Then I took it to the post office and mailed it, feeling that I had done what needed to be done. By that time, the day had warmed considerably, in spite of the calendar, resulting in one of those beautiful autumn afternoons with a clear, blue sky and leaves turned golden in the sunlight. A perfect afternoon for a formal—more or less—visit.
I had phoned Binkie earlier to report on my conversation with Pastor Rucker and also to get a progress report from her.
“Miss Julia,” she’d said, “these things take time. You mustn’t expect a quick resolution. I’m checking the requirements of the type of group home they’re planning, and I’m drafting a letter to this Ms. Taylor pointing out exactly where they don’t meet those requirements.”
“My word, Binkie, don’t do that! You’ll give them a blueprint of what they have to do. We don’t want them to meet the requirements.”
“No, don’t worry about that,” she’d said with just a touch of impatience. “Copies of the letter will go to the members of the board of commissioners and to the zoning board. Then we’ll wait for Ms. Taylor’s response, and if her board has a smart lawyer, we’ll wrap this matter up in a couple of weeks. But if they have a dumb one, it could be strung out for months. But, Miss Julia, I will tell you right now, they cannot use that house for the purpose they’ve proposed.”
Well, that was a relief, except it wasn’t. I wasn’t at all sure that Madge Taylor and Pastor Rucker would quietly fold their tents and slip away. Knowing, as I suspected, that possession was nine tenths of the law, I foresaw more sneaky sleights of hand on their part. It wouldn’t surprise me if Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens awoke one morning to find the Cochran house fully occupied by a bevy of teenage boys, their pants hanging low and their boom boxes blasting.
To forestall that and to get a jump on the city commissioners—several of whom were facing reelection—I called Hazel Marie to tell her that we should get up a petition.
“Let’s divide up the area,” I said, “and get the signature of every homeowner for blocks around. That means we’ll have to knock on doors and talk to people.”
“Where do we get a petition?” Hazel Marie asked, which momentarily stopped me.
“Well, just get them to sign a piece of paper so that you have a long list of names. Then we’ll get Binkie to word something for us and we’ll attach the list to it.”
“Well, okay,” she said, but not very eagerly. “I guess I could take the twins for walks in their stroller, and stop along the way to knock on doors.”
“That’s perfect, Hazel Marie. That’ll remind all your neighbors that you have little ones next door to that house, and they’ll understand your concern.” And probably wonder how in the world she managed to push that huge double stroller with two healthy toddlers in it. I’d stopped offering to take them for walks months ago.
—
Fully intent on doing my part to fill a page with signatures, I spent the afternoon walking around my immediate neighborhood, ringing doorbells and explaining the impending peril to the peace and quiet that we all enjoyed, making sure to mention the peril to property values as well.
Having saved the one I was looking forward to until the last, I walked along the sidewalk on that glorious afternoon on my way to Thurlow Jones’s house. It was fairly late—fourish, an ideal hour, which I knew Helen Stroud would appreciate. Back in the days of making formal calls, one always waited until the lady of the house had completed her morning duties and had her lunch as well as a short nap before one rang her doorbell.
When I turned the corner of the block that Thurlow’s house occupied, I stopped to marvel at the repaired wrought-iron fence on a brick base that enclosed the entire block. Even more impressive was the magnificent hedge on the other side of the fence, meticulously pruned yet tall enough to hide all but the dormered roof of the house inside it. Even the gate that opened to a brick walkway—without a blade of grass in it—swung open at a touch. The last time I’d been to Thurlow’s, that gate had hung by one hinge.
I started up the walk, marveling at the smooth lawn, the freshly painted shutters—none of which hung loose—the three-car garage at the end of the driveway looking practically new, and, most impressive of all, every window in the house gleaming in the sunlight without one hint of a smudge.
As I approached the front door, I recalled a previous visit I’d made some years past when the house had been in such a shoddy state. I had brought Lillian with me, hoping that her presence as a witness would keep a lid on Thurlow’s rambunctiousness. It hadn’t, but that’s another story.
I rang the doorbell, hearing melodious chimes that were starkly different from the banging of the tarnished brass lion’s head knocker that had once graced the door.
A young maid, dressed in a gray uniform with a white apron and cap, opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?” she said.
“Good afternoon. I am Mrs. Murdoch and I have come to call on Mrs. Stroud,” I said, handing her the calling card that I’d made sure to bring along. Helen appreciated such niceties. “My card,” I said.
“Please come in,” she said, accepting it. “Would you care to wait
