Twenty
Trudy
Sunday morning, it didn’t matter how hard Trudy tried to think of something else, thoughts of Shug kept niggling her as she got ready for church.
The way he bit his bottom lip whenever he concentrated.
The little flecks of silver hidden in his temples.
She mentally compared Shug’s dimples to Ronald Zimple’s and she thought of his slightly crooked tooth, the one two over from the middle on the left, as she made her way downstairs.
“Darling!” Haskel said with a bright smile from the kitchen table where Pete sat in his lap; the two of them were working the maze puzzle in the Sunday Beacon .
“What are you doing here?” Startled disappointment probably shouldn’t have been her response.
“And good morning to you too,” Haskel said.
“Sorry.” She tried to recover with a smile and a peck on his cheek. “I’m just ... surprised you’re here.”
“Welp,” he said. “Your mother and I decided a quick breakfast before church would be nice.”
“You’re going to church with us?” Trudy asked.
Haskel nodded.
“But you’re Methodist .”
“It’s all the same to Jesus,” Leta Pearl said. “Except for those Episcopalians, of course.”
“I’m whatever you want me to be.” Haskel set Pete in the empty chair next to him and stood, took Trudy’s hand, and led her to her seat, which he pulled out for her. This kind gesture, so chivalrous, should not have made her cringe.
If Trudy wasn’t trying so hard to raise Pete with strong values, she’d skip church, especially after Barbara’s column and the cheerleaders’ absence on Friday.
She was most definitely going to be the gossip.
The Bruins had beaten the Wheeler Warriors quite handily, but that probably meant people paid less attention to the game and actually realized the cheerleaders had no-showed.
“Is Daddy coming?” Trudy hoped so; Dub could whisper smart remarks in her ear and they could laugh it off together.
“Oh, you know how he feels about potlucks,” Leta Pearl said.
“That’s today ?” Of all the Sundays! Now, Trudy wouldn’t be able to skip out quickly; she’d have to stay there, out on the lawn at the potluck, enduring glares and whispers.
And with Haskel on her side, attention would be coming like buzzards on a dead whitetail.
Of course, now it made sense: Haskel was coming to church to campaign at the Baptists’ potluck.
“Haskel Moody, as I live and breathe.” Emily swanned into the living room with the subtlety of a disco ball, wearing a silky blue robe as if she’d just rolled off a chaise lounge and into someone’s marriage.
“Good morning,” Haskel said.
“Emily!” Leta Pearl hollered from the sink. “Go put your clothes on! We have company.”
“Oh, mother.” Emily laughed. “It’s just Haskel the Rascal .” She sat at the table. “Remember when we used to call you that?”
Haskel laughed. “All too well.”
Emily and Haskel were in the same 1973 graduating class.
“Are you coming to church?” Trudy asked in a sort of plea to her sister.
“Yes!” Leta Pearl hollered. “Which is why she should go get dressed in some real clothes.”
“I’m sorry, Sister, but Charlene and I have an afternoon flight from Huntsville. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks for homecoming, though.” Emily picked up the paper.
“What’d you even come home for?” Leta Pearl asked. “A drink of water?”
Emily shrugged.
“You just got here.” Trudy desperately wanted Emily to stay; it was so rewarding confiding in her, especially under the protection of Zimple’s Dimples.
“I know,” Emily said. “But homecoming will be here before you know it.” In keeping with Bailey Springs tradition, the homecoming queen from ten years earlier always crowned the new queen and rode in the parade, and since Emily was the reigning 1972–73 homecoming queen, she would be there, fulfilling her duties.
“But today,” she said. “I’ll be in Atlantic City.
” Emily licked butter off her finger with a smack.
“And speaking of Atlantic City, you fell asleep last night and missed Miss America, Sister.”
“Oh,” Trudy said. “Who won?”
“California.” Emily rolled her eyes. “With the sides of her hair pulled back like a punk-rock band. Miss America should not look like a head banger.”
“Oh Lord, don’t get me started,” Leta Pearl agreed. “And Miss Kentucky, with that helmet hair, like something sprayed on by NASA? Bless her heart.”
Emily sat sideways and crossed one leg over the other and dabbled it up and down. “Irks me to no end that Miss Alabama played the piano. Everybody knows if you want to win a pageant, you sing .”
Leta Pearl said, “Miss California did look the best in her swimsuit; that’s when I knew she was going to win.”
“Oh, please,” Emily said. “She looked like she was fixing to start a bar fight. And besides, hers were about half the size of these.” She poked out her chest and shimmied for emphasis.
Haskel choked on his orange juice, coughing and spewing it on his plate.
“Emily Abernathy!” Leta Pearl hollered and turned red, and Trudy knew that was the exact reaction her sister was going for. “Not all the Abernathy women act like this, Haskel, as you well know. And Emily herself wasn’t like this until she was born.”
Pete laughed uncontrollably at the grown man spitting at the table.
“What?” Emily shrugged her shoulders. “Haskel the Rascal doesn’t care, do you Haskel?”
Leta Pearl threw her hands up, shaking her head on the way back to the kitchen. “And to think I named you after Emily Post.”
Pastor W. E. Hargett was a tall stick of a man, and his voice was too deep for his bones. His silver hair matched his silver eyes which seemed to radiate equal parts charity and judgment. Trudy drifted in and out as he preached.
Those church ladies with their fake pearls, Trudy thought as she scanned the church, the way they tapped each other on the wrist in unifying comfort, the way they lowered their voices to a whisper whenever they were forced to utter words like cancer , pregnant , or homosexual .
Trudy had been hoping another scandal would soon crest above the horizon—a teenage girl knocked up, a little boy left behind by his daddy, dead unexpectedly.
She hoped one of those hoity-toity deacons would get caught cheating on his wife and everyone would be in such complete shock having not seen it coming.
If she were really lucky, it would be with one of those pearl–clutching women.
Another scandal and she’d be home free, but there she sat, the antiquarterback, no-show cheerleader sponsor, coming to church on potluck Sunday with the future Methodist mayor.
“The truth is found in scripture,” Pastor Hargett hollered from the pulpit. “Luke says you must deny your flesh and follow Christ.”
“ Amen !” The men of the church responded. The dutiful Baptist women remained silent.
“Paul said those who belong to Christ have crucified the flesh.”
The microphone squealed with feedback, and everyone had to plug their ears until it stopped.
“ Amen !” The gentlemen shouted, nonetheless.
“Jesus’s anointing allows you to deny your flesh!” Pastor Hargett boomed. Trudy and Pete both jumped as if woken from sleep.
“And your flesh!” Pastor Hargett was pointing at specific individuals.
Trudy’s eyes grew wide.
“And your flesh!” Right to Trudy.
“Owww!” Pete whined. “Ssstop it!”
Without realizing it, Trudy had dug her nails right into his legs.
“Sorry baby,” she whispered, retracting her claws.
Thankfully, no one answered Pastor Hargett’s impassioned altar call, probably because everybody’s flesh wanted food. And surely nobody wanted to go forward as the sinner who caused the fried chicken to get soggy.
Even so, the sermon made Trudy think, especially about the way she’d woken up with Shug Meechum on her mind.
Maybe, she thought, Pastor Hargett was right about denying what your flesh wants.
There were times she sure wished she’d ignored her flesh when she’d met Jimmie.
(Although Pete always snapped her out of this line of thinking.) But now, wasn’t it merely her flesh that had let Coach Meechum get under her skin?
It was just chemistry, right? Maybe the ironic way to happiness was to create something more meaningful than just physical desire.
Haskel squeezed Trudy’s hand during the prayer.
There was a noticeable nothingness in his touch, though his hands were strong and soft and felt safe.
And maybe strong and soft and safe was enough.