Page 59 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
Lula felt tears coming on. She wasn’t going to let this stand. But at that very moment, James Wright and Beverly Underwood appeared together on-screen along with the gay son. Lula’s biggest enemies had all joined forces. Adding insult to injury, Beverly looked gorgeous, and her hair was perfect. Lula knew better than to try to make an appointment with Val. None of those former cheerleaders would so much as speak to her. She had to get her hair done at the second-best salon in town.
“Hello, I’m Beverly Underwood.” Lula had to pause the video and ask the Lord for strength. The sound of Beverly’s prissy voice always drove her to distraction. “I’m a candidate for mayor here in Troy, and I’ve made it known that if I’m elected, I will have the statue of Augustus Wainwright removed from this park. I also happen to be a direct descendant of the statue’s subject. Until recently, a lot of folks thought my daughter and I were the last of the Wainwright line. But just last night more descendants made themselves known. Now I’m proud to be standing here with a couple of them. This is Mr. Isaac Wright, and beside Isaac is his father, Mr. James Wright. I’m proud to call both of them cousins—and I’m thrilled to announce that our family may be much bigger than anyone thought. Isaac was the one who made the discovery, so I’m going to step aside and let him tell you all about it.”
The boy approached the mic with no show of nervousness. “I’m Isaac Wright. A while back, I found this book in the library.” He held up a copy ofThe Hemingses of Monticello.“For years, people debated whether Thomas Jefferson had fathered six children with an enslaved woman named Sally Hemings. They said it was impossible. A great man like Jefferson would never do such a thing. Then DNA evidence proved with one hundred percent certainty that Hemings’s children were also Jefferson’s. Now, I don’t know about you, but that blew my mind. It called into question everything we’ve been taught. Not just about the men who founded this country, but also about who has the right to claim America’s heritage and history. We’ve been told that some people built this country, and the rest of us should just be grateful to live here. Those of us whose ancestorsliterallybuilt the South always knew the truth. But after I finishedThe Hemingses of Monticello,Ifound myself wondering if there was another side of the story that wasn’t being told.
“I started doing research into my family tree. DNA testing has allowed us to solve mysteries that have lingered for centuries. And like many Black people in this country, the Wrights have a family tree that is filled with mysteries. All I knew for sure was that many members of my family worked at Avalon, the Wainwright plantation. But I’d heard rumors that we might have a rich, white ancestor, and I had a hunch that I wanted to follow. So I sent in a sample of my DNA, and when the results came back, they were clear as day. Augustus Wainwright, general in the Confederate Army, is my fifth great-grandfather. And if you are a Black person with roots in this county, he may be your grandfather, too.”
He looked to Beverly, and she stepped forward to the mic again. “If anyone out there thinks they may be related to us, we are inviting you to come to a family reunion here in Troy on Saturday, June third—”
Lula threw her phone at the wall. Every television station around would be at that reunion. It had all the makings of a60 Minutessegment and a PBS documentary. There could even end up being a book.
None of this would have happened if that Neanderthal Logan Walsh hadn’t reached for a weapon. If he hadn’t dropped to his knee, Lula wouldn’t have screamed. Mitch wouldn’t have lunged forward and knocked that little busybody off the stage. The two boys would have been escorted out of the square—and everyone in the crowd would have recognized them as the troublemakers they were. There would have been no apology. No press conference. No ridiculous family reunion. No Beverly prancing around in front of the TV cameras like the goddamned queen of Georgia.
Lula took a deep breath. She could get things back on track. She was positive. But someone had to pay for the mistakes so far. So Lula picked up her phone and called Nathan Dugan.
Chapter 25
The Catcher in the Rye
Delvin Crump was in a fine mood. Inside his mailbag was another book bound for Lula Dean’s library. It seemed like she’d forgotten all about it, so Delvin had taken over as curator of the collection. It thrilled him to know his books were making it into people’s hands. He’d seen that Kelly boy reading one of his titles at the Waffle House on his way out of town that morning.
A couple days earlier, on the morning after the rally, he’d heard Lula screeching as he stopped to deliver her daily bundle of catalogs. He hadn’t really intended to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she’d seen the press conference. Delvin got a little giddy just thinking about it. Augustus Wainwright had assumed that statue would be his legacy—and that all his evil deeds would be forgotten in time. Now the descendants of his victims had risen up and joined forces. And they were going to bring that bastard down.
He couldn’t have been prouder if Isaac Wright had been his own son. That boy had shown ingenuity and resolve far beyond his years. At seventeen, Isaac not only knew which battles needed to be fought, he was ready to fight them. Delvin remembered being that age like it was yesterday. He hadn’t known his ass from a hole in the ground. In fact, it had taken two tours in Afghanistan before he was able to tell them apart.
Delvin felt his smile curdle as he approached the Dugan house. Even though it was working hours, the man’s truck was in the drive. WhenDelvin had loaded his Jeep that morning, he hadn’t been pleased to see the priority delivery box addressed to Nathan Dugan. That evil bastard was the last person on earth he wanted to lay eyes on right now. The post office’s motto mentioned snow, sleet, and rain, but it didn’t say anything about motherfucking Nazis. Delvin parked his Jeep at the curb and walked down the drive. The box he carried was not particularly heavy. Delvin reflexively glanced at the return address. It had been sent from another part of town.Holcombe Road. The name was written in chicken scratch, but he made out the letters that formed the wordWalsh.There was only one Walsh left in town, Logan Walsh, and Delvin had seen him at the rally, standing right behind Lula and Mitch. For years, he’d heard talk that the Walsh boy had murdered his father. He didn’t doubt it. Delvin could tell just looking at Logan that the kid wasn’t right. He reminded Delvin of a few guys he’d known in the army—quiet types who seemed perfectly sane until they started talking. Then it would become clear that their reality wasn’t one you could recognize. Their earth was flat and run by a shadowy cabal. They always assumed they were under surveillance. Any mark was a symbol and every symbol had a secret meaning. There was a reason for their every action, however bizarre it seemed. Just like there was a reason Logan Walsh had driven three miles out of the way to mail a priority package to a Nazi who lived less than two miles from his house.
Delvin handled the package a little more gingerly. Lord only knew what was in it. He approached the Dugan house with equal care. He’d spent enough time in war zones to know when he’d crossed into dangerous territory. Sure enough, when he reached the front steps, the door opened. Nathan Dugan was standing there, watching Delvin come toward him. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow and his hand hidden behind his back. Dugan had a gun, and he wanted his postman to know it. His thin, colorless lips remained pressed together. Delvin held out the package, and Dugan refused to take it. His eyes flicked down to the floor, as though ordering the postman to set the box at his feet. Delvin laughedand placed it six feet away on the porch banister instead. He caught the sound of a gun barrel sliding out of a holster.
“You sure you want to commit a federal offense this morning, Herr Dugan?” Delvin asked. Dugan didn’t respond. “Guess not. Enjoy your day, now,” he told the Nazi and chuckled all the way back to the sidewalk.
He was delivering a package to the folks across the street when he saw Nathan Dugan hustle out of his house with an army surplus duffel bag, which he tossed into the bed of his truck. Then he wheeled his trash can out of the garage and to the curb—even though pickup wasn’t till the next morning. Within thirty seconds, Nathan Dugan had hopped in his truck and sped off. Delvin had a hunch that he wouldn’t be back.
He finished his deliveries on the cul-de-sac and headed back the way he’d come. Along the way, he chugged the last of the Gatorade he’d brought with him. When he reached Nathan Dugan’s trash can, he opened it up and made a show of tossing the bottle inside. Lying on top of the other trash was the box he’d just delivered. It had been emptied and its contents tossed into the can as well. Delvin recognized SS lightning bolts. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. Then his gut told him that wasn’t enough, and he grabbed the box and the two flags that had been folded up inside.
“Ain’t nothing illegal about owning a flag,” Sheriff Bradley told Delvin when he called. “Ain’t nothing illegal about sending one through the mail, either.” Bradley was a good old boy through and through, but he wasn’t stupid. If he was acting dense, he was doing it on purpose.
“I know,” Delvin told him. “But something feels wrong about this. Dugan gets two flags in the mail, and then he takes off like a bat outta hell?”
“Mighta just gone to the Piggly Wiggly for all we know,” said the sheriff. “What were you doing rifling through a man’s trash, anyways? Betcha that’s illegal if we’re looking for crimes to pin on people.”
“Look all you want,” Delvin said. “I know the law. Once trash is left at the curb, it’s public property. Listen, I realize you don’t give a damn aboutNazi flags. But something spooked Dugan bad just now. I’d look into it if I were you.”
“But you’re not me, thank goodness. A sheriff can’t go around harassing people for owning flags. Just relax, Mr. Crump. No need to act paranoid. Nathan will be back home by the time you deliver his mail tomorrow morning.”
Nathan. Of course.
When the working day ended at five o’clock, Delvin drove past the address on Holcombe Road. The house was hidden deep in the woods and the drive was posted. Delvin pulled off the road across from the entrance. His gut was screaming louder than ever that something was wrong. It was the same gut that had kept Delvin alive in Afghanistan, and he’d learned to listen when it spoke to him. The first thing it had taught him was the most lethal creatures on earth were young men with a few bad ideas and nothing to lose. Overseas, Delvin had faced his share of them. Some, but not all, had been Afghans. He’d stared back at one in the mirror every morning.
When Delvin turned eighteen, the army was where young men went when there was nowhere else to go. Some of his fellow soldiers had run away—from abusive homes, bad neighborhoods, poverty and the hopelessness that came with it. A couple kids he knew had come to the forces to find a fight. But most were like Delvin—flailing and lost. The army promised structure and a steady paycheck. Still, Delvin had delayed, spending two full years after high school drinking beer and working dead-end jobs. Then came 9/11, and the recruiters were selling not only escape but a righteous fight. For Delvin, that proved an irresistible combination.
He spent the following years watching boys like him die. Blown up, ambushed, murdered by strangers—or shot by their own hand. He ended the lives of five Afghan fighters. Then one day he realized the war meant nothing to him. He didn’t believe in the cause. The Afghans weren’t his enemies. The battles that needed to be fought were all back home.
It wasn’t until he married Wanda that he finally felt like he was where he needed to be. But Delvin had never forgotten what it was like to be lost, and he knew just how easy it would have been for someone to lead him astray.
A truck pulled off the road behind him. Jeb Sweeney slid out of the driver’s seat. Well over six feet and dressed in army surplus pants, a white T-shirt, and a Braves hat, he looked like a G.I. Joe figure on leave. Delvin didn’t know the veterinarian very well, and to be honest, he looked a lot like a man Delvin would rather avoid. But he’d seen Jeb at the CPC’s press conferences, holding up signs that made it perfectly clear what he thought of Lula Dean.
Jeb laid a hand on the Jeep’s window frame. “Howdy, Mr. Postman,” he said. “What brings you out this way?”
