Twenty-Six #2
These were the moments when Trudy fantasized about exposing the Jimmie no one else knew.
The drinking. The pot. The monster who’d raged and hit her.
How the first time was because she should’ve known where his shoes were.
Trudy had tried to lighten the mood by giggling at how silly it was for him to be so angry about misplaced shoes.
Before she knew it, she was on the floor, her face throbbing, her nose gushing blood.
She could tell them, right now, how creative she’d become concealing bruises with sweaters and turtlenecks in the summer, the way she would describe herself as a klutz, always tripping and falling, walking into cabinet doors she’d so carelessly left open. Silly her.
She could explain to them, right now, her justification for staying so long—because boys need their daddy—and how it wasn’t until Jimmie went after Pete that the line had finally been crossed, the line she didn’t even know existed until Jimmie shook little Peter so hard, his tiny body went limp and his screams of anguish scorched her soul.
She’d tell them how she finally did leave: in the middle of the night with Dub toting his 12-gauge, how Pete was so good and didn’t cry, and how she’d held him with one hand while grabbing the packed duffel she’d hidden behind the deep freeze with the other.
Did Barbara know that Jimmie? Had Barbara ever seen Jimmie’s face full of instant hellish remorse when he’d realized what he’d done, when he realized for himself that he was a monster? Because maybe now was the time for Barbara to know.
No. Trudy always told herself no , and kept her mouth shut.
She’d take all this to her grave. Let them have their Jimmie, the hero.
Let them blame Trudy for his demise. It wouldn’t change anything to take that Jimmie from them.
To them, she’d already done that once. What good would it do to steal their Jimmie a second time?
“Trudy?” Mr. Hendon asked. “Are you okay? The Beaumonts here are just concerned. About you, of course. And while they may be saying things that are hard to hear, don’t you think—”
“No,” Trudy said through gritted teeth. “It’s fine, Mr. Hendon. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“We just want our Sugar Tart to have the best senior year she can,” Jerry Don added. “I’m sure you understand.”
Barbara waved him off with a sheet of paper she’d pulled from her purse.
“These are signatures of concerned parents, Mr. Hendon, parents who feel Miss Abernathy’s presence has become a liability.
” She laid the sheet of paper on his desk.
“However, I’m willing to overlook this extraordinary outpouring of support for your termination, Miss Abernathy, because I am a very nice and caring person. Irregardless of what it may seem.”
Trudy bit her cheek.
“But let me be clear: any more transgressions, Trudy, and ... well, you understand what I’m saying, darling, don’t you?”
It wasn’t the first lecture she’d received from Barbara.
At least this time Barbara wasn’t accusing Trudy of murder.
Ironically, it was only during Barbara’s lectures that Trudy actually felt capable of such a crime.
She knew if she spoke, every bit of it would all come gushing out in a grand display of emotion.
So, she nodded, and bit her cheek until she tasted blood.
Mr. Hendon asked Trudy to stay behind as the Beaumonts left, right after Jerry Don had smiled and shaken her hand and asked Trudy to tell Dub he’d said hello. She sat and waited for Mr. Hendon to close the door before she allowed herself to cry.
“Oh God, don’t do that!” He handed her a tissue from the box on his desk.
“Sorry,” she sobbed. “Held it as long as I could.”
“Trudy.” Hendon sighed heavily. “I am at a loss for—”
“Oh God. Just get it over with. You don’t have to be nice just because I’m crying.” She wiped her eyes. “I’ve been through much worse than getting fired, trust me.”
“Fired? Who the hell would teach chemistry if I fired you?” Mr. Hendon sat on top of his desk.
“Then maybe I should quit.” Trudy blew her nose. “Save you the trouble.”
“Don’t be silly. This’ll all fizzle out; things like this always do, but you just gotta keep your head down and keep Barbara Beaumont happy. If not for yourself, for Haskel. You don’t want to cost him the election, do you?”
“Keep Barbara happy ?” Trudy shot Mr. Hendon a pained look.
“I know. I know.” Mr. Hendon held up his hands in surrender.
“Believe me, I am intimately familiar with the slow, choking humiliation this woman requires.” He turned to face Trudy.
“But honestly, I’ve written the manual on how to survive Barbara Beaumont.
Life is truly better for everybody when she gets what she wants. ”
Usually, outside the school office, Trudy invented a reason to look away whenever she walked by Jimmie’s memorial in the trophy case.
But this time, she stopped and looked. The framed photo sat next to a trophy that was taller than Pete.
1975 Alabama State Football Champions , the engraved plate bragged .
A separate plaque read, Jimmie’s selfless determination we shall evermore remember.
Behind all that, Jimmie’s letterman jacket hung in a large frame.
Trudy had forgotten that she’d donated it, the only thing she could think of when the school had called and asked for items for a memorial.
She could still smell the way Jimmie’s Right Guard mixed with her Estée Lauder perfume; the two scents forever united in the scratchy wool.
The slight fraying around the bottom was still there, too, on the spot where Trudy would nervously rub the metal snap button between her forefinger and thumb.
Those orange leather sleeves had been so long when she’d so ridiculously worn that jacket around the hallways letting everyone know she and Jimmie were going steady.
She could still hear Jimmie’s boisterous laugh, too, the laugh he’d bellowed that time she screamed, afraid to let go of the big rope swing down at Elk’s Bluff, scared about tumbling into the river below, afraid of what lay beneath its surface.
Wet, Jimmie’s hair had turned from blond to dark, and his broad shoulders had bobbed above the water as his strong quarterback legs and feet treaded below.
The expression in the trophy case photo matched exactly the one in her memory.
His face before Tuscaloosa, before Bear Bryant, and before all the darkness and rage he brought back with him.
“Just let go, True,” Jimmie had hollered from the water. “You gotta let go!” The same thing he’d said when she’d gripped the poolside ladder too tightly at the gala.
Do incidents like this really fizzle the way Mr. Hendon said, even when it’s Barbara Beaumont, who never seemed to let anything go? If only Trudy hadn’t been forced to be the ridiculous cheerleader sponsor, none of this would have happened.
Resentment, though, would get her nowhere.
To anyone else, Jimmie’s beaming face in the picture was just a youthful smile.
But to Trudy, that face was the heartbreaking reflection of the ugly side of any Alabama boy’s dream: playing for Bear Bryant, going to the Sugar Bowl, teaching his son how to throw a spiraling Hail Mary.
She knew, intimately, every dream behind Jimmie’s grin, but she also knew, all too painfully, the depths of darkness to which that same grin eventually succumbed.
Trudy shook her head. “Bastard,” she whispered before she headed back to her classroom to get her bag.
Across the hall, Shug had left his door open and the lights on.
He’d be at football practice for another two hours.
She stepped inside, just to flick off the lights.
Before she realized it, however, she’d wandered over to his desk, and her finger grazed the page of his teacher’s planner.
Trudy was impressed he’d actually been using it.
It lay open to December 6, Trudy’s twenty-fifth birthday.
Allergic to snapdragons , he’d written with a red pen and underlined twice.