Sprayed Stiff by Laura Bradley

reached for a sixth.
    “Wilma was such a jefe fuerte. I could see how she might make someone mad,” Mama said, pausing to lick honey off her fingertips. “She took no bull, demanded more than people’s best, and expected miracles.”
    “All for a good cause,” I offered diplomatically.
    “I think that was her cover. You can abuse if you do it for the right reasons, no?”
    “The means justify the ends,” Trudy added, nibbling on her second sopapilla.
    “Sí. It was her argument often, as well as that of those who supported her,” Mama added.
    “Who were those who supported her?” I asked, listening carefully now. Esmeralda Tru was nothing if not the best gossip west of the Brazos River. If anyone in San Antonio even thought something, Mama Tru had heard it.
    Mama stood to refill her coffee cup with some freshly ground Kona roast as she answered. “Foundation chairs, nonprofit managers, boards of directors—anyone who benefited from her hardhanded tactics and was above being recruited into the trenches. Now, those girls, they despised her.”
    “Maybe they were just jealous of her power, her money.”
    Mama emitted a “humph.” Trudy sipped her coffee. “Maybe.”
    “Who are they, the ones who hated her?”
    Trudy looked into the depths of her cup. “Library volunteers, hospital candy stripers, animal shelter dog walkers…”
    “Junior Leaguers,” Mama added into Trudy’s silence. Trude flashed her a warning look. What the hell was that all about?
    “I knew Wilma was a bigwig in the Junior League, but I thought it was just another in a long list of projects.”
    “Oh, no. It was her pet project,” Mama Tru clarified, sliding Trudy a look as she did so.
    Trudy was definitely squirming. I raised my eyebrows, and she reluctantly elaborated on Mama’s statement. “Wilma Barrister held the record for being an active member of the Junior League of San Antonio for the most number of years.”
    I narrowed my eyes but continued the line of questioning. “I don’t get it. I know women a lot older than Wilma was who surely joined long before she did and are still in the Junior League.”
    Trudy looked deeply into her now-empty coffee cup again. As she watched her, Mama Tru’s face screwed up in apology. What was she sorry for? I let the silence drag on until Trudy finally felt compelled to fill it. “They would be sustainers. All members of the Junior League have to go through a probationary year where they learn the ropes and make sure they are committed; then the ten years following that they are required to do active community service. After that period, they can go ‘sustainer,’ which means they pay dues, donate items or cash to the rummage sale, and buy tickets to other fund-raisers, but they don’t have to donate their time anymore. Wilma, she never went that route; she maintained her active status from the age of twenty-one until the day she died. Other sustainers donate time, but of their free will. Wilma still held to the active requirements. We never could believe it.”
    “Who is ‘we’?” I jumped on the slip. Mama cringed.
    Trudy blushed and stammered. I’d never seen that happen to my smooth-tongued friend, not ever. “Well, uh…”
    “Oh, Dios mío, Trudy.” Mama put her cup down too hard on the table. “She’s onto you now. Might as well tell her.”
    I stared at my best friend, stunned. I couldn’t believe it. “You were in the Junior League,” I intoned.
    She stared back, acutely embarrassed and vaguely guilty.
    “Is in the Junior League,” Mama corrected.
    I’ve caught a boyfriend or two cheating on me, but this felt worse. Much worse. This was my girlfriend, my best friend, a woman I thought I knew. To find out she was a member of a group I thought was nothing but a bunch of shallow social climbers masquerading as do-gooders seemed the ultimate betrayal. Knowing her upbringing as one of three daughters of an old-money San Antonio family, I shouldn’t have been