Chapter 8 It’s Never Too Late Finding Health, Wealth, and Happiness in Middle Age
Lula wished Beverly Underwood could have been there to see her interacting with that Wright boy. Just a few weeks earlier he’d have been with those degenerate friends of his, smoking dope and sneaking pornography into the public library. Now there he was, sitting in the park like a perfect gentleman, reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. Lula had never read it herself, but the lady at the Goodwill in Macon swore up and down that the book had set her on the right path. Lula could see that her fifty-cent investment had changed that boy’s life for the better. If only she could have gotten to his older brother in time. She never would have guessed Isaac Wright would announce to the whole world he was gay. Lula knew the boys’ mama well—and their father was on the committee. For years, the Wrights had set a wonderful example for their people. It was a shame a selfish child could destroy a whole legacy.
Just the thought drove Lula crazy. It wasn’t like that boy didn’t know any better. He’d been raised in the church. Not her church, of course, but he knew what the rules were. God had made them perfectly clear. You do not kill. You do not covet. You honor your parents. And men who diddle other men go straight to hell. Somehow Isaac Wright had come to believe those rules didn’t apply to him. And nothing got Lula all fired up like people who thought they were above the law.
What on earth had given people the notion they were free to do what they want? Half the town was divorced, the other half sleeping around. The kids were giving themselves new names, lopping off their penises, and walking around with butt plugs. Just the other day, the young man carrying her groceries at the Piggly Wiggly was wearing mascara and eyeliner. Someone had to let him know that he looked ridiculous, so Lula did her duty. That boy had the nerve to tell her to mind her own business. Of course she took her business straight to the manager. But that spineless Russell Moore just hemmed and hawed and never did a thing. Whatever spells that witchy estranged wife of his was casting out in the woods must have turned Russell into a eunuch.
Back when Lula was a teenager, folks knew how things were supposed to work. God gave you a lot in life and you made the best of it. Was she happy that her once wealthy family was forced to endure reduced circumstances? No, sir. Would she have liked to marry a man like Trip Underwood? Absolutely. But neither of those things had been in God’s plan for her. Lula had walked the line for forty-three years, and now at long last, she was getting somewhere.
Once Winky had her wee in the park, Lula headed back to the frilly white Victorian she’d lived in alone since her husband had tragically passed ten years earlier. As she rounded the corner onto Peach Street, she ran into the postman returning two books to her little free library. One, she could see, was Our Confederate Heroes. It had made Lula’s day to discover a copy at Goodwill. Her granddaddy once owned hundreds of books on the subject, but the collection had been lost along with the family home. There hadn’t been room enough for a library in the modest house in which Lula had been raised. According to Lambert family legend, her father had offered to sell the books to the evil lawyer woman who’d snatched up their house at auction, but she wasn’t interested.
“I don’t need any books about the so-called Lost Cause. Unlike y’all, I learn from the past,” Wilma Jean Cummings had told Lula’s daddy. “I have no desire to relive it.”
“If I was descended from dirt farmers, I suppose I’d feel the same way,” Lula’s daddy had famously responded. He donated the books to the local library. Lula had always meant to stop by and look for them on the shelves, but she didn’t get to the library all that often.
Lula chuckled over her daddy’s quip every time she walked by the old family house. Folks in town said Wilma Jean was demented, which gave Lula immense satisfaction. In her prayers, she thanked Jesus that the woman’s wicked ways were finally being punished.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Dean.”
The postman was staring right at her, just waiting for her to come closer. In the past, whenever Lula had tried to strike up a conversation, Delvin Crump would get all squirrelly and slip away. Lula supposed she couldn’t blame him. They came from two different worlds. A generation back, his whole family had likely worked for hers. It had been forty years since the mill had been stolen out from under her father, but the old divisions still remained, and most folks weren’t brave enough to bridge them. But once again, Lula’s little library had worked a miracle. Today, the postman seemed thrilled to talk to her.
“Pleasure to see you, Mr. Crump. You been doing some reading?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been making good use of your wonderful library. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I added a book of my own.” He held up a copy of The Art of the Deal.
Lula beamed. She’d started a movement! “Of course I don’t mind! And may I say, you have excellent taste in literature.”
“As do you, Mrs. Dean. And thank you so much for what you’ve done for the community. We booklovers need to stick together!”
Thank you for what you’ve done for our community. Lula clutched those words close to her heart for the rest of the day. So much was happening and Lula’s only regret was that Beverly Underwood wasn’t there to see all of it. She wondered if she could get Delvin Crump to film a testimonial for her campaign’s Instagram account. Finally, people in Troy were recognizing what she had to offer. Snooty Beverly Underwood’s reign would soon be over.
They’d been friendly once, back in high school. Not best friends, of course. Lula was a year younger. But good acquaintances who smiled when they passed each other in the hall. Both had been cheerleaders since their peewee football days, and by her senior year, Beverly was captain of the varsity squad.
Up until then, five spaces opened up on the squad every year. But Beverly had already gone and offered spots to two seniors—both Black girls—she thought had been unfairly denied a place on the team. That meant there were only three openings left on varsity that year. But Lula knew she was destined for one of them.
She’d spent weeks practicing her hurdlers and herkies. Two of the open spots were likely to go to the captain and cocaptain of the junior varsity squad. But the third was up for grabs. Lula’s only competition was Darlene Cagle, who lived in a double-wide with a lawn decorated with rusting auto parts. Everyone said she was cute. Lula guessed they were right. Personally, she couldn’t get past Darlene’s knockoff Keds and frizzy home perm. But being poor wasn’t what made the girl unsuitable for Troy’s three-time-state-champion cheerleading squad.
After church the Sunday before tryouts, Lula had done her best to warn Beverly. She’d caught up with her in the parking lot of the First Baptist Church, right before Beverly slid into Trip Underwood’s Mustang.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” she’d asked.
“Sure,” Beverly answered a bit coldly. “As long as it’s not about tryouts. I have to maintain the appearance of objectivity.”
If Lula hadn’t been so nervous, she might have laughed right in Beverly’s face. The appearance of objectivity. Talk about uppity. Who did she think she was? Sandra Day O’Connor?
“There’s just something I really think you should know,” Lula said. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but it’s going to get around sooner or later if it hasn’t already.”
Lula recalled Beverly looked perfect that day. Her mama could afford to buy her the most beautiful dresses from Laura Ashley. And nobody could curl her bangs as high. Even though she was two inches shorter than Lula, it always felt like Beverly was looking down at her. That moment was no exception. She hadn’t even answered straightaway. Her nose twitched like she’d caught a whiff of something nasty on the wind.
“I suppose if it’s serious, I ought to know. Cheerleading doesn’t get enough respect as it is. We have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’d say it’s pretty serious.” Of that, Lula was certain. “Darlene Cagle got fall-down drunk at Kevin Marshall’s lake house at the beginning of the summer and slept with three guys at the same time.”
Nearly thirty years later, Lula could still feel the weight of Beverly’s stare.
“How do you know?” Beverly’s voice had been flat and emotionless, like a doctor asking you to open wide.
“Because I was there!” Lula replied. “I saw them take her into the bedroom.” It wasn’t a rumor, it was firsthand knowledge.
“Who were the guys?”
“Skeeter Sykes, Brian Frizzell, and Jason Johnson.”
“And you thought you should tell me because—?”
“Because, like you just said, cheerleaders need to be taken seriously. Everybody’s going to know Darlene is a slut, and that won’t make us look good.”
She recalled Beverly had nodded, and for a second Lula thought she’d triumphed. “So, let me get this straight. A girl who was fall-down drunk was taken advantage of by three guys. You knew, but did nothing to stop it. And you want to use this information to get yourself a spot on my squad?”
Lula hadn’t found the words to respond. While her jaw dangled, Beverly stepped closer until Lula could smell her Eternity perfume. For the rest of Lula’s life, even a whiff of the scent would make her break into a flop sweat.
“Let me tell you what’s important to me, Lula. When you’re on the squad, your teammates are your sisters. When you do stunts, you put your lives into each other’s hands. You rely on your teammates to support you and to keep you safe. You know everything about them. You do not spy on each other. You do not tell tales. And you always have your sisters’ backs. Do you understand?”
At that point, Lula knew she’d stepped in it. She hung her head and prayed she’d get off with nothing more than a stern lecture. “Yes.”
“Getting that drunk is a mistake, but it’s forgivable. And I am of the opinion that it’s nobody’s business who a girl chooses to have sex with. But if the girl doesn’t get to choose, it’s not sex. It’s rape. If you knew a girl was raped, and you didn’t try to stop it—that’s unforgivable. I won’t have anyone like you on my squad. In fact, I don’t think I ever want to be in the same room with you again. Do you understand?”
Adding insult to injury, Lula’s banishment took place within earshot of Trip Underwood. The captain of the football team and the subject of Lula’s every daydream since the third grade looked ready to vomit.
“Should we go to the police?” Lula heard Trip ask as she slunk away.
“That’s Darlene’s decision,” Beverly said. “I’ll have a word with her.”
For months, Lula lived in fear that the police would come knocking on her door. But they never did. Randy (“Skeeter”) Sykes, Brian Frizzell, and Jason Johnson were cut from the football team, which no one noticed since they hardly ever took the field in the first place. All three of them got their butts kicked by linemen on a fairly regular basis, but even that wasn’t all that remarkable. They spent the two years till graduation keeping pretty much to themselves.
But at least they had each other. Lula was left with no one. She watched from afar as Darlene Cagle took her spot on the squad. The girls won the state championship that year. Darlene was named captain the next. She dated Trip’s best friend, Matt Honeywell, and they both got athletic scholarships to Chapel Hill. Now they lived in a beautiful house in Savannah, drove Range Rovers, and took trips to France. The Cagles’ old trailer had been hauled off to the dump years ago, and the lot was empty. But if you looked, you could see a rusting truck camper and a stack of old tires peeking above the tall grass. Darlene might have fancy clothes and five-hundred-dollar highlights, but underneath it all, she was still trash.
Before the cake book came along, Lula had to remind herself every day that Darlene Honeywell hadn’t stolen her life. God had a plan, and he’d kept Lula off the squad for a reason. Lula knew her calling would be important, and she’d kept the faith all those years. She’d married John Dean and given birth to twins. She’d gone to church every Sunday at ten. They’d never had enough money to keep up with any Joneses, but after John died unexpectedly at forty-five, the insurance payout made Lula a wealthy woman. Then her kids left Troy and abandoned their poor mother. After all she’d done for them, those ingrates wouldn’t even give her their phone number. The last few years had been a vast, lonely desert to wander. The only thing that kept her going was her hatred of Beverly Underwood.
That and doing the Lord’s work, of course. The powers that be were too lazy or corrupt to enforce the rules, so Lula was often forced to take matters into her own hands. Everyone knew that music teacher, Mr. Minter, was light in his loafers. People had whispered about it for years. But she was the one who finally got the goods on him. She saw him coming out of that gay bar at three o’clock in the morning, and she sent in the anonymous tip, along with a picture and links to his social media pages. And when the parks department started offering those baby yoga classes, she’d made sure everyone in town knew it was anti-Christian. Unfortunately, they were still grooming infants to be Hindus down at the rec center. That Indian doctor who’d recently moved to Troy was probably behind it all. Even Lula couldn’t win every battle.
Then she’d pulled out that book of erotic cakes. At first, she was merely annoyed that she couldn’t find a decent recipe for popovers because the library—always pushing the homosexual agenda—seemed to think penis cakes were more important. Then she’d realized what kind of treasure she held in her hand. Now it was her face on the front page of the paper—not Beverly Underwood’s. She was the one everybody was talking about. She was the woman they all wanted to please. Some people loved her. Other people loathed her. But she could feel the fear radiating from all of them. They knew she could make their lives miserable if the fancy struck her. For the first time in her life, Lula had the power she deserved.
Some people, like Beverly Underwood, were early bloomers. They peaked in high school and everything went downhill from there. Thanks to Beverly, Lula’s youth had been blighted. But Lula had been right about God’s plan for her. She wasn’t a dud. She was just a late bloomer. Lula had lived by the rules and done everything that had been asked of her. Now, at last, she was being rewarded.