Knowing Mr. J. D. Pickens, PI, as I did, I probably would. He had a mind and a will of his own, both of which I had come up against on a few occasions. Recalling some of those, I was almost afraid to ask.
“What’s he doing, Hazel Marie?”
“He’s building, like, a . . . a fence or something. That’s what he says he’s doing, except from what he just had delivered and stacked in our driveway, I think it’s going to be a wall. He’s even got a surveyor out here—and on a Saturday morning, too—to make sure of the line. Miss Julia, he’s got a load of concrete blocks for the posts and a stack of boards almost as high as the garage sitting out there, and he’s got two men mixing cement. I don’t know where we’re going to park, or what the neighbors are going to say, but he’s like a crazy man.”
“Can’t you talk some sense into him? We just need to give Binkie a little more time—”
“He says he’s taking no chances on those little hellions messing with our girls, and, Miss Julia, it’s going to be six feet high or even higher, he’s not sure yet. And, you won’t believe this, but he’s planning to build another fence on Jan Osborne’s side—he’s already talked to her—so the Cochran house will be fenced in on both sides, and he’s talked Mr. Pickerell into letting him extend it across the back. The Cochran house will be practically enclosed, and you know it doesn’t have much of a yard in the first place.”
“Well, as long as he makes sure he’s not building on the Cochran lot, there’s not much they can do about it. And maybe a fence will make them understand how unwelcome they are in the neighborhood. I wouldn’t worry about it, Hazel Marie, you have the nicest yard on the block and a fence can only improve on it.”
“A nice rail fence would be one thing,” she said in resignation, “or even a picket fence, but what he’s planning is more like the Great Wall of China. Of course, I should be thankful that’s all he’s doing, because his first thought was to build a shooting range out there.”
I had a wild urge to laugh, but I refrained. “Just plant a nice row of shrubs or trees, or both, on your side, Hazel Marie, and maybe a flowering vine to cover it. Or what about planting some pyracantha and espaliering it on the fence or the wall or whatever it is. That would be lovely.”
“J.D. says he’s planting kudzu, and you know that stuff will cover anything, including cars. We may wake up one morning and find our house buried in it.”
“Oh, Hazel Marie, surely not. But think of this, it could be trained to cover the Cochran house.” I was teasing, of course, but it was a fact that kudzu had to be carefully watched. It had a way of growing stealthily and getting away from you.
But better a crop of kudzu than what I had feared would be Mr. Pickens’s reaction to his possible new neighbors—and that was that he would sell Sam’s old house and move his family, including Lloyd, to no-telling-where. As far as I was concerned, he could build whatever he wanted—including a concrete wall with barbed wire on top—as long as they stayed right where they were.
Chapter 13
On Sunday morning Lloyd and I went to church, but I could’ve stayed home with Ronnie for all the good it did me. I was a little leery about leaving him alone in the first place, but we’d made sure to close all the kitchen doors so he couldn’t wander through the house. He seemed well pleased with the snug corner that Lillian had made for him, and well he should’ve been, for she’d provided him with an old three-hundred-thread-count comforter to curl up on.
We entered the church, took our places in the fourth row from the front on the side aisle, and prepared to hear another movie review from Pastor Rucker. I’d said nothing to Lloyd about my dissatisfaction with our new pastor, but he was sharp enough to know the difference between a biblical text and a line from Star Wars. If I heard Pastor Rucker start off with “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away” one more time, I’d wish that’s where he was.
Actually, though, it hadn’t mattered what the sermon topic was—not a word the pastor uttered entered my head. He’d done me in during the announcement time right before the sermon when he’d urged the congregation to put the Homes for Teens on their prayer lists because the sponsors were having trouble with noncompliant neighbors and the zoning board.
“My friends,” he’d said, “there are two hundred homeless teenagers in this county, and it’s not only shameful, it’s a public disgrace to allow any child to wonder where he will sleep at night.
“I’ve been deeply saddened to learn that there is resistance from the neighbors of the house chosen for a few of these homeless children. That resistance is a result of unfounded fears that result in a lack of Christian compassion, and they need our prayers.”
It was all I could do to continue sitting there. I wanted to stand up and ask why his—not one but two—guest rooms were empty last night, but my rigorous bent against creating a scene kept me rooted to my pew. I was, however, steaming inside, and he could’ve preached on the film version of Fifty Shades of Grey and I wouldn’t have heard a word.
As soon as the last note of the recessional sounded and the last choir member was out the door, I grabbed Lloyd’s arm and headed toward the back. I knew it was best that I avoid the pastor as he stood in the narthex shaking hands. I might’ve been tempted to wring his off.
But the idea! The very idea that concern for the
