Miss Julia to the Rescue (26 page)

“Well, obviously, I don’t understand it. But we studied cults a little in seminary, and there is one that encourages a kind of alteration of the body. You know, by decorating it and changing the way it looks.”

“You mean like having a face-lift?”

Poppy laughed. “I doubt cosmetic surgery qualifies as a religious ritual, but I guess it could. I’d certainly do a lot of praying before having any.”

I nodded, thinking of something Hazel Marie had said. “What about having surgery on a woman’s stretch marks?”

“You mean a tummy tuck?” Poppy smiled and patted my arm as if she knew what I was thinking. “I wouldn’t worry about something like that. That’s putting things back the way they were, not adding things like whole sleeve tattoos or covering your back with designs or piercing yourself everywhere. And even those don’t always have a spiritual dimension—probably most don’t.” Poppy thought for a minute, then sat up straight, a frown on her face. “I wish I could remember what we studied—well, not studied—it was just mentioned in class along with a number of other cultic practices. But if Agnes really is a minister, then these people out here could be part of her congregation.”

An intense look passed across Poppy’s face. “I’m going to look up my notes and do some research as soon as I get home. I sure don’t want our young people getting involved in it. We have a hard enough time with the Baptists’ enticing them with basketball courts and game rooms and so on.”

“Let me know what you find out,” I said, thinking of the Presbyterian young people and, of course, of one in particular. And thinking also that I should warn Pastor Ledbetter about this hotbed of freakish behavior in our midst. If, that is, he could ever get world travels off his mind.

As soon as the tattooed valet brought my car around, I hopped in as spryly as I could manage, took off the hat that kept grazing everything in sight and threw it on the passenger seat. I drove away disturbed and saddened by the strange ways that people sought meaning in life, or perhaps sought attention by being different. I could’ve told them a better way to have both meaning and attention, but I wasn’t asked and doubted I ever would be.

The strangest thing, though, was that Agnes Whitman, after greeting me warmly enough, seemed to avoid me the rest of the afternoon.

But maybe I was being too sensitive. There had been a lot of guests—maybe thirty or so—not only from the list that Mildred had given her but also many of her Fairfields neighbors as well, and as the hostess, she’d had to mingle. But every time I had approached a group she was with, she’d moved away to another one. I couldn’t think why she didn’t want my company—she had invited me, after all—but perhaps I was reading too much into her actions. Perhaps the way she always kept one step beyond me was unintentional.

One other possibility occurred to me. Maybe she’d seen Poppy and me huddled together and assumed we’d discussed her, which, I must admit, would’ve been a correct assumption. But she would not have had to worry about defending her beliefs to me, in spite of her efforts to proselytize Poppy. I am a firm believer in avoiding
discussions of politics and religion in a social setting and simply would not have put up with it.

Besides, what I’d wanted to talk to her about wasn’t religion, but Adam Waites and the fact that he was committed to me for some weeks to come. I’d wanted to make sure she understood that he wasn’t available until I was through with him. And, actually, when it came right down to it, I
needed
Adam working at my house. I needed things to progress, to see changes, to have something new and different to think about—like how well a new room or two were shaping up. The fact of the matter was that Lloyd had had his last final exam that very day, and more than likely, he had started packing up his stuff while I was out partying.

Trying not to dwell on the emptiness I was feeling, I drove home with all that Poppy had said running through my mind, wondering how anybody would willingly undergo the pain of an electric needle on sensitive flesh, much less the agony of piercing metal stakes through nose, eyebrows, lips, ears and who knows what else. If such procedures came under the heading of worship, I was doubly glad I was a Presbyterian, which only required sitting through boring sermons and mumbling through hymns I couldn’t sing.

Well, of course there was more to it than that, but I’m talking about just the outward observance in a Presbyterian service. When you got down to the real requirements like treating others as you want to be treated, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and loving the unlovable, they might, in the long run, prove harder and more rigorous than having a metal rod jammed through your nose, although I wouldn’t want to do a comparison test.

I went into the house through the front door, castigating myself for not telling Lillian to go home early. I would be the only one for supper, and after attending such an unappetizing social gathering, all I wanted to do was have a snack and sit around feeling sorry for myself, alone and lonely for Sam and Lloyd.

Well, that would have to wait. Seeing that Lillian was still there, I could tell her about the party and what I’d learned about people who believed that nuts and bolts and safety pins stuck into and through tender places would get them to heaven.

So I sailed into the kitchen, saying, “Lillian, you won’t believe this, but …” And stopped as I saw who was sitting at the table with her. “Why, Lloyd, I thought you’d be at your mother’s.”

He grinned and ducked his head. “I got lonesome for Miss Lillian’s cookin’. James can’t hold a candle to her, and, well, you know how Mama is in the kitchen.” He turned his empty cup around in the saucer, glancing up at Lillian.

Lillian laughed, got up from the table and brought a cup and saucer for me, along with the coffee pot. I sat down with them, pleased to have them both with me.

“Supper’ll be ready in a little bit,” Lillian said as she poured coffee. “Latisha gone on a day trip—a long day trip—with her class, so I’ll fix her a plate an’ heat it up later. Lloyd,” she went on, “tell Miss Julia how Mr. Pickens doin’.”

“Oh, he is something else,” Lloyd said, delight beaming on his face, “I can’t help but laugh, ’cause he’s a mess. I mean, in a good way. He can’t stand to stay in bed, but it hurts too bad to walk around and he can’t sit in a chair too long, even with that pillow he carries everywhere. James has to go to the kitchen so he can laugh, and Mama wants J.D. to stay in bed, so she gives him back rubs all day to keep him still. She says he’ll never heal if he keeps moving around like he’s doing.”

“She gonna spoil that man,” Lillian said. “But ’bout the onliest time you can keep a man like that still is when he sick or gun shot. So I guess she makin’ the most of it while she can.”

I laughed at the thought. “At least he won’t be running off looking for missing persons anytime soon. She’ll have him home for a good while now.” Then, sobering at a memory, I went on. “Lloyd, do you know if he’s heard from that sheriff yet?”

“No’m.” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. He told Mama that it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know Coleman
was going to call the sheriff, but so far he’s not been able to get him.”

“Sheriff McAfee is a hard man to pin down. It took hours for Etta Mae and me to even get in to see him, then he avoided us by sending us to the wrong church, and now it’s like he doesn’t know or care that he’s lost his prime suspect or witness or whatever label he’s hung on Mr. Pickens. I don’t know what to think, but I wish he’d do something so we could put this behind us.”

“Jus’ watch,” Lillian said. “He be showin’ up here sooner or later, or sendin’ somebody ’cause I bet he want Mr. Pickens back up there.”

“Well, if he does,” I said, “I hope he has a better way to transport him than we had. I don’t think Mr. Pickens could stand another trip like that, even if he is on the mend. Anyway,” I went on, “let me tell you about the garden party.”

I briefly described Agnes Whitman’s house and grounds, then went into detail describing her valet, maid and barman. And her, as well. “I tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it. They’ve just ruined their bodies and, as far as I’m concerned, their lives as well. And the strangest thing was that, according to Poppy, all that metal and ink could be connected to some kind of religion. Have either of you heard of anything like that?”

Lloyd’s frown had gotten deeper the longer I spoke. “No’m,” he said, “but our tennis coach has a tattoo up high on his arm. I guess it could be something religious, but I don’t think so ’cause he goes to the Episcopal church. It kinda looks like an anchor, but I’m not sure. He always wears shirts with sleeves.”

“Well, see,” I said, sure that my point had been proved, “he keeps it covered up. I expect he wishes he hadn’t gotten it, but he probably did it when he was in the service and didn’t know any better. And now he has to live with it, and those poor souls at the Whitman place will, too.”

“No,” Lloyd said, slowly shaking his head. “They might not have to. I think now those things can be removed with laser surgery
or something. I think it takes a long time, though, and it’s pretty expensive. Probably painful, too.”

“Well, from what Poppy said, enduring pain is part of it—you know, while they’re getting stuck or cut or pierced, so I guess they wouldn’t mind a little more. But I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve never felt the least bit religious when a doctor comes at me with a flu shot.”

“Law,” Lillian said, getting up from the table, “all this talk about needles an’ safety pins give me the shivers. It all I can do to wear clip-on earbobs of a Sunday. Y’all ’bout ready for supper?”

I stood, too. “I’ll set the table. You’re eating with us, aren’t you, Lloyd?”

“Yes’m, and staying the night, too, if that’s all right.”

I beamed at him, my heart lightened. “It’s always all right, and you don’t ever have to ask.”

“Well, good, because I thought I’d wait to move my stuff until J.D. can help me. He offered to, just as soon as he’s well enough.”

“That was thoughtful of him,” I said, at once serene and comforted. I began laying out the place mats. “We don’t want to rush his recovery, though, do we?”

Lillian suddenly turned from the stove. “Oh, Miss Julia, I forget to tell you. That carpenter been up yonder hammerin’ all day, an’ he say ’fore he left to tell you he can’t work tomorrow. He promised a lady to do something for her, but he be back soon as he can.”

“What!” I spun around, immediately upset at being left in the lurch by someone I was depending on. “He can’t do that—just walk off the job without a fare-thee-well. He’s supposed to be reliable and professional, at least that’s what I was told. Now what am I going to do?” I stood there with a handful of silverware, just so put out with this turn of events. “I’m calling Mildred.”

A lot of good that did, for Mildred had no solution for me.

“He didn’t say who he’d be working for?” she asked.

“No, but you know who it has to be, don’t you? Agnes avoided me all afternoon, so I think she already knew he’d be at her house tomorrow. I am just done in about this, Mildred. I expect people to do what they say they’ll do when they say they’ll do it.”