—
Sue’s coffee was as lovely as I expected it to be. Her warm, comfortable home was conducive to conversation, either sitting or standing or moving from one group to another, and the twenty or so invitees were making the most of it. Hazel Marie, I noticed, was not there, and I wondered what her husband was up to now—it didn’t surprise me that she felt she had to keep an eye on him. LuAnne was chatting away, telling everyone how lucky she was to be free and single—almost as if she had to convince herself. Mildred was holding court from a large wingback chair beside the fireplace, where a small fire brightened the gray November morning. Helen Stroud made a brief appearance, just long enough to visit with a few of us because, she said, “Thurlow is more at ease when I’m in the house.” And so, I thought, was she, what with painters and carpenters and kitchen designers, and all the other workmen in the house. But, then, I’m somewhat cynical, I know.
“Julia!” The shriek of my name turned me around to come face-to-face with Madge Taylor. She threw her arms out as if to embrace me, and I took a step back.
“Hello, Madge. I hope you’re well. Have you tried these sandwiches? You should, they’re delicious.”
Discounting the cream cheese and pineapple sandwiches with a wave of her hand, she sidled up close to me and whispered, “I hope you’re feeling better about us—we so covet the support of people like you. And believe me, Julia, we have no intent of being anything other than good neighbors.” Then she stepped back and in a louder voice said, “I hope you can find it in your heart to consider us worthy of your financial support. We would love for you to lead off our fund-raising drive by making the first donation.”
The nerve of her! To be solicited at a social occasion was beyond poor manners, but to hem me up in public—several ladies had turned to listen—just sent me over the edge.
“Well, Madge,” I said, speaking clearly and firmly, “you do know, don’t you, that you already have an eighty-thousand-dollar gift from my family?”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes lit up. In a voice that stopped all conversation in two rooms, she said, “Eighty thousand dollars! Oh, Julia, no, I didn’t know. Thank you, thank you! That is outstanding. Now every boy can have his own television set and his own cell phone and his own iPad tablet. Oh, this is wonderful! When did the check come in? I haven’t heard a word about it.”
Everybody was looking at us and listening to us. I smiled and said, “No check has come or will be coming, Madge. The house that your bleeding-heart group has purchased next door to Hazel Marie’s family is costing them twenty percent of the value of their home. So eighty thousand dollars is not what’s coming to you, but what you’ve taken from them. That means that you’re out of luck if you’re looking for a dime more from any of us.”
Madge’s eyes narrowed, and a flush rose in her cheeks. “Your problem, Julia,” she said with a superior smile, forced though it was, “is you’re a nimby.”
“Let’s don’t get into a name-calling contest,” I said. “It’s so inappropriate. Besides, I don’t know what a nimby is, so if you intended an insult, it failed to hit the mark.”
“A nimby is anybody who’s so selfish that they say ‘not in my backyard,’” Madge said, as if it were the ultimate put-down.
“Then absolutely that’s what I am,” I shot back as I held my head up high, “and so are you, Madge, because we all notice that a group home is not in your backyard.” I turned aside to leave, then threw back at her, “Your side yard, either.”
Chapter 18
Driving home, I was both seething at Madge and ashamed of myself. To create a spectacle at a social event was so unlike me that I could hardly believe I’d let myself be drawn into a war of words that had almost degenerated into a catfight. I had always prided myself for staying above the fray—whatever the fray might be—keeping myself poised and in firm control of my emotions. But it had been all I could do to retain a semblance of self-control when faced with such self-righteous arrogance and plain bad manners.
It was all Madge Taylor’s fault. I had no doubt that she’d elbowed herself onto Sue’s guest list, then used a social gathering to push her personal agenda, then publicly resorted to name calling. I’d wanted to slap her silly, and even as I drove toward home, my hands were still shaking with the urge.
With no conscious intent, I found myself turning onto Jackson Street and slowing as I approached the Pickens and Cochran houses.
My word, but Mr. Pickens had put in the work. Already wide horizontal boards had been nailed one above the other some six feet high between the first five concrete block towers, and two men were busily putting up additional boards. Several more of the towers were under construction along the lot lines of Mrs. Osborne’s property and Mr. Pickerell’s. The nonprofit Homes
