Free Officer Elvis by Gary Gusick Page A

They stopped in front of one of Tommy with Darla’s deceased husband, Hugh, taken during Hugh’s football days at Ole Miss. Tommy wore an embroidered fire- engine-red jumpsuit, with matching cape. Hugh was in his Rebels uniform.
    “Well, that’s a shocker,” said Lulu. “No disrespect to the dead, either one, but I thought Hugh Cavannah had better taste.”
    “Hugh was generous that way,” said Darla, remembering his willingness to please his fans. “He’d let anyone take a picture with him. He thought he owed it to them.”
    “Tommy always loved to capitalize on other people’s fame, whenever he could get away with it, the self-aggrandizing little prick,” said Kendall. “Bless his heart.”
    “So, we’re having a
bless his heart
evening, are we?” asked Darla.
    Like most women in northeast Jackson, Kendall adhered to the time-honored tradition of following disparaging remarks about foes—or friends, for that matter—by blessing their heart. The blessing of someone’s heart also had gender-specific social protocols. For a man, it was always simply “bless his heart.” For a woman the preferred wording was “bless her sweet heart,” or one could go a step further and say, “bless her sweet little heart,” or even “bless her pretty little heart.” The reference to “little heart” was not meant as a comment on the woman’s generosity, but rather the delicacy of her nature.
    “Blessing someone’s heart wipes the meanness of what you’re saying off the books,” said Lulu, sticking up for Kendall.
    “Catholics go to priests for that,” said Darla. “We call it confession.”
    “Baptists, we’re more of the DIY type,” said Lulu. “Wash away the sin right on the spot and move on.”
    “This is a streamlined way of dealing with transgressions,” said Darla. “I may have to resort to that if my schedule gets any tighter.”
    “Yeah, give it a try,” said Kendall. “Understand, I’m not a recruiter for any church.”
    “No, I don’t see you that way,” said Darla.
    Kendall’s blunt speech and tendency to employ intemperate language, even in the presence of clergy, had resulted in her ouster from both the Central Methodist and Northwest Baptist congregations.
    Lulu, by contrast, was quite ladylike and was considered a valuable asset to any religious or social group—principally based on her encyclopedic memory for the intimate details of the lives of friends and acquaintances, and her propensity for sharing such.
    Kendall and Lulu were Darla’s closest friends. They’d been there for her when Hugh died. Kendall had invited Darla to stay with her and Lulu had hushed up the local gossip surrounding Hugh’s death. Kendall and Lulu had also been matrons of honor at Darla’s marriage to Stephen.
    The three women stood side by side, surveying the crowded room—a better turnout than most of Tommy’s gigs.
    “I have been doing a head count since I got here,” said Lulu. “I’d say there’s around two hundred, more or less.”
    “Is the number important?” asked Darla.
    “Are you kidding?” said Kendall. “This is Jackson.”
    “Two hundred isn’t really a number you’d be proud of,” said Lulu. “Four or five hundred, those are the kinds of numbers you’re looking for. The price of entry for any kind of social consideration.”
    “I’ll have to bow to your expertise on the subject,” said Darla.
    A funeral aficionado, Lulu was just getting started. “Basically, I see four groups here tonight. The first group are what you would call Tommy’s fan base. See those senior ladies in the pink T-shirts with the words ‘Officer Elvis Forever’ on the front.”
    “Kendall and I are part of the second, smaller group,” Lulu continued, sounding like a tour guide. “We’re mourners by avocation—Southerners who believe attendance is required at all death-related arrangements. The third group, of which you, Darla, would be a member, is the law enforcement