Fifteen
Trudy
The opening credits of The Smurfs on Saturday cartoons blared in the background while Leta Pearl slathered peanut butter in Trudy’s hair then jerked the comb.
“Ow!” Trudy cried. “Easy!”
“We should talk about last night,” Leta Pearl said. “How the entire Booster Club section was blaming you for jinxing June Bug Moody.”
“June Bug sthtunk ,” Pete said, stirring scrambled eggs with a piece of bacon.
“Peter, if you can’t say something nice ...” Trudy said, then reached for a piece of bacon herself.
“Trudy, dear,” Leta Pearl continued. “You are about to marry a Moody.”
Trudy shook her head and took a salty bite.
“Leon and Haskel’s daddy, Lawrence Moody,” Leta Pearl went on. “Was George Wallace’s—”
“ Fraternity brother in college ,” Trudy said. “Yes, Mother, I know.”
“And Lucy Tutwiler-Moody’s great-great grandmother, Julia Tutwiler—”
“Wrote the Alabama state song,” Trudy said. “I am well aware of the Moody pedigree.”
Leta Pearl jerked the comb again.
“Ow!” Trudy cried. “Seriously, Mom, easy.”
Leta Pearl set the comb down and sat next to Trudy at the kitchen table. “Well, I bet you didn’t know that Haskel and Leon’s other great-great grandmother was Helen Keller’s second cousin.”
The doorbell started up, and Leta Pearl scowled through the entire chimes of Windsor, then stood.
Trudy said, “For all I know, Helen Keller is a second cousin to the Abernathys too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Leta Pearl headed to the door. “I would know if we were related to Helen Keller.”
Trudy shook her head while Leta Pearl peeled the curtains back. “What in God’s name is Coach Meechum doing here? He better stay off my begonias.”
“Coach Meechum?” Trudy jolted, hardly recognizing her high-pitched voice. “As in Shug Meechum?” She brushed Leta Pearl aside and looked for herself. Sure enough, there he stood on the porch. Trudy pulled the lapels of her bathrobe closer.
“He’s holding two Cokes,” Leta Pearl said.
Cokes! Trudy’s chest tightened; she’d forgotten and stood him up, and worse, ruined another tradition. She imagined him waiting outside the field house last night with the photographer, looking at his watch.
“Mama, answer it, and make him go away.”
“Me? Why can’t you answer it?”
“Because I have gum and peanut butter in my hair!”
Leta Pearl untied her apron and stuffed it in Trudy’s hands then fiddled with her own hair.
“I’m not here!” Trudy darted behind the wall that separated the living room from the small foyer and front door.
Leta Pearl opened the door. “Well, good morning, Mr. Meechum.” All syrupy and striving too hard to be pleasant.
“Please, Mrs. Abernathy,” the coach said.
“ Mr. Meechum is what people called my daddy.” His charming laugh made Trudy feel like she had fleas.
“You’ll do just fine calling me Shug .” He probably said that with that stupid smile, flashing those perfect teeth that looked like he’d been swishing bleach in his mouth.
(With his level of intelligence, he probably had been.) He was probably looking at Leta Pearl with those dumb black eyes, so black, Trudy sometimes wondered if he even had pupils.
The Coke bottles clanged, probably because he shook Leta Pearl’s hand with too strong a grip, unable to control those ridiculous athlete’s paws.
And where’d he even get Cokes in glass bottles anyway?
Probably some attempt to be old-fashioned.
“How can I help you, Coach?” Leta Pearl asked.
“Well, ma’am, actually, I came to see Trudy. And Pete, too, if he’s around.”
Pete?
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid Trudy is—”
“Here I am, Coach!” Pete shouted. “And Mama’s right on the other ssside of that wall!” Trudy felt like a fish caught on a trotline.
“ Pete, no !” she whispered, but it was too late; her own firstborn had ratted her out. She buried her face in her palms and drew in a breath.
“Ssshe’s got peanut butter and gum in her hair.” Pete looked over at Trudy then back toward the front door. “Looks like she’s prayin’ or sssomething.”
“Thanks, Peter,” Trudy said, the wall still concealing her.
“You’re welcome, Mommy.”
Trudy shot up the stairs like the Space Shuttle Columbia, hoping Coach Meechum didn’t catch a glimpse. She splashed water on her face, then tugged at the wad of gum which, miraculously, slipped out; the peanut butter had worked, though she smelled like Pete’s Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox.
She slung her bathrobe off, hopped around her bedroom on one foot scooting pantyhose up each leg. No , she thought. Pants . She scooted the pantyhose back off, slid on some black capris.
She assessed her hair and face: a greasy mess, dark circles like a drowned raccoon. Up in a bun would have to do.
She clenched two bobby pins in her teeth and lamented to her reflection in the mirror. “What is he doing here? All because I forgot to meet him for a Coke?” She smoothed her hair into place. “He must’ve looked Daddy’s address up in the phone book, like some serial killer. I should call the police.”
Why was she so nervous? “Good God, Trudy.” She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, released it slowly. “Pull yourself together,” she ordered her reflection. “Honestly.”
She stuck the bobby pins in her hair, then brushed her cheeks pink with blush, though she hardly needed it.
“And besides, why would you even care what some dumb coach thinks?” She stroked mascara on her lashes in sideways wisps, the right eye, then the left.
“He probably blames me for June Bug, too, and is coming over to ...” She stopped and made eye contact with her reflection.
“Oh God, he’s not flirting, is he? Okay Trudy, quit that right this minute.
There’s no way on earth Coach Meechum would .
.. you’re engaged ,” she said with a giggle to herself.
She traced lipstick across her lips. “This is no different than if you received a visit from any other teacher. He’s a professional colleague , the teacher across the hall. That’s it.”
She swiped a tissue from the box, polished a crimson streak from her teeth, smacked her lips, and leaned in to lecture herself more sternly. “Don’t be silly. And Shug Meechum? He’s exasperating.” She pointed the lipstick tube at herself, reinforcing her argument. “That’s what he is. Exasperating. ”
She held her hands out in big number fives, checked her nails. “And seriously, even if you weren’t engaged, do you really think Shug Meechum would have any interest in pursuing something with you ?”
She froze. It wasn’t the logic behind her remark, because there wasn’t any (she was, after all, already engaged to Haskel), it was the bite with which she said you to herself—the heavy shame behind her Freudian rebuke, one tiny self-inflicted barb loaded with such deep self-loathing—that stung like so many wasps.
She backed away and gave her truth-telling reflection an incredulous look.
The tip of her chin began to quiver, and she felt another sting she recognized all too well: the one behind her eyes.
“No-no-no!” She reached for another tissue. “You are not crying over this.” But the dam broke, a river cascading down each cheek leaving streaks of mascara sediment on her face. “Quit that!”
Leta Pearl knocked lightly, then crept in her room like a brown recluse. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but ... oh Lord! Why are you crying ?”
“I don’t know,” Trudy sobbed. “I just . . .”
Leta Pearl let out a disgusted sigh. “Pull yourself together. You’ve got to get him out of here.”
“I’m trying !” She blew her nose. “Where is he?”
“Outside,” Leta Pearl said. “He brought Pete a football, heaven help us.”
“He did?” Trudy felt herself soften but quickly buried any toasty optimism. “That’s presumptuous. He could’ve asked first.”
“And who drinks Coke at eight a.m.?” Leta Pearl said.
“You need to send him away. The rumors will fly a mile a minute around here, especially if Louley Gooch across the street sees him. And what if Haskel gets wind of this? What then? I’d appreciate it if I could show my face at church tomorrow without worrying what people think. ” She handed Trudy another tissue.
“Imagine that. You , worried about what people think.”
Leta Pearl pointed. “I’ve got no time for your smart mouth. Now, get down there and get this over with.” Leta Pearl hollered from halfway down the stairs, “Your makeup’s fine!”
Trudy stepped to the window and carefully slid it open enough to hear Shug and Pete in the backyard below.
The sun’s pink-and-orange glow of morning was transposing to its mid-morning golden white.
The leaves on the 100-year-old live oak cheered for the advent of fall, waving like fans with so many green- and maize-colored pennants.
Shug said, “Just keep your eyes on the strings, Pete. See? Right here.” He pointed to the football’s seams.
Pete studied them with steadfast intention.
“Keep your eyes focused here, and you’ll never miss. Let’s try again. Just like I showed you: ten steps then turn back to me. On two. Ready. Set. Hut! Hut!”
Pete started to run. Ten steps, exactly.
“Now!” Shug called.
Pete spun around, Shug threw the ball, and even though it was bigger than his head ...
“I caught it!” Pete hollered. “I caught it!”
“Touchdown!” Shug yelled and ran toward Pete.
“Great catch, little man.” He hoisted him on his shoulders, and in his best radio-announcer voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve witnessed a miracle!
The Bruins have won the championship in a last-second, miracle reception by Peter Beaumont!
” Then he chanted, with breathy shouts emulating a crowd, “Peter! Peter! Peter!” He lowered Pete to the ground, handed him the ball, and turned somber.
“ Shhh !” Shug placed his finger to his lips.
The silly coach peered down at the football with wild eyes, rubbed the pigskin like a crystal ball, and in his best fortune-teller voice (which was quite awful) proclaimed: “I see wide receiver in your future, Pete!”