Miss Julia Lays Down the Law (5 page)

I put down my pen again when I heard the front doorbell ring, wondering who could be calling at eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Listening carefully so I’d know if I wanted to be available, I heard the scuffle of Lillian’s shoes with the run-over heels as she walked to the door, then the low rumble of a male voice. Who in the world?

“Miss Julia?” Lillian said as she appeared in the library doorway. “The Reverend Mr. Ledbetter come callin’.”

“Well, for goodness sakes,” I murmured, considering, then deciding against, a correction to the Reverend
Dr.
Ledbetter by virtue of an honorary degree. “What does he want?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Lillian answered. “He don’t tell me, but he waitin’ in the livin’ room.”

“Ah, well,” I said, putting aside my notes and preparing to go in and be as gracious as possible while turning down whatever committee on which he wanted me to serve. In spite of Connie’s rant about
giving back,
I’d about had my fill of giving either to or back to church committees. Besides, Connie didn’t support any church at all, and I’d spent my life taking on one church-related job, project, or program after another. “Thank you, Lillian.”

I walked down the hall to the living room, where I found Pastor Ledbetter standing in the middle of the room.

“Have a seat, Pastor,” I said. “How nice to see you. I hope you’re well.”

He looked up, surprising me with the lines of strain on his face. “Is there a place we can talk?” he asked. “Somewhere a little more private?”

I started to tell him that Lillian was the only one who could possibly hear us, and she wasn’t at all interested in what he had to say, and that I’d probably tell her whatever it was, anyway. The anxious look on his face stopped me.

“Why, yes,” I said. “Let’s go into the library.”

He followed me back to the library, stood back as I entered, then pulled the door closed behind us.

Whatever was on his mind seemed serious enough to warrant a soothing fire in the fireplace, so I turned up the gas until a small blaze began to warm the room. I motioned to one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace, but he took a seat on the leather sofa on the other side. I took the wing chair facing him, and waited.

“Well, Pastor,” I finally said, since he seemed reluctant to begin, “is there something I can do for you? Although I will tell you now that my calendar is full and I simply can’t take on another thing, at least before Christmas.” Of next year, I mentally added.

He shot a quick look at me, then darted his eyes around the room. Sitting there in a typical male position—legs a-spraddle with hands clasped between his knees—he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than where he was. Whatever proposition he had to present, it was looking more and more likely that I wouldn’t want it.

“Miss Julia,” he said, looking past his hands toward the floor and ignoring my attempt at cutting him off, “I must ask you to keep this conversation confidential. I considered asking you to my office, where confidentiality is assured, but I couldn’t sit still long enough to wait for you. I’m in a desperate situation, and I need help.”

I knew it,
I thought as I fought to prevent my eyes from rolling back in my head.
Somebody has had to drop out, and he needs a Sunday school teacher or a committee chairman or a representative to the General Assembly for a week somewhere in Texas
. No, no, and no again.

“I hate to turn you down, Pastor,” I said, although I didn’t really mind at all, “but, as I’ve said, I can’t accept another thing, and besides . . .”

“No,” he said, holding up a hand, “this has nothing to do with the church. I mean, it does, but not directly. I mean, it affects the church in that my ability to lead and minister to our members is badly hindered. But . . .” He stopped and looked directly at me. “This must not get around, Miss Julia. I’m trying to mitigate the consequences of it as much as I can.”

This
did
sound serious, and I wondered why he had come to me and not to Sam or to one of his elders.

“I assure you, Pastor, that I’m not in the habit of telling everything I know, and you may trust my word on that.”

“And I must ask you to give it,” he said, staring at me. “I must ask you not even to discuss it with Sam—not that I distrust him, but someone might overhear. You have lots of people coming in and out here, and they could pick up something that could, well, be damaging.”

Not only was it sounding serious, it was beginning to sound weird, but I gave my word.

“I will not discuss whatever it is with anyone,” I said, knowing full well how difficult it would be to keep anything from Sam. Especially something that sounded so tellable, as this was beginning to sound. “Now, for goodness sakes, Pastor, tell me what’s troubling you so.”

He unclasped his hands, leaned back against the sofa, blew out a long breath, and said, “Emma Sue.”

I blinked in surprise. “Emma Sue?”

“Emma Sue,” he affirmed, then sat up straight as if ready to face the problem. “She’s in a bad way, and I thought you might be the one to help.”

“Why, what’s wrong with her? Is she ill?”

“I’m beginning to think it’s more than that. I tell you, Miss Julia, I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve talked to her till I’m blue in the face, and everything just rolls right off.”

I could understand that. Most of what he said in the pulpit rolled right off me, too.

“My goodness,” I murmured. “Perhaps she needs a complete medical checkup. She may have low thyroid or something.”

He breathed deeply and, as if finally conceding a sorry conclusion, said, “Worse than that. She admits that it’s a spiritual sickness, but I’m thinking it’s a willful disregard of her duties and responsibilities to me. First Timothy three tells us that any man who desires to hold a church office must first rule his own house. Yet she won’t listen to me, and that, in turn, affects my authority in the church. I’m beginning to think that my influence over her has waned. That’s why I thought of you.”

I heard him and hearing, wondered about whom he was most concerned—Emma Sue or himself. But I knew the one I cared about, so I said, “I’ll be glad to help if I can, but, Pastor, it sounds as if she may need more help than I can give. Professional help, I’m referring to.”

“Possibly so,” he admitted, which was a giant step for him and proved to me that he was indeed up against something he couldn’t handle. “But it would have to be someone who’s a Christian, and even then, I hesitate because she’s so suggestible. To everyone but me, that is. But she’s suffering, and so am I. That’s why I’m turning to you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I’d be much of a substitute for a counselor. Even a Christian one, but I’ll certainly do what I can. I care about Emma Sue. But tell me, Pastor, just what is she doing? I mean, to distress you so much. I know she suffers from migraines, but usually they’re over in a day or so.”

“Oh, it all started with a migraine,” he said with another deep breath. “A bad one. I had to put off writing my sermon to take her to the doctor for an injection. That usually puts her right quickly enough, but not this time. She’s been in bed since Friday—missed Sunday services, too. She hasn’t bathed or washed her hair, and she’s hardly eaten a bite. She . . . she just cries. And looks off in the distance. I am sick with worry. Something has to be done.”

“It certainly seems so,” I said, feeling great sympathy for Emma Sue, although I’d long thought that she put too much pressure on herself. “But Emma Sue is so capable and so energetic, I can’t imagine what could have brought her to such a pass.”

“Oh, I know what instigated it, but after much prayer and long consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t attempt to resolve the problem myself.”

“You mean you can pinpoint it?” I was surprised, because I’d assumed that Emma Sue suffered from a general dissatisfaction with her life—which she was unable to admit, even to herself—and from overwork while trying to make up for whatever was missing.

“Yes,” he said as his voice hardened. “It was that woman, that Clayborn woman.”

“Connie? Why, Pastor, Emma Sue and I discussed her on the phone the other day, and we decided that Connie has ruined herself in this town. But now that I think of it,” I mused aloud, “Emma Sue was more upset than usual, taking what Connie said as a personal criticism and even as a direct scolding from the Lord. I thought I’d talked her out of that, but I guess I didn’t if things are as bad as you say.”

“They’re bad, all right. She hasn’t combed her hair in four days.”

“That is bad,” I agreed, my hand going to my hair to make sure it was behaving. “What can I do to help, Pastor? I’m not very good at bedside nursing, or reading to people, and so forth. But if you need food, I can bring supper tonight.”

“No, that’s not what’s called for. Miss Julia, I want you to go see that woman. I know,” he went on softly, as if he hated to admit to any failing on his part, “I’m asking a lot. It should really be my responsibility, but from all I’ve heard about Ms. Clayborn, a minister of the Gospel is the last person she would listen to—much less take instruction from. But if you would talk to her, explain to her how sensitive Emma Sue is to criticism—even unintended criticism—she might listen. Let her know the kind of damage she’s done, and see if she’ll call on Emma Sue to reassure and encourage her. A positively constructed visit from that woman—with you to listen in so she doesn’t do more damage—might be enough to show Emma Sue that the Lord is not chastising her.”

I did some leaning back and deep breathing of my own. “I don’t know, Pastor. For one thing, I don’t know Connie Clayborn well enough to predict how she’d respond. There was something about her that was . . .”

“Evil? I was afraid of that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I was going to say
different
,
but that may’ve been because she’s never lived in a small town and doesn’t know how to conduct herself.”

“Well, I’ve had to consider the possibility that there’s something evil about her—Satan does use people, you know, especially people who don’t believe he exists.” Pastor Ledbetter bowed his head in despair. “Miss Julia, if the Clayborn woman is involved in Satanism, she can do more mischief than we can imagine. My greatest fear is that she’s started with Emma Sue and that park that Emma Sue has put her heart and soul into.”

Lord, he was so serious, cold chills ran down my back. Getting mixed up with Satan was the last thing I wanted to do, but I shook myself back to a sane consideration of what the pastor wanted from me.

“Frankly, Pastor, I think Connie is less Satan-influenced than just plain lacking in common sense. To say nothing of common courtesy. So I don’t mind talking to Connie. In fact, I’d like to give her a piece of my mind, especially now that she’s distressed Emma Sue so badly. But I have to warn you—I have my doubts as to how much good it’ll do. In fact, the woman was so determined to lambast us that it might take a stick of stove wood to cut her down to size.” I smiled as I repeated one of Lillian’s favorite threats toward anyone who gave her grief.

Pastor Ledbetter didn’t return my smile. “Just try, Miss Julia. Knowing that you’ll try gives me hope.” He stopped and looked around the room, then hung his head. “It’s beyond me to understand why the Clayborn woman’s opinion means so much to Emma Sue. You’d think that my opinion would outweigh anybody else’s, but nothing I say sinks in. If you could get that woman to take back whatever she said, or to apologize, or to just say that she didn’t have Emma Sue in mind when she said whatever it was. I don’t know what else to do. So then,” he said, suddenly standing up, “I have to leave it with you, but be in prayer while you talk to her and especially if you take her to see Emma Sue. Gird yourself with the whole armor of God and with unceasing prayer, and keep it all to yourself.”

I assured him that I would, walked with him to the door, bade him a good day, closed the door, and collapsed in a chair, wishing mightily that I could discuss this unexpected and burdensome job with Sam. Or with Lillian. One needs all the help one can get when given such a mission, even if Connie Clayborn was a Vassar graduate who thought that such an accomplishment translated into an overweening conviction of her own superior knowledge on every subject known to man.

Connie Clayborn, evil? No, I wouldn’t go that far. But pushy, rude, and totally insensitive, any of which was enough to strike her off my dance card. Such thoughts were running through my mind as I walked back to the library, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

I sat by the fire for a few minutes, all plans for my Christmas soiree put on hold, while the conversation with the pastor played over and over in my mind. Why had I agreed to such a thing? Well, for one thing, I was worried about Emma Sue and wanted to help. But this kind of help? Getting in the middle of two women—one deeply hurt and the other oblivious? I, or anybody who tried that, could make the situation worse. For all I knew, Emma Sue’s response was exactly what Connie wanted from all of us, forcing us to take stock and recalibrate the way we viewed the world. But if so, what, then, for Emma Sue? Would she sink further into depression or would she suddenly accept Connie’s admonitions and redouble her efforts to help others, run the church, collect more money, cover more dishes, pull more weeds, and on and on until she finally ran out of steam and caved in for good?

No, not if I had anything to do with it, and that, I decided, was why I’d agreed to mediate between the two women. And in addition, I realized with some anticipation, doing so would give me the perfect opportunity to release some of my own antagonism toward Connie. Putting her in her place by letting her know the damage she’d caused was a righteous reason for anyone to step in.

I hoped that giving Connie a piece of my mind—in a nice, rational way, of course—wasn’t the sole reason I was eager to take on the pastor’s mission. But it was part of the reason, I conceded, because I always try to understand my own motivations for whatever I do. So I was quite pleased with myself that I could recognize my own stake in this opportunity. I was, however, completely satisfied that it was primarily for Emma Sue’s sake that I would do it.

But, oh, how I longed to ask Sam’s advice. Or Lillian’s. Or even Hazel Marie’s. Actually, though, I didn’t need to ask—I knew what they’d say. Every one of them would tell me to stay out of it. I could just hear Lillian already: “Won’t do no good you meddlin’ in the middle of them two ladies. It be like two cats a-fightin’, an’ you the one gonna get scratched.” And she’d be right, except that Emma Sue wasn’t fighting. She was taking a beating, and shouldn’t I take up for her?

And Sam? What would he advise? I could just see the kind concern in his eyes as he’d tell me to be a friend to Emma Sue, but to stay away from Connie. “Nothing good can come of it, Julia,” he’d say. “Ledbetter is asking you to do something he can’t or won’t do himself, and it’s too much to ask of anybody.”

Hazel Marie would get teary-eyed at the thought of Emma Sue’s suffering and angry at the one who’d caused it. But, like Sam, she would warn me against getting involved for fear that I, too, would be hurt.

So with all that advice against doing what I’d been asked to do, what did I do? I began planning my strategy, because I’m not one to turn down a cry for help, especially since it was my pastor doing the crying. He so rarely asked for help, be it for increased tithes, over and above giving, teaching a Sunday school class, standing for a church office, or putting up a missionary’s family for a week or so. He simply announced his needs, expecting them to be met before he had to ask.

But before jumping in with both feet, it occurred to me that I’d do well to talk again with Emma Sue. For all I knew, she could be on an uphill climb out of her depression or whatever it was, so that nothing more was needed than to give her a little time. Of course that would mean I’d lose the chance to express my own righteous anger at and to Connie—something I would dearly love to do. I clenched my fist—how I wanted to put that woman in her place! Cut her down to size. Take her down a few notches. Wipe that know-it-all smirk off her face.

I shook myself free of all such unchristian thoughts. No, if I could get Connie to realize what she’d done, to show her a better way, wouldn’t that be a helpful thing to do? Of course it would. Therefore my walking into the fray wouldn’t be meddling at all. It would be of benefit to both Emma Sue and Connie.

I picked up the phone to call Emma Sue, then put it back down. No need to ask in her present state if she’d like a visitor—she’d say no. Especially if she hadn’t combed her hair in days.

I went to the kitchen, calling Lillian as I went. “Lillian, what do we have that I could take to Mrs. Ledbetter? She’s not feeling well, so I don’t want to go empty-handed.”

Lillian looked up from the potatoes she was peeling. “I got some of them teeny little chicken pot pies in the freezer, if you think she like that. Or I could make her some soup.”

“If the pot pies are the ones you make, I’ll take two of them. Soup would take too long, and I need to go on now.”

“She that bad off?” Lillian dried her hands on a dish towel and went to the freezer. “She such a nice lady, I don’t like to hear that.”

“Well,” I said, stifling a great urge to tell what I knew I couldn’t tell, “she has migraines, you know, and this is a particularly long-lasting one. I’ll just drop off the pies for their dinner and see if she needs anything. I don’t plan to linger.”

I slipped into my coat while Lillian wrapped the frozen miniature pot pies in foil and newspaper, then stuffed them into a sack. On my way out the door, I remembered to pick up my cell phone—something I rarely did because I was sick and tired of seeing people walking down the street with one attached to their ears and giving everyone around the benefit of their day’s progress. I saw no need to broadcast my business to everyone within earshot.

 • • • 

Pulling into the Ledbetters’ driveway, I brought the car to a stop, then called Emma Sue on the cell phone. It took her forever to answer—exactly what I thought would happen if I had rung the doorbell. But this way, I could sit in the warm car while I let the phone ring as long as it took. Sooner or later, she’d pick it up, whereas she could’ve ignored the doorbell.

I hardly recognized her voice when she finally answered.

“Emma Sue,” I said, “it’s Julia, and I’m in your driveway with two of Lillian’s wonderful chicken pot pies. They’re frozen and need to be in the freezer. Come to the door, and let me in.”

“Oh, Julia,” she said, her voice muted and ragged. “Thank you, but . . .”

“But nothing. Open the door, Emma Sue. You need to eat something. I’m getting out of the car, so don’t let me stand out here and freeze.” Sometimes you have to be firm with people who’re reluctant to accept help.

She murmured okay, or at least I think she did. I clicked off, grabbed the sack, and headed for her front door. She opened it a bare inch or so. One eye looked at me while one hand reached out for the sack.

I pushed gently on the door, feeling it give as she stepped back. “I’m coming in, Emma Sue. I’ve brought you something for dinner, and I need to give you directions for heating it up.” I stepped into the hall, muffled a gasp at her dishevelment—a much-washed flannel gown, pale face, bare feet, and stringy hair—and proceeded to her kitchen.

It was a mess. The remains of a single breakfast were on the table, stacks of unwashed dishes in the sink, coffee grounds on the counter, and an overflowing trash can in the corner.

“Julia,” Emma Sue said, sounding as if she could barely get the words out. “I’ve been too sick to get my work done. But, well, I’m sorry you have to see this.”

“
You’re
sorry? Emma Sue, for goodness sakes, there’s a grown man who lives here, too. Anybody who’s old enough to feed himself is old enough to clean up afterward.”

“It’s my job,” she murmured.

“Well, now it’s mine. Have you had any breakfast? No, I guess you haven’t. Sit down, and I’ll put on the coffee. You want some cereal? Never mind, you’re getting some.”

It took awhile to fill the dishwasher, clean off the table and the counters, wipe up drippings on the stovetop, empty the trash can, sweep the floor, and encourage Emma Sue to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes—the only cereal I could find.

I poured a glass of orange juice for Emma Sue, a cup of coffee for myself, and sat at the table with her.

“Drink up, Emma Sue. You need the vitamins.” I sipped the coffee, longing for a dash of cream but fearful of the dregs I’d found in the refrigerator. “Now listen,” I began, “you’ve got to pull yourself out of this. If you need to go back to the doctor, I’ll take you, and if you need me to talk to the pastor, I’ll do that, too. There’s no reason in the world for you to suffer while he’s not turning his hands to anything in this house. And don’t tell me it’s your job—that’s not only ridiculous, it’s out of date.
Everybody
—man, woman, or child—helps when somebody’s sick.”

“Well, Larry,” she said, picking at her flannel gown. “Larry thinks I’ll get well faster if the house gets bad enough.”

“
Then
Larry
thinks wrong,” I said. “I declare, even J. D. Pickens changes a diaper now and then. It wouldn’t hurt the pastor to clean this house, cook something for you to eat, and take care of things around here.”

Emma Sue started crying, not sobbing, just two lines of tears began rolling down her face. “He has a lot to put up with,” she said, her head hanging down. “I’m not the wife he needs and deserves. And he has the burden of so many people on his shoulders, and, and I just pile on more.” Her own shoulders began to heave.

I reached over and put my hand on her arm. “Emma Sue, you are his
wife
. You should come first.”

Her reddened eyes glanced up at me. “Oh, no. The Lord comes first.”

“Okay, second, then, but not the last in line.” I sat and looked at her for a minute. “But listen, I really came over to encourage you to forget about Connie—she’s not worth getting sick over. She’ll get her comeuppance sooner or later, and you don’t have to give her another thought. Drink your juice.”

Well, Emma Sue really started crying then, sobbing and heaving and gasping. I got up and gave her a paper towel. She grasped it and covered her face.

“Oh, Julia,” she finally managed, “Connie just put a terrible icing on the cake, making me see what a poor Christian I am, and a poor church member and a poor citizen of the community and a poor wife. Larry is right—I am a burden he has to bear, and I . . . I know I am.” Her shoulders hunched over as she shrunk into herself. “I can hardly bear the thought of it.”

Well, my Lord,
I thought, leaning back in my chair, just done in by what I’d heard—and not for the first time from her. I didn’t know who needed horsewhipping more—Connie Clayborn or Pastor Larry Ledbetter. Or Emma Sue herself for believing such claptrap.