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Authors: Jacqueline E. Luckett
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Lulu shouts into the phone
in the way octogenarians often do, forgetting the sophistication of cell phone technology. The hose falls to the ground and
snakes beneath her folding chair. “He’s the executive vice president at TIDA, you know. The only black that high up. I’m surprised
Lena didn’t go with him and stay in one of those nine-hundred-dollar-a-night hotels he loves.”
Lulu is Randall’s biggest fan, and, on some level, Lena is both proud and bored with Lulu’s exaggerations. Lulu winks, covers
the handset, and mouths words that Lena cannot decipher because, despite this habit her mother has had for all of Lena’s life—in
church, behind John Henry’s back, in rooms full of noisy relatives—Lena is not good at lip-reading. Lulu tells whomever is
on the other end of the line she has to go and clamps the phone shut.
“You need a gardener, Lulu. What if I can’t come over every Wednesday?”
“I’m not helpless.” Lulu’s knuckles are knotted with arthritis. She flexes her fingers and lays her hands on Lena’s. “How’s
my baby girl doin’ on this glorious day?”
Lulu presses her hands to Lena’s temples. No need, Lena believes, to bother Lulu. John Henry and Lulu’s marriage was different,
maybe exceptional. They grew up in a Mississippi town with only a postal route number and no name. The day John Henry came
home from World War II, he asked for Lulu’s hand in marriage. The two of them worked hard, raised their girls, and spoiled
them as rotten as they could on their government salaries.
John Henry took care of everything. He doted on his wife. He drove Lulu to work, to church, the grocery store, and shopping
and brought his check home every Friday. In return, Lulu took care of him, served his dinner every evening at six sharp—a
saucer of finely chopped onions beside his plate no matter what she cooked. She ironed his clothes and let him play poker
with his buddies once a month.
“Did you ever feel like you were… losing yourself?” Once Lena believed her attachment to a powerful mate completed her. Power
shifted their relationship, hers and Randall’s, bifurcated their growth, like a tree, into independent directions ignoring
the trunk that made it one; forgetting to meet at a glorious crown, joined and whole. Now she knows she cannot tell when her
husband of twenty-three years lost his respect for her. But that loss has weakened her.
“Honey, that losing yourself thing is strictly for your generation. I knew where I was all of the time.” Lulu chuckles. Picking
up the nozzle, she takes a bottle of aspirin from her pocket. The cap is one of those now old-fashioned, no-childproof tops.
“I need to make some changes. And Randall is a little… impatient.”
“I hope you’re not thinking about that photography business again.” The day Lena completed her acceptance paperwork for UCLA,
John Henry, checkbook in hand, and Lulu stood beside her prepared to pay her tuition on one condition: no photography. They
weren’t about to waste their hard-earned money on frivolity: college was about getting a good job, a nine-to-five-with-an-hour-for-lunch
job, a government job, a GS 12 or 15 job with a pension, vacation, and benefits.
“I
always
took care of my family first.” Lulu jiggles pills straight from the bottle into her mouth, then sips from the nozzle. “Women
have to put up with a man’s moodiness until it runs its course.”
“Maybe Bobbie should get her butt out here and benefit from some of this advice.” Her big sister always says Lena tells their
mother too much.
“It doesn’t apply… and, Bobbie thinks her books are more important than… anything else. Maybe if she listened, she could have
a husband, too.” Lulu holds on to the chair to stand fully upright. “You forget how lucky you are. You’re living the life
I dreamed for you…”
“What can I help you with today? I won’t be able to stay as long as
in the way octogenarians often do, forgetting the sophistication of cell phone technology. The hose falls to the ground and
snakes beneath her folding chair. “He’s the executive vice president at TIDA, you know. The only black that high up. I’m surprised
Lena didn’t go with him and stay in one of those nine-hundred-dollar-a-night hotels he loves.”
Lulu is Randall’s biggest fan, and, on some level, Lena is both proud and bored with Lulu’s exaggerations. Lulu winks, covers
the handset, and mouths words that Lena cannot decipher because, despite this habit her mother has had for all of Lena’s life—in
church, behind John Henry’s back, in rooms full of noisy relatives—Lena is not good at lip-reading. Lulu tells whomever is
on the other end of the line she has to go and clamps the phone shut.
“You need a gardener, Lulu. What if I can’t come over every Wednesday?”
“I’m not helpless.” Lulu’s knuckles are knotted with arthritis. She flexes her fingers and lays her hands on Lena’s. “How’s
my baby girl doin’ on this glorious day?”
Lulu presses her hands to Lena’s temples. No need, Lena believes, to bother Lulu. John Henry and Lulu’s marriage was different,
maybe exceptional. They grew up in a Mississippi town with only a postal route number and no name. The day John Henry came
home from World War II, he asked for Lulu’s hand in marriage. The two of them worked hard, raised their girls, and spoiled
them as rotten as they could on their government salaries.
John Henry took care of everything. He doted on his wife. He drove Lulu to work, to church, the grocery store, and shopping
and brought his check home every Friday. In return, Lulu took care of him, served his dinner every evening at six sharp—a
saucer of finely chopped onions beside his plate no matter what she cooked. She ironed his clothes and let him play poker
with his buddies once a month.
“Did you ever feel like you were… losing yourself?” Once Lena believed her attachment to a powerful mate completed her. Power
shifted their relationship, hers and Randall’s, bifurcated their growth, like a tree, into independent directions ignoring
the trunk that made it one; forgetting to meet at a glorious crown, joined and whole. Now she knows she cannot tell when her
husband of twenty-three years lost his respect for her. But that loss has weakened her.
“Honey, that losing yourself thing is strictly for your generation. I knew where I was all of the time.” Lulu chuckles. Picking
up the nozzle, she takes a bottle of aspirin from her pocket. The cap is one of those now old-fashioned, no-childproof tops.
“I need to make some changes. And Randall is a little… impatient.”
“I hope you’re not thinking about that photography business again.” The day Lena completed her acceptance paperwork for UCLA,
John Henry, checkbook in hand, and Lulu stood beside her prepared to pay her tuition on one condition: no photography. They
weren’t about to waste their hard-earned money on frivolity: college was about getting a good job, a nine-to-five-with-an-hour-for-lunch
job, a government job, a GS 12 or 15 job with a pension, vacation, and benefits.
“I
always
took care of my family first.” Lulu jiggles pills straight from the bottle into her mouth, then sips from the nozzle. “Women
have to put up with a man’s moodiness until it runs its course.”
“Maybe Bobbie should get her butt out here and benefit from some of this advice.” Her big sister always says Lena tells their
mother too much.
“It doesn’t apply… and, Bobbie thinks her books are more important than… anything else. Maybe if she listened, she could have
a husband, too.” Lulu holds on to the chair to stand fully upright. “You forget how lucky you are. You’re living the life
I dreamed for you…”
“What can I help you with today? I won’t be able to stay as long as
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