. Once he’s in a hospital, he’s back in the system. We might have trouble keeping that sheriff away from him.”

“Then let’s take him home. We’ll call Dr. Hargrove, who can just make a few house calls for a change. Mr. Pickens can get bed
rest and sedation at home as well as anywhere else. That was all he was getting at the Mill Run hospital anyway.”

“Well,” Etta Mae said, stifling a yawn, “maybe some antibiotics, too. But whatever you say. I’m not too eager to hang around the emergency room a couple of hours while they decide what to do with him.”

“Me, either. Let’s go home.”

I declare, those last two hours on the road in the early morning hours were almost unendurable. I fought sleep, staying awake to talk with Etta Mae to keep her awake and listening in spite of myself to a preacher who was the only thing besides static on the radio. He was preaching about rich men who lived as if they could take it all with them. “I ain’t never seen,” he said, “a U-Haul trailer hitched to a hearse.” And neither had I. Wesley Lloyd Springer, my grasping and long-gone first husband, learned that lesson the hard way—too late to mend his ways.

But it was all to the good when it came to Lloyd and me, because the two of us were Wesley Lloyd’s beneficiaries, whether he liked it or not. I mean, once you’re gone, you don’t have any more say-so in what happens to what you left or who gets what.

I entertained myself with such thoughts as those, occasionally speaking to Etta Mae to be sure she was awake, and picturing Hazel Marie’s joy when we got her sweetheart home. And also, occasionally, wondering what Sheriff McAfee would do when he discovered what we’d done. He claimed to be a church-going man who didn’t like foul language, but I was willing to wager he’d have a few choice things to say when he found his prize witness had flown the coop. And if I found out that he’d deliberately sent us into a den of snakes, why, I just might have a few choice words of my own to say to him.

As we came off the interstate onto the exit ramp, the lights of Abbotsville were a welcome sight even though I could barely keep my eyes open to see them. We drifted through the empty streets feeling as if we were the only two people in town awake. Half awake, I should say, because Etta Mae was looking awfully droopy and, of course, Mr. Pickens was still soundly, though noisily, sleeping.