Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel (27 page)

Hearing the television in the library, I reached the bottom step of the stairs and headed that way. I stopped at the door and looked in. “Lillian?”

But it was Latisha, sitting in a wingchair, eyes glued to the screen and mouth so full of chocolate she could barely speak. “She in the kitchen.”

I hurried that way, calling again, “Lillian?”

“Yes’m, I’m over here,” she said, closing the pantry door. “How’s Lloyd feelin’? He need a doctor?”

“All he needs is for Mr. Pickens to start acting like a husband and a father. Oh, Lillian,” I moaned, leaning against the counter, “Lloyd saw him tonight with one of those women. I knew, I just
knew
it would come to this.”

She stopped short, her eyes wide. “Oh, Law, what was he doin’ when he saw him?”

“Driving around looking for a parking lot, I guess. I don’t know, Lillian. I just know my worst fears have come true, and Lloyd knows. He’s sick about it, sitting up there worrying where they’ll live after a divorce.”

“
Divorce!
They not gettin’ a divorce! Are they?”

“Not if I can help it, they’re not. Can you stay awhile, Lillian? You and Latisha? I don’t want to leave Lloyd by himself and there’s no telling when Sam will be home. I guess,” I added with a twist of my mouth, “he’ll be at Hazel Marie’s until Mr. Pickens decides to turn up.”

“What you gonna be doin’?”

“I don’t know, but this town’s not that big and his car can hardly be missed. I’ll check all the parking lots and just drive around until I find him.”

“Then what you gonna do?”

“I don’t know that, either, but
he
will most assuredly know when I get through doing it. I tell you, Lillian, it would be bad enough if Hazel Marie had seen him, but Lloyd? That child is just shattered, and I, for one, will not put up with it.”

Shrugging on my raincoat and snatching up my pocketbook, I strode toward the back door. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”

“What I’m s’posed to tell Mr. Sam when he come home an’ you not here?”

“He won’t leave Hazel Marie until Mr. Pickens gets home, and it’s fairly obvious that Mr. Pickens doesn’t have going home in mind. Just tell him I had to go out.” I opened the door and started out.

“Wait a minute,” Lillian said, frowning. “You jus’ be stirrin’ up trouble, you don’t watch out. I don’t think you oughta . . .”

“I know,” I said, pulling the door closed behind me, “but I’m doing it anyway.”

I backed the car out of the driveway, turned the wipers to intermittent, and mentally mapped the town by grids to cover all the church parking lots. Lillian had seen him in one, so it stood to reason that Mr. Pickens might be in another one. It shouldn’t take long, I told myself, looking first at the Presbyterian lot across the street from my house. He surely wouldn’t be so foolish as to park there, but then he’d already proven to have a fairly high level of foolishness. So I checked it.

Then I tooled through the First Baptist lot and, finding it empty, swept through the parking areas of the First United Methodist—Poppy’s church. My search was going quickly enough: There was little traffic and all I had to slow me down was concern about bands of trick-or-treaters dashing across the streets.

Circling the town, going up one block and down another, I sought a black, low-slung two-seater car with a long antenna in the lots of the Lutheran church, the Assembly of God church, another Baptist church, a Seventh-Day Adventist church, an AME Zion church, a Catholic church, another Baptist church, an Episcopal church, a synagogue, and a Holy Word tabernacle. By that time, I was on the outskirts of town, convinced that not only was Mr. Pickens not parked in any of them, but also that, based on the number of its religious establishments, Abbotsville should’ve been the kindest, most generous, and least crime-ridden town in the country. It wasn’t, but I had too much on my mind to wonder why.

The mall parking lot—where I’d first seen Mr. Pickens—was next on my mental list, so I headed there. Unfortunately, the lot was busy with trick-or-treaters going in and out, it not yet being the ten o’clock closing time. Nonetheless, I made a slow circuit, looking closely along the edges of the lot, where Mr. Pickens liked to park. Then I made another lap, thinking I might have missed him in my efforts to avoid hitting the stray bag-toting mummy or grinning Obama.

As I stopped for a family to cross in front of me, I glanced at the gas level, noting with a pang that I was almost on empty. I calmed myself by recalling that cars always have more gas than the needle indicates and, besides, I didn’t want to stop at a filling station and have people wonder what I was doing out so late.

So, what next? Grocery stores, I decided, thinking that only a few would be open. That did not prove to be the case. More than one announced that it was open twenty-four hours, making me wonder when hours had changed so drastically. I could remember when groceries closed at six o’clock, and only the daring stayed open until eight.

Wal-Mart! That had a parking lot to rival the one at the mall, so I headed to the huge store that combined grocery, garden, drug, clothing, electronic, and toy stores into one.

When I turned off the highway onto the frontage road, I was doubly amazed at how busy the gigantic store was. Why did people shop—with school-age children and babies in strollers—in the middle of the night? I couldn’t understand it but, with all the coming and going and stopping and waiting, it took me almost an hour to satisfy myself that Mr. Pickens was not there.

I sat for a few minutes, the car idling, waiting for traffic to clear enough for me to head back toward town. Having counted on Mr. Pickens’s recent proclivity for parking lots, I couldn’t think of any other obvious places for him to be. There were, of course, the fast-food drive-ins, but I doubted he’d stay long in one of those since they encouraged customers to drive up, through, and out. Then I thought of motel parking lots and wished I hadn’t.

Pulling out when there was a gap in the traffic, I started home, disappointed that I hadn’t been able to vent my outrage. Maybe it was for the best, though, that I be cool and collected when I faced Mr. Pickens with what he’d done to Lloyd, to say nothing of what he was doing—probably what he was in the process of doing at that very moment—to Hazel Marie.

At that thought, I determined to keep looking. He had to be
some
where. But first, I decided to check with Lillian. I’d be a laughingstock if I continued searching high and low, only to learn that Mr. Pickens was home and so was Sam. I turned in to the Burger King lot, parked, and started rummaging through my pocketbook for my cell phone. Then, with a groan, I recalled placing it in the charger on the kitchen counter and leaving it there.

Looking through the windows of the restaurant, I saw that it was crowded with tricked-out, costumed people eating hamburgers, and decided I couldn’t call from there. Besides, I would have to turn off the ignition and then restart the car, and I’d heard that used more gas than letting it idle for a few minutes. I backed out and got on the street again. There were a couple of strip malls on the north edge of town that would bear looking into, so I headed that way.

Neither proved worth the time or the gas, consisting mostly of closed shops and offices—an insurance agency, a dentist, a surveyor, a pet shop, a storefront fitness center, and a computer repair shop. In between the two strips was a seafood restaurant that was doing a thriving business. I turned into that lot, almost getting hit by two SUVs, and thanking the Lord when I was able to get back onto the street unscathed.

Mr. Pickens, you scoundrel, where are you?
I hated to give up and go home, letting all my righteous anger go to waste. At the thought of Lloyd, sitting pale and forlorn in his room grieving over what he’d seen, I determined to go on looking awhile longer.

Then I had a bright idea.

I was on the right side of town and I could be at Brother Vern’s soup kitchen within five minutes. He was there—I assumed
still
there—handing out Halloween treats to hungry people expecting soup. I could use his phone to see if Sam had gotten home, which would, in turn, tell me if Mr. Pickens was home and not out in some parking lot I’d overlooked.

So I quickly turned onto a side street, getting a couple of horns blown at me because of it, and started toward the mission that I’d had a hand in founding. The street it was on had not looked the most prosperous in the daylight; on a wet October night it looked bedraggled and sad, with broken windows in padlocked buildings, sagging fences, peeling paint, and broken sidewalks. Only a few street lamps were on and they were far apart, and as I drove toward the mission, I wondered what in the world I was doing there. Slowing considerably—no cars were behind me—I scanned the street ahead, debating whether it was wise to get out of the car in such a place of destitution. Creeping along, I could see several blocks ahead some signs of life—meaning lighted windows and one or two people out front—in only two places. One such place was Miguel’s Tacos, on the opposite side of the street more than a block ahead, and the other—the soup kitchen—was at the far end of that block on my side. A few cars, mostly old and listing to one side, were parked along the street, and shadows of slouching figures, hunched over against the rain, hurried toward the lighted windows. I noticed also a small cluster of men under a ragged awning directly across from Miguel’s, a few going back and forth across the street.

The area was quiet—mine was the only car moving on the street and it was barely doing that. The neon signs advertising tacos and other eats and drinks at Miguel’s place cast red and blue reflections on the cars parked in front and across the wet pavement.

Just as I eased into the next intersection, my car suddenly coughed, then lurched, and so did my heart.
Out of gas?
I couldn’t be. There should’ve been enough to get me home, but the steering wheel turned stubborn and the gas pedal didn’t respond and I was up a creek in the middle of the street. With both hands and a mighty effort, I turned the wheel toward the curb and pumped the gas pedal, and most reluctantly the car coasted off the street to a bus stop. And not only off the street but halfway up the curb, because the brakes didn’t work, either.

Turning off the ignition—what use was it now?—I leaned my head against the steering wheel. Then, with a resigned sigh, I straightened up, gathered my pocketbook and umbrella, and stepped out of the car into the drizzle. There was nothing for it but to walk to the soup kitchen and throw myself on the mercy of Brother Vernon Puckett.

But first I locked my car, although what good it would’ve done a thief in its present condition I didn’t know. Then going around the car to the sidewalk, I opened my umbrella and prepared to walk the two blocks to Brother Vern’s soup kitchen. It was a daunting prospect, considering what was between me and it, but I gained courage by recalling Mildred’s advice about walking in a big city. Hold your purse tightly under your arm, she’d said, walk with purpose, and don’t look anyone in the eye. If it worked in New York, it ought to work in Abbotsville.

As I started walking, although not quite as purposefully as Mildred had suggested, I could hear rain dripping from the bare branches of the trees that overhung the sidewalk. As I peered ahead toward the end of the block, I saw a dark figure slowly separate itself from a telephone pole and begin strolling toward me. I clamped down on my pocketbook and tightened my grip on the umbrella, keeping my eyes peeled on the ambling figure. He—and I was sure it
was
a he—didn’t seem to be in a hurry, just purposeful.

Stepping on a rise in the sidewalk, I almost tripped, then, while regaining my footing, I caught a glimpse of another dark figure ambling up behind me. Oh, Lord, two of them! My first impulse was to run back to the car and lock myself in, but the one behind me was too close.

My heart pounding, I thought about screaming. I thought about running. I thought about dashing between the parked cars and running to Miguel’s. I thought about dropping my pocketbook and running. I thought about
throwing
my pocketbook and running.

Scanning the street and the possibilities, my eyes happened to light on a familiar, low-slung car up ahead, snugged in among the few others parked along the street. Relief flooded my soul at the sight of the vague outline of a head and shoulders on the driver’s side—Mr. Pickens, parked, but not in a lot! It had to be him—he wouldn’t let anyone else drive his car.

Too scared to scream and barely able to breathe for fear I’d be grabbed before reaching his car, I kept walking, never breaking stride, even though I was almost petrified. Not wanting to give away my intentions, I stared straight ahead, letting them think that I hadn’t noticed the trap I was in. If I could just get to Mr. Pickens’s car before the two men met—with me in the middle—I would be safe.

It took only three of my most purposeful strides to get to the passenger door and, as I reached for the handle—almost dropping my pocketbook as I did—I heard running feet closing in on me from both directions.

Expecting an interior light to come on, which didn’t, I slung open the door, jammed the open umbrella into the car, and followed it in headfirst, creating a bellow that almost broke my eardrums and a stream of ugly words like I’d never heard before. A plastic-foam coffee cup flew through the air as I crammed myself in behind the umbrella. I slammed the door and locked it, while Mr. Pickens, cursing and swearing, fought off my umbrella. Finally crushing it against the steering wheel, he swung open his door and scrambled out.

“Get back in, Mr. Pickens!” I screamed. “They’re after me. Hurry. Let’s go! Let’s go!”

He stood in the open door, staring with unbelieving eyes at me, his shirt and pants dripping wet. “What in the . . .”

“Don’t ask. I’ll explain later. Now, come on—those men are after us.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Mr. Pickens said as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. Then he said something across the roof of the car to the two men and they began to slink away.

“Now,” Mr. Pickens said through gritted teeth as he leaned in, “what are you doing here? Just tell me so I can understand. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!”

“Well, it’s like this,” I began. “My car ran out of gas and . . . get in the car, Mr. Pickens. We can’t have a decent conversation with you standing out there in the rain.”

I think he took a deep breath, then another one—probably to calm himself after the fright I’d given him. Then he snatched my crumpled-up umbrella—now with a few broken ribs—jerked it out of the car, and slung it across the street. After that little display of peevishness, he took out his handkerchief and mopped up the coffee puddled on the driver’s seat. He threw the sopping handkerchief onto the street, completely unmindful of a possible littering charge.

Then he crawled back in, slammed the door hard enough to rock the car, and folded his arms across the steering wheel. Leaning his head on his arms, he whispered, “Just tell me why.”

“Oh, I will. But first, how did you get rid of those muggers? They were about to
accost
me, Mr. Pickens!”

He raised his head, stared out the windshield, and under his breath mumbled something about needing strength. Then, in a carefully controlled voice, he said, “They weren’t muggers. They were undercover.”

“Undercover! My goodness, why didn’t they say so? I thought I was going to get robbed and beaten and left for dead.”

He didn’t respond, though I gave him plenty of time to do so. He just continued to sit there in that damp seat and stare through the windshield. I wondered what was going through his mind, but thought it best not to inquire.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “like I said, I ran out of gas because I was looking for you. Mr. Pickens, I have been through every parking lot in this town looking for your car. You can’t imagine what a blessing it was to find it here, right when I needed it. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have expected it to be here—I mean, I wasn’t
looking
for it here because I was going to the soup kitchen to use the phone. You can understand that, can’t you?”

He glanced sideways at me, nodded, and said a little tightly, “Oh, yeah, perfectly clear. So far.”

“All right. So I guess you want to know why I was looking for you.”

“That would be nice.”

I stared at the side of his face for a few seconds, wondering at his calm demeanor—so unlike him, but quite welcome under the circumstances.

Tapping into some of the outrage that had driven me out of my home and onto the streets on a cold, wet Halloween night, I went on the attack. “Aren’t you concerned about your wife? Or your children? They could be sick and in fact they are. But as far as you know—because you’re out rambling around all over the place—everything is just fine. You are a married man, Mr. Pickens, a fact that you seem to forget, and you have
responsibilities
.”

Still in that deadly quiet voice, he said, “I just talked to Hazel Marie. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, from where I sit, everything is
not
fine.” I drew in a deep breath and let him have what had been building up in me ever since that day in the mall parking lot. “You may think, Mr. Pickens, that what you do is your business and yours alone. You may think that you can do as you please, and no one will know or care. You may think that you are safe from prying eyes in a parking lot—be it church or mall—but you’re in a small town now and, let me tell you,
you have been seen.
And not just you, but those women you’ve been driving around with and parking with have also been seen. What is the matter with you? Why are you jeopardizing what you have at home for some big-haired woman, or I should say
women
, because you’ve been seen with at least two and how many more there are, I’m sure I don’t know. The only saving grace is that so far Hazel Marie hasn’t seen you, so she doesn’t know what you’ve been up to. But, believe me, sooner or later, someone will tell her and then where will you be? I’ll tell you where you’ll be, you’ll be out on the street, that’s where.”

“She knows.”

“What?” I stared at him. “She
knows
? She knows you’re seeing other women? I don’t believe it. She’d never put up with it.”

“She knows I’m working.”

“Well,
excuse
me. I’ve just never heard it called
working
before.” I couldn’t help giving the word a sarcastic twist, but that beat all I’d ever heard. “Well, I guess you’ve pulled the wool over her eyes. Bless her heart, she’s so trusting she’d believe anything you told her. But what’re you going to tell Lillian? Or me?” I paused, a catch in my throat. “Or Lloyd? We’ve all seen you, and working is not going to cut it.”

“Lloyd?” That caught his attention, because he took his arms off the steering wheel and leaned back, staring at me.

“You shouldn’t have gone through town tonight when children were all up and down the street. He saw you pass by with a laughing woman and, Mr. Pickens, I will tell you straight out, he is devastated. He thinks you’re going to divorce his mother.”

Mr. Pickens wiped his hand down his face, glanced out the window as if he might find an answer out there, then he turned back to me. In a defeated tone, he murmured, “This was not supposed to happen.”

“Well, see, that’s what does happen when you first start to deceive. You don’t consider the consequences.” I was ready to light into him again, but he suddenly sat up, stared intently out the windshield, opened the car door, and said, “Lock the doors and stay here.”

And off he took, running up the street toward Miguel’s or Brother Vern’s soup kitchen, I didn’t know which, leaving me with my mouth open and a lot more I wanted to say.