Page 45 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
Lula swiveled and saw the younger Wright brother, the football star, barrel into Mitch Sweeney, who’d just struggled back to his feet and was bleeding profusely from a long, jagged head wound. Within an instant, the movie star was on the ground again with a furious football star astride him.
“Get off!” Lula grabbed the boy’s shirt and tried to pull him away. Noone else stepped forward to help, not even Mitch’s useless brother, who seemed perfectly content seeing her guest star get whupped by a teenager.
Then a voice rose above the commotion. “What the hell are you doing?” the older Wright boy shouted. His little brother looked up and everyone else turned around. “We have to get Bella to a doctor! She needs help right away.”
And that was the end of Lula’s glorious rally. After such a wonderful start, it had concluded in the worst way possible, with her guest star bleeding from a head wound and the sheriff ordering everyone to get the hell out of Jackson Square. Melody’s cupcakes had been smooshed into the ground, including the two that Lula had set aside to take home with her. All of her enemies left with their prayers answered, and Beverly Underwood had thenerveto ask if she needed help cleaning things up. Lula marched right off without saying a word.
The phone kept ringing, but for the rest of the evening, Lula was too heartbroken to talk to anyone. It wasn’t until she was soaking in a hot, rose-scented bath that she remembered the glint of metal on Logan Walsh’s ankle. What on earth had that idiot been thinking? Was he planning to shoot the Wright boys there on her stage? What did he think that would achieve—other than getting Lula canceled and ending her bid for mayor? First thing in the morning, she was going to call Nathan Dugan and tell him Logan Walsh was no longer welcome on the Concerned Parents Committee.
Chapter 19
A Caledonian Fling
The first of Bernice Hutton’s two regrets in life was that she’d ever given a good goddamn what anyone thought. Now she was old—very old—and she could see just how little their opinions really meant. Sometimes she imagined herself standing on top of Troy’s big gaudy courthouse, looking down at the townsfolk scrambling around trying to outdo one another. All of them thinking the differences between them were important. Believing anyone would give a damn in a hundred years what model car they drove or who their granddaddy was. When they reached her age, and gained the perspective it offered, they’d come to know what she’d found out. The only thing that matters is who you’ve loved. Once they knew that simple truth, they’d wish to God, just like she did, that they’d figured it out while their life was ahead of them.
When you’re very old, people want to know—what’s the secret to a good, long life? Bernice would tell them: live and let live. Be true to yourself and let others do the same. It was good advice, but people never seemed to listen, which Bernice found depressing. That lesson hadn’t come easily, and she wanted to spare them the suffering she’d endured. But that’s not how humans work, she’d realized. We all have to find out the hard way for ourselves.
Bernice’s second regret, by far the biggest, was that she hadn’t run away with Samuel Yates when she had the chance. It was a complicated dream to lose herself in completely. Because if she had followed her heart backthen, she wouldn’t have her children or grandchildren, and she loved them all very much. But when she looked at Sam now and felt her pulse surge just like it had when they were eighteen years old, she couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be to go back in time and spend sixty years with him.
She still remembered with heartbreaking clarity the last time she’d seen him as a young man, standing below her window and telling her he had to leave. He’d begged her to come with him. They’d head up north, where things weren’t perfect but they might be a bit easier. Bernice had stayed in Troy for the very worst reasons. She was scared of the people in this pissant little town—of what they might think of her and what they might say to her father. Bernice’s cowardice cost her happiness. It had been a terrible price to pay.
In those days, the town’s eyes had been glued to them every time they spoke. Aside from the Lambert mill, the streets were the only spaces in Troy where white and Black folks ever mingled. The movie theater was off-limits to Sam. The soda fountain, too. Bernice and Sam went for walks in the woods, hoping they didn’t run into hikers or hunters. Even though they never did anything but hold hands, both knew all too well what could happen if they were ever discovered. They were only a couple of years younger than that boy, Emmett Till, who’d been brutally murdered at age fourteen after a white woman lied and claimed he’d whistled at her.
These days, Bernice and Samuel were old and no one gave a damn what they did. They could walk around arm in arm, invisible to all. Bernice’s husband died in 2019. Sam’s wife passed on Christmas Day a couple years later. Six months after that, once he’d put his affairs in order, Sam had driven eighteen hours to Troy from Milwaukee. He didn’t know where Bernice lived and he didn’t dare ask—for her sake, not for his. A lot of things had changed down south, but he wasn’t sure exactly which ones. So he sat on a bench in Jackson Square for hours each day, waiting for her to pass by. When she finally saw him, it was like they’d never been apart.
They talked about getting married, but decided against it. They’d bothhad the experience and felt no desire to repeat it. And neither of them had any use for another toaster. All they wanted or needed was each other. So they splurged on a cruise around the world instead of a wedding. Six months later, they settled down together in Troy.
Every evening (weather permitting) they returned to the bench where they’d been reunited. But on this night, it wasn’t a thunderstorm that kept them from observing their ritual. They found Jackson Square looking like Sherman himself had just marched through it. Someone had constructed a wooden stage right in front of the statue, but it now stood abandoned. A banner made from a painter’s drop cloth and two long dowels lay draped over a bench. Only two words written in red paint—descendants of—could be read. Cupcakes smashed into the cobblestones bore the shoe prints of a frenzied mob. But there was no sign of the crowd. Only a single woman remained in the square—a petite blond in a pretty summer dress. She was picking up litter and stuffing it into a kitchen bag.
“Beverly?” Bernice called out, and the younger woman looked up.
“Evening, Bernice.” Beverly Underwood pulled off one of her rubber gloves and walked over to offer a hand to Bernice’s companion. “You must be Sam. I’m Beverly. Welcome back to Georgia. I sure have heard a lot about you.”
Sam shot Bernice a droll side-eye as he shook Beverly’s hand.
“We both get our hair done at Val’s,” Bernice told him.
“Well, that explains it,” Sam said. “What happened out here tonight?”
Beverly sighed. “Lula Dean held a rally in support of the Confederate statue. I’d like to see it go—and apparently I’m not the only one who feels that way. Some young people came to protest and things got out of hand. Bella Cummings was injured.”
“Wilma Jean’s granddaughter?” Bernice asked. “She gonna be all right?”
“I think so. They took her to see Dr. Chokshi. I’m just cleaning up a little and then I’m going to head over to check on her.” Beverly paused for a moment while a question seemed to form in her mind. “Y’all notice anything different about Troy in the past couple of weeks?”
Bernice took in the state of Jackson Square. “Sure does seem like there’s something strange in the air.”
Beverly nodded. “I was talking to Wanda Crump, and she thinks that little library Lula opened might have something to do with all the things that keep happening,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be shocked,” Bernice said. “That woman’s an agent of chaos, God love her.”
“Well, would you mind taking a peek for me? Lula and I are both running for mayor, and I can’t really be seen loitering outside her house.”
“May I ask?” Sam spoke up. “Who’s this Lula Dean who’s been holding rallies and opening libraries?”
“Her maiden name is Lambert,” Bernice told him. “She’s Leonard’s daughter.”
“Y’all knew Lula’s father?” Beverly asked.
