Free Miss Julia Hits the Road by Ann B. Ross

lifted one foot at a time and placed them on the stool. Then he pulled one end of his mother’s coat down over her feet.
    Hazel Marie returned with a tray loaded with mugs of hot chocolate. Putting down the tray, she took one of the mugs to Lillian and held it to her mouth. “Drink this, Lillian,” she said. “It’ll make you feel better. J. D.’s on his way, and he said for you to sit tight and not worry about a thing.”
    I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the arrogance of the man, but I didn’t say anything. Besides, we could use all the help we could get, even if Mr. Pickens’s help was unlikely to live up to its billing.
    The three of us hovered over Lillian, patting and tucking and mumbling comforting words as she sipped the hot chocolate that Hazel Marie kept holding to her mouth.
    “Now, Lillian,” Hazel Marie crooned, “You’re going to have all the help you need to finish packing. I’ve moved enough to know what a job it is. J. D. will be there if he can, and Sam, and Coleman, and whoever else they can get. We’ll have you settled in here before you know it, won’t we, Miss Julia?”
    “We certainly will,” I said, leaning over and peering closely at Lillian to see if she was looking any better. “Just don’t worry about a thing tonight, and in the morning we’ll go over to Willow Lane and move you out.”
    “You think she ought to go back?” Hazel Marie asked, poking the mug at Lillian’s mouth again. “I mean, it might be too much for her, to see the actual moving. Especially with those big machines coming in to tear everything down.”
    “We’ll see how she feels in the morning,” I said. “Little Lloyd, are her feet warm? Maybe we ought to scoot the chair closer to the fire.”
    Lillian began squirming in the chair, and then, freeing one hand, she threw the blanket back and turned her head away from the mug. “Y’all keep talkin’ ’bout me like I ain’t even here an’ treatin’ me like I’m sick or something,” she said, trying to shrug the blanket from her shoulders. “Jus’ gimme some room so I can get outta this blanket. It about to strangle me to death.”
    We stepped back and watched as Lillian untangled herself and pushed the footstool away. As she straightened up, I think we all breathed easier, for her face was taking on some life and she was looking like her old self again.
    “Well,” she said with a heavy sigh as she leaned her elbows on her knees, “not no use cryin’ over spilt milk. If I knowed some place to live, I jus’ soon be shed of that ole shack, anyway. Though I don’t know where any of us gonna go.”
    “Don’t worry about that, Lillian,” I said with a lot more assurance than I felt. “Everybody has a place to stay for the next few days at least. Then we’ll have to regroup and see what can be done. Hazel Marie,” I went on, turning to her, “we need to get one of the banks to open a special account so people can send in contributions. That’s the way this sort of thing is done, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, ma’am, they do that all the time. The television sta tions are forever announcing one fund or another to benefit people who’ve had some tragedy, like a fire or a sickness of some kind. And I think turning people out of the homes they’ve lived in for years would certainly qualify as a tragedy.”
    “So do I. And if anybody disagrees, send them to me. I’ll get that started in the morning and make sure the radio and television people know about it.”
    Lillian raised her head and looked at me. “I don’t know as I like bein’ talked about on the radio and the TV. Sound like I be askin’ for charity.”
    “Now, Lillian,” I said firmly, “they certainly won’t mention any names. Besides, it would be for everybody who lives on Willow Lane because they’re going to need a lot of help. So just put aside any prideful thoughts about charity, and let’s start thinking of ways to raise money to house the homeless.”
    “I know