Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel (21 page)

After bringing the conversation with Helen to a close, I forced myself to continue working on the recipe book—more to have something to displace Mr. Pickens in my mind than anything else—so I reached again for the phone. If anyone could lift my spirits it was the Reverend Poppy Peterson, assistant pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Abbotsville.

To tell the truth, I longed to be able to unburden myself of the troubles created by Mr. Pickens’s waywardness, and since I couldn’t to Sam, Pastor Poppy was the next best person to hear them. She, I knew, would not extract a promise from me concerning any future action I might feel compelled to take and, as a minister bound by the rule of confidentiality—something that did not constrain most people—she wouldn’t tell anybody else.

In the end, though, I decided to keep it to myself. I had Lillian, who already knew as much as I did, to talk to, so there was no reason in the world for me to confide in anybody else. Even if I was dying to tell somebody.

Nonetheless, when Poppy answered the phone in her warm, bubbly voice, I could feel myself waver. “Miss Julia!” she exclaimed, as if she’d been just waiting for me to call. “How good to hear from you. What’s going on? How are you?”

I almost capitulated enough to ask for a counseling appointment. Instead, though, I managed to say, “Oh, just so-so, Poppy. You know how it is, trying to keep going and get through the day as well I can.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. Be careful you don’t fall into accidie, which I’ve just been reading about. But you don’t have that problem, I’m sure.” She laughed warmly. “You’re much too busy and involved in things.”

“Well, speaking of being involved, I’d like to involve you in something I’m working on.” And I went on to tell her my plan for a recipe book for Hazel Marie. “I’d love to include a main dish recipe from you, Poppy, and if you have time, schedule you for a demonstration of how to prepare it. Could you do that? I’d be ever so grateful.”

“Oh, sure. I’d love to. Hold on a minute and let me get my card file.” She put down the phone. “Here we go,” she said a few moments later “How many chicken recipes do you have?”

“Um, I haven’t counted, but there’re several. Don’t worry, though—everybody likes chicken and if you have something different, I’ll take it. Read it out. I can tell if I already have it.”

She did and I could. “Oh, goodness, Poppy, that’s exactly like Miss Mattie’s. In fact, it sounds like something Lillian makes, too, which means it’s good. Do you have anything else?”

“Let me see,” Poppy said, not at all perturbed. “Here’s one I almost gave you to start with. It was given to me by a wonderful cook before I went off to seminary. She said it’s the perfect recipe for leftover turkey after the holidays.” She giggled. “I like it so much, though, that I buy a turkey breast every now and then just to have leftovers for this.”

“Okay, let’s do that one, then. I know I don’t have any turkey recipes.”

“Okay, if you’re ready. It’s one of my favorite company recipes, and this card tells the tale. I’ve used it so many times and spilled so much on it, I can barely read it.”

Hoping she wouldn’t leave anything out, I assured her I was ready to write.

¹
/
₄
pound spaghetti, uncooked

2 cups diced cooked turkey

4-ounce can mushrooms

2 tablespoons butter

10
³
/
₄
-ounce can cream of chicken soup, undiluted

1 cup sour cream

Almonds, chopped

Parmesan cheese

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Cook the spaghetti, drain, and put it in the bottom of an ovenproof bowl. In a large skillet, sauté the turkey and mushrooms in butter, then add the soup, sour cream, and almonds, and stir. Add the Parmesan cheese (as much as you want) and pour the mixture over the spaghetti. Sprinkle more Parmesan over the top. Bake 35 to 45 minutes.

Serves 4.

(Hazel Marie, Poppy says she likes either a congealed or a fruit salad with this, maybe some English peas and yeast rolls, which I wouldn’t try to make if I were you. You can get them from the frozen section.)

“That sounds good,” I said, “and not too hard for Hazel Marie to practice on. I’m sure I don’t have that one. Now, Poppy, what day could you go over and show her how to put it together? Any day next week after Tuesday.”

“Let me check my calendar. Wednesday might be best for me, if that’ll work for you.

“Oh, wait a minute,” Poppy went on. “Look at Miss Mattie’s chicken and rice recipe. I bet she didn’t give you some variations I’ve tried with it. What you can do is use
boned
chicken breasts—even chicken cutlets work well. All you do is roll them up, then wrap each piece with an uncooked strip of bacon and use toothpicks to hold it on. Then go ahead and brown the breasts, then follow the recipe. Or instead of bacon, you can wrap the breasts in slices of dried beef—you know, the kind that comes in the little jar.”

Writing hurriedly to get down the last-minute options, I said, “Don’t think of any other possibilities, Poppy. Hazel Marie won’t be able to decide which one to use. I’m about lost myself. Thank goodness I’m not the one who’ll be cooking.”

She laughed, assured me that Hazel Marie would find her recipe as easy as pie, and, after we’d confirmed Wednesday, we hung up.

Then I rose from the chair, took down the heavy dictionary from the shelf, and looked up
accidie,
effectively proving to myself that I didn’t have it.

Looking back, though, I admit that I had to struggle almost that entire weekend to keep from being struck down with a case of it. All I wanted to do was sit and stare off into space. I had no energy for anything, mainly because what I wanted to do, I knew I couldn’t do—and that was to kick Brother Vern out, get James back to work, and shake Mr. Pickens until his teeth rattled.

After I had sat around as long as I could stand it that Saturday, I got up and went to the kitchen. “Lillian,” I said as soon as I entered, “would you mind fixing a nice little lunch for James? I need to speak with him, and I thought I’d take him lunch. It’ll relieve Hazel Marie and give him a change, too. Anything but a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Lillian looked at me in surprise. “What you got to talk to James for?”

“All those envelopes he’s mailing out every other day. He’s opening himself up to being taken advantage of and, for all we know, he’s involving Lloyd in it, too. Remember, we still don’t know the real reason Lloyd made that midnight visit, in spite of what he told us.”

“Uh-huh, I ’bout forget about that. But you think James gonna let you in on any secret they got? Them two’s thick as thieves. I wouldn’t count on gettin’ anything outta James if I was you.”

“You’re probably right, but I told Sam about those envelopes we saw, and he thinks James may be wasting his money by sending donations to scam organizations. He said he’d talk to James, but what is he doing today? Off interviewing some retired judge he wants to write about, that’s what.”

“Uh-huh, so you gonna do the talkin’.”

“No, I’ll just feel him out a little. I’ll call Hazel Marie and tell her not to worry about lunch for him. And I don’t plan to visit with her. I don’t want to even
see
Mr. Pickens—I might slap his face. I’m going straight to James’s apartment, then back home.”

As she began preparing a to-go lunch for James, I called Hazel Marie, then put on my coat. “Where’s Lloyd? He’s not over there, is he?”

“No’m, he went with Mr. Sam. He tol’ you at breakfast he goin’ with him.”

“Oh, that’s right. He’s hoping to get some ideas for a paper he has to write.” I sighed as Lillian ladled hot soup into a thermos and wrapped two large chunks of cornbread in foil. “I don’t know where my mind is these days.”

“James,” I said as I poured the soup, thick with vegetables and beef cubes, into a bowl. “You are looking so much better. That ankle or foot or whatever you injured seems about well.”

He had come to the door fully dressed, limping a little but without the help of a cane. Even his bed was made. Sitting now at his small table, he watched with a leery look on his face as I set out his lunch.

“Miss Granny ’bout cured my foot,” he said, still watching me with a hint of suspicion. “But I can’t do no work till I get this cask off my arm.”

“I know, but nobody’s rushing you. We just want you to get well. You must be tired of sitting around all day, unable to come and go like you want to.”

“Yes’m, I do get tired of lookin’ at four walls, but I keep myself busy. I got the TV an’ Lloyd’s iTunes an’ I got my forms.” I placed the bowl of soup and a plate of cornbread before him. “That sure look good. Miss Lillian, she’s a cook an’ a half.” He looked up in alarm as I took a seat across from him. “You gonna watch me eat?”

“No, I’m going in a minute, but, James, it’s those forms I want to talk to you about. Just what kind of forms are they?”

“Well, now, Miss Julia,” he said, drawing back because I was poking my nose into his business. I knew it and didn’t blame him, but the only way to learn something is to ask. “They jus’ something I do for the Lord since I can’t get to church.”

“For the Lord? My goodness, James, how do you figure that? Your mail is going all over the country, not to your church.”

“The Lord do his work everywhere,” he said with just a touch of piety, “in all kinda ways.”

“Oh, of course,” I quickly agreed. “But the reason I ask is that I don’t want Lloyd involved in anything unsavory. I know he’s helping you, which is why I may appear to be meddling in your business. I hope you understand.”

“Lloyd jus’ fillin’ out my forms like I tell him to ’cause I can’t write with this cask on. Then he takin’ ’em to the post office for me. An’ he write the checks for me, too, but I’m pretty good at signin’ ’em with my left hand now, so he don’t have to sign ’em for me no more.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. “He’s been signing
checks
for you? You mean,
forging
your name?”

“No’m, it ain’t forgin’ when I tell him to an’ watch him do it an’ put down my
X
with my left hand. Forgin’ is when somebody write your name an’ you don’t know he doin’ it.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.” But I didn’t know if he was or not. I could just picture our Lloyd brought up on fraudulent check charges. “But let me be firm about this, James. Don’t ask him to do it again.”

“No’m, I can jus’ about manage on my own now. I been practicin’ with my left hand, and besides I don’t have to send in all them little donations no more.”

“So you
have
been sending donations? I thought so, and, James, I’m worried about that. Don’t you know that there are people out there who just look for good-hearted people like you to prey on? Those organizations you’re sending money to don’t exist—your money is going into the pocket of some crook. From the looks of them, they’re all scams, every last one.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, they’re not. They all have these big drawin’s an’ raffles, an’ that was just for the big prizes. They send you little prizes just for sendin’ in your form, which they already sent to you. All you have to do is send your entry form with jus’ a little donation, like nine dollars or maybe twenny sometimes. An’ then I get back all kinda little prizes, you know jus’ for enterin’, like little stickers an’ bookmarks an’ notepads with your name on ’em. But the big thing is, you have a chance to win ten thousand dollars an’ sometimes even more than that. An’ even if you don’t win the big prizes, all them nine-dollar donations go to help hurt soldiers an’ poor little dogs an’ little sick chil’ren.”

I just sat and looked at him, astounded at how he’d been taken in. “Well, let me just say this: If you’re intent on gambling, you’d be better off and more likely to win something if you played the lottery. At least it’s run by the state, which, I admit, can’t always be trusted, but at least the lottery has a semblance of legitimacy.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he said, aghast. “I can’t do that. I don’t gamble. Gamblin’s a sin.”

“Why, James, what do you think those drawings and so forth are? You’re paying for a chance to win money, which is what a lottery is.”

“No, ma’am. No, ma’am,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, determined not to be moved. “They not the same. One is donations and the other’s gamblin’.”

“So how much have you won?”

“Don’t make no difference now. I’m already through with them little piddlin’ prizes. All them nine-dollar checks I been sending in, they done come back to me lotsa times over—that’s what you call caskin’ your bread on the water, Miss Julia. So don’t you worry ’bout Lloyd—he don’t need to do another thing for me. I’m gonna start doin’ for him now, ’cause I done hit the jackpot.”

“My word,” I was moved to say after a little more back and forth, as I tried to point out better places to risk his money, like the state lottery, the stock market, or a savings account. I finally had to concede that I would neither change his mind nor get any more out of him. He closed up tight, wouldn’t say another word about what kind of jackpot, where it was coming from, or how he happened to win it.

I went home half frightened and thoroughly discouraged, worrying about what James had gotten himself into. I have never believed that anybody will get something for nothing, but I do believe that if something sounds too good to be true, it generally is. The real question, though, was just how involved Lloyd was in this supposed jackpot that James had supposedly won.