Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (15 page)

When he left to do homework, Etta Mae said, “Would you like to try to sleep now? Or do you want to watch a little television?”

“Neither one. I’ve already slept too much today, and there’s nothing on television. Oh, except
Antiques Roadshow.
You can turn that on if you want.” Maybe looking at all those old things would keep my mind off what was going on in the church across the street. Etta Mae turned on the television set that Hazel Marie had hidden away in a French provincial gilt-encrusted cabinet that had most certainly not been intended to house a television set, seeing that television hadn’t been invented when the cabinet was made.

Etta Mae puttered around, straightening jars and bottles on Hazel Marie’s dressing table, cleaning the bathroom and in general trying to earn her money.

“Etta Mae,” I said, “please sit down and rest. You’re making me nervous.” That wasn’t all that was making me nervous, of course, because just as soon as Sam returned, I knew I could have a major marital crisis on my hands. It would all depend on how willing Dr. Fred Fowler was to preserve a respectable woman’s reputation and her good name. To say nothing of her marriage.

Not quite two hours later, we heard Sam entering the front door and locking it behind him. Etta Mae hopped up, asked if I needed anything, then excused herself to head for the sunroom.

“Call me if you need me during the night,” she said, with a last smoothing of my sheets.

Lying alone in the bed, I heard Sam walking through the house, turning off lights and, finally, climbing the stairs. He stopped by Lloyd’s room and spoke to him for a while, then, loosening his tie as he came, appeared in our room. I held my breath, as I searched his face for some sign of his mood—had he been enriched or had he been enlightened?

Neither, it seemed, for after inquiring about the current state of my health, he proceeded to ready himself for bed, just as he did every night.

“Well,” I said, unable to stand the suspense any longer, “are you feeling any richer? Maritally speaking, that is.”

He twisted his mouth, frowned a little, then said, “Can’t say that I am, now that you mention it. You would’ve been bored silly, Julia. Dr. Fowler, whoops, I mean Dr. Fred, which is what he wants to be called, spent the whole time telling us what he’s
going
to do but no time at all on
doing
it.”

Dr. Fred?
I mulled that over, thinking it sounded awfully close to the name of a certain television counselor, which in my opinion was no coincidence. Maybe Dr. Fowler had visions of enriching millions of marriages in one fell televised swoop.

“Anyway,” Sam went on, “we heard about his background and his experience, and the reason for having the sessions.” Sam stopped and yawned. “I think I was bored silly myself.”

That certainly did my heart good, though I was careful not to let it show. “I expect he’s only having the sessions because Pastor Ledbetter asked him to, plus he’s getting paid for them. But what did
he
say his reasons are?”

Sam smiled. “To hear him tell it, he’s been entrusted with God’s plan for marriage, and his aim is to put more fun and romance into this most intimate of relationships. And get this, Julia, he’s going to identify the twelve insidious love busters and teach us the twelve love kindlers that will transform any marriage, no matter how little a given couple has in common. And believe it or not, he guarantees that his plan for stirring the embers will put the spark back in a marriage in only six weeks. Now, aren’t you sorry you missed it?”

The slightly ironic tone that Sam was taking as he recounted the good doctor’s plans reassured me, and I was gradually able to relax. So far, so good.

“Who all was there?” I asked, as Sam went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

After a while he came back and climbed into bed. “Let me see. The Conovers were there, though Leonard looked half asleep. And Ledbetter, but not Emma Sue. He made some elaborate excuse for her, said she wasn’t feeling well and needed to stay in bed. Maybe the two of you caught the same bug.”

My eyes darted around, thinking about that. “Maybe we did,” I said, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Emma Sue had the exact same symptoms I had, which is to say, none.

“And,” Sam went on, as he switched off the bedside lamp, “the Comptons, remember them? We went to their wedding last year.”

“Oh, she’s Elsie and Ben Landrum’s daughter, isn’t she? My goodness, I wouldn’t think they’d need any rekindling after such a short time.”

“Well, you never know. Then there was Mack Grover and his wife, both of them looking a little embarrassed to be there. I guess it was kind of like admitting publicly that something’s wrong with your marriage.”

Exactly,
I thought, and wondered again why he’d been so willing to attend.

Sam turned over and put his arm around me. “You’re feeling better?”

I nodded against his chest.

“Dr. Fowler said that he’s often called a love doctor, but I don’t think we need one, do you?”

Indeed, I did not.

Bright and early the next morning—well, as soon as Sam left for the office at his house—I was out of bed, fully dressed and on my way downstairs, just in time to meet Etta Mae coming up with my breakfast tray, an aromatic aura of eau de cologne and oatmeal surrounding her.

“Miss Julia!” she cried. “What’re you doing up? You need to be in bed.”

“No, I don’t. Just turn around and let’s go to the table. I’m tired of that bed and tired of having nothing fit to eat.”

Issuing cautionary advice to my back, she followed me into the kitchen, where I had to endure the same warnings and dire predictions from Lillian.

“Both of you, just hush,” I said, taking my place at the kitchen table and unfolding a napkin. “I am perfectly all right now and ready for some real nourishment. There’re things that need to be done today, and the first one is to visit Francie Pitts. If Binkie can’t get in, maybe we can.” I paused to accept a plate of scrambled eggs and grits from Lillian. “Well, maybe not you, Etta Mae, because Lieutenant Peavey might not look too kindly on that. But I can certainly call on her. Lillian, put some bacon on this plate, please.”

Lillian put her hands on her hips and pronounced, “You don’t need no greasy bacon on yo’ stomick, sick as you been.”

“That’s right,” Etta Mae chimed in. “You have to be careful what you eat for the next several days. If you’re determined to be up, then Lillian and I are determined to see that you eat right. Lillian,” she went on, turning to her, “just bland, non-greasy foods for her.”

“Now listen, you two,” I said, straightening up from my plate. “I am not sick, but I’m going to be if I don’t get something filling to eat.”

“Yes’m,” Lillian said, “but you
been
sick, an’ you can’t go eatin’ jus’ anything. It’ll tear yo’ system up good.”

“You should listen to her, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae warned. “You don’t get over all the digestive upsets you’ve had in just one night.”

“But I’m telling you,” I said, reaching for another biscuit, “I am not sick.”

“Maybe not now,” Etta Mae said, “but you do need to go easy so you won’t have a relapse.”

“Will you two listen to me?” I said, deciding that I’d better own up to what I’d been doing if I wanted any peace. “I am not sick now, nor have I been sick. I hate to admit this, and if either of you let on to Sam about it, I’ll deny it to my dying day. But the fact of the matter is, it was the only way I could see to get out of going to that meeting last night. So there. Now, Lillian, will you please bring that plate of bacon over here.”

They stared at me for a good minute, then Lillian flapped a dish towel and said, “They Lord. I been worryin’ myself to death about you, an’ you been playactin’ all this time?”

“Well, yes, and I’m sorry. But I
thought
I was sick, especially when I read that announcement in church Sunday morning. I almost threw up all over Judge Peeples, who was sitting in the pew right in front of us. And Lillian, I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you’d give me away. Without meaning to, I mean. And besides, my stomach kept on clinching up every time I thought about going to that marital enrichment class. So, see, I wasn’t telling too much of a story.”

Etta Mae sat there with her mouth open. She closed it, then opened it to say, “I’d love to go to something like that if I had a husband to go with. Why didn’t you want to?”

“Well, if we’re being honest . . .”

“’Bout time,” Lillian snapped.

“Wait, now don’t get upset with me. I had a very good reason for not going, but it’s not one I wanted Sam to know about. Lillian, you remember Dr. Fred Fowler, who came around not long after Mr. Springer passed?”

Lillian squinched up her eyes and frowned, thinking back. “He that runty little redheaded man?”

“That’s him, and he’s the one who’s leading the enrichment sessions. I couldn’t face him, Lillian, and you know why. I was afraid he’d humiliate me, or even worse, say something to Sam. You know the man can’t be trusted to tell the truth—and I speak from woeful experience. Instead of enriching our marriage, I was afraid he’d end it.”

“Oh, law, I do remember!” Lillian cried. “I had to come get you outta that church, an’ you ’bout died on me from the shame of it all.”

Etta Mae was looking from one of us to the other, entranced with what she was hearing. “What happened?”

“He led me on, Etta Mae, deliberately led me on to make a fool of myself.”

“You mean he hit on you?” Etta Mae was wide-eyed at the thought. “And you were a recent widow? Why, that’s awful.”

Grateful to at last have somebody who understood, I said, “And that’s not even the worst of it. He was trying to get proof that my mind was going and that I wasn’t capable of handling Mr. Springer’s estate. It was all a conspiracy between him and the pastor.” I shuddered at the memory. “Now do you see why I had to get out of going to that meeting? And why I couldn’t tell Sam?”

“Hm, I guess,” she said. “But I think Mr. Sam would understand.”

“I know he would,” Lillian seconded. “He likely go over there an’ knock that fool to kingdom come, too.”

“Well, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Too embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, whatever. It was easier to be too sick to get out of bed. But I didn’t expect to be starved to death while I was doing it.” I looked from one to the other, drawing them in. “Now listen, we have things to do to make sure that Etta Mae stays out of trouble, and I can’t do them piled up in bed. On the other hand, I’d just as soon that Sam keep on thinking that I’m not yet at my best, so I’ll need your cooperation.”

Etta Mae frowned. “Well, I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Me neither,” Lillian said.

“I am not asking either of you to lie,” I said, and fairly sharply, too. “All I’m asking is that you
skirt
the truth. If he asks how I’m doing, just say, ‘Better,’ which is the truth, and I’ll be even better when we find out what Francie Pitts is up to.”

Etta Mae stirred in her chair, wafting fragrant waves as she moved. She seemed unhappy with being less than truthful with Sam, so to distract her, I asked, “What is that lovely scent you’re wearing, Etta Mae?”

“Oh, do you like it?” She immediately smiled, pleased that I’d noticed, which to be honest, I could hardly help doing. “It’s Shania Twain by Stetson, and I had to go to three drugstores before I found it. It’s a romantic mixture of wildflowers and vine-ripened raspberries, and I just love it. And her.”

“Very nice,” I said, proving that one can skirt the truth while being courteous and sensitive to the feelings of others. I hoped Lillian took note.