Chapter 4
Four
Waldeen snatched the basket of potatoes from my hands. She set it on the steel countertop and opened the utility closet. “I can no longer ignore the complaints. It’s bad enough the girls are afraid of you, Cussy, but now the guards say they don’t want ya touching their food.”
The words wounded me, and before I could think, I attacked with my own. “My color’s not poisonous. The poison lies in their minds.”
Waldeen slightly raised a brow.
I looked down at my burning hands and rattled off an apology to the supervisor.
She shrugged. “The guards insist, kid. And now that the cast is off, I’m assigning ya to regular cleanup.” She pulled out a mop. “Grab the bucket and fill it. The work will build up that weak arm.”
“I’ll get started right away.” I’d been shunned by everyone but her, called names like blueberry and ink blot and ink stain and grape juice. And I’d glimpsed the fear of most of the women when they saw me passing. Worse, the anger that would light across those distrustful eyes.
Pa’d always said there was a fire in that kind of anger, and those folks had a hard difference in them—one that would burn.
“When you’re done mopping, start washing trays,” Waldeen said quietly.
I looked up at the clock, worried it would be lights out before I could get my first look at the library.
Hours later, Waldeen tapped my shoulder as I finished drying a pot. “It’s nearly nine o’clock. You’ve been cleaning since four. Go open your library.”
Relieved, I untied my apron and placed it under the counter.
“Be back a half hour before dinner,” she reminded.
Only two hours to have the library open. I raced down darkened halls and barreled toward crash gates, tapping a foot while I waited for an officer to unlock them. Once on the other side, I sped past the guard who yelled, “Walk.”
I tucked my head and marched briskly, slowing as I passed the noisy Forensic Ward, then stopped at Geriatrics. I was struck by how a place so quiet could be so loud—the despair was screaming across the elderly women’s eyes.
I picked up my pace, putting the distance between us.
Inside the library, I was surprised to see the room weren’t much bigger than the Outreach Center in Troublesome Creek, where the Pack Horse librarians had housed and logged books.
Four heavily scarred bookshelves held the meager reading material, and weren’t much to it at that.
Torn paperbacks and a dozen hardcovers, with some missing pages and others written in.
There were two shelves full of dusty encyclopedias that looked like they’d never been used, and a brand-new book still in a mailing wrapper marked several months ago.
I pulled it out and placed Charlotte’s Web onto the shelf.
At once, I went to work, cataloging all the reads. After, I sat at the small desk in the corner and typed solicitation letters on the typewriter, then locked up and rushed back to the cafeteria.
Again, I swept and mopped floors, washed down tables, and scrubbed trays, keeping one eye on the clock. I’d put up the last pot when Waldeen called out, “Hold up, Cussy.”
“Waldeen?” I dried my hands, puckered from the hot dishwater, and followed her through the steel butler doors, scanning the clean kitchen, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong.
Waldeen busied herself over at the counter.
“Come get it, kid.” She lifted a tea towel off a tray.
“You didn’t eat breakfast, and now you’re leaving without dinner.
Second rule I have running my kitchen is, treat your girls like precious rubies and they’ll return the gratitude in gold.
A homemade meal of roast beef and real mashed potatoes.
You won’t find this coming from any of them cans of food in the pantry. Eat, kid. Enjoy.”
“Sure smells good,” I said, surprised by my appetite. Lately, I hadn’t had one. No matter how they fixed the meals, I could still taste the metal from the canned foods they used to prepare dishes.
“I always save the best for my hardworking girls. Eat your corn pone while it’s hot. And there’s some fresh banana pudding that Patsy just whipped up.”
I swallowed the last bite of dessert, wiped my mouth with the tail of my apron, and turned toward the cook while I savored the sweet milk and chocolate shavings she’d made it with. “Obliged. It’s delicious.”
“It was Meemaw’s recipe,” Patsy said, adjusting the hairnet over her tiny, black curls while she stood over the stove stirring a pot for supper. She glanced my way, and I thought I glimpsed a kindness in her eyes.
***
In the darkened hall, I fumbled with my library key and pulled on the door, only to have someone behind me open it wider. I spun around, startled to see an older man holding a ladder and wearing a tool belt around his waist. Behind him, the side exit door swung slowly shut.
“Ma’am, I’m Sullivan, from over at the men’s prison.
Call me Buttermilk. Warden Sanders asked me to change out the burned light bulbs overhead, offer any assistance you might need.
” He looked at me curiously, taking in my color, then wrestled the ladder across the threshold, swinging a leg awkwardly as he walked.
“Cussy Lovett. Nice to meet you, Buttermilk. Without any windows in here, we could sure use the light.” I stood back as he carried the ladder and a toolbox inside, noting his prison overalls and the identification pinned to his bib pocket as he passed.
The man rested the ladder against a wall, then opened boxes of light bulbs and set them carefully on the table. Occasionally, I’d glance over my shoulder while arranging books on the shelves.
After a bit, he said, “As quiet as you are, I take it you didn’t come by your name honestly.” Buttermilk stole a peek while I snuck a last one of my own. He picked up a bulb, examining it.
“No, sir. I’m named after my great-grandpa’s village over in Cussy, France.
Originally sounded like Coo see. But somewhere along the way to the ol’ Kaintuck mountains, the translation got lost and became Cuss with a y.
Though I remember Pa saying more than once I’d earned the name and driven him to nothing but with my willful mind. ”
He chortled, his friendly eyes teasing. “I come by mine honestly, and the prison treats me to a glass every night. Cussy, France, is close to where I was shot and ended up with this dead leg.” He pointed down to his foot.
A metal rod ran up his work boot, disappearing under his britches.
“Not far from Normandy, where I fought during the war in the airborne division at Utah Beach.”
I stared at him with admiration, wondering what transgression had landed this brave soldier in prison.
“Met a nice chap over there, and we shared a hearty supper at a pub on several evenings. Smart man. Looked like you,” he said casually.
“I wonder if he’s related to my kin who claimed a land grant in Kaintuck in the 1800s.”
“Never said.” Buttermilk gestured to the table. “Let’s get those bulbs changed out. Jolie bleue Mademoiselle Coosee, la fille de la montagne.”
I looked at him, slowly picking through his words, trying to remember the childhood French lessons Mama had taught me. Stumped, I mangled the language, and he laughed.
“Pretty blue Miss Coosee, the mountain girl,” he said and then repeated it slower in French.
“Pretty blue mountain girl. Jolie bleue fille de la montagne,” I parroted several times. It had been a long time since I’d heard my name connected to such, and a smile budded as I couldn’t help being grateful for his kind words and friendly manner.
“Warden Sanders says to let me know if you need anything else.” He pulled the ladder from the wall and placed it under a busted bulb. I kept a strong hold on the rail, worrying about the wobbly ladder and his bad leg as he slowly inched up the rungs.
Beside books and bookshelves, there weren’t really nothing more that I needed. I studied his ladder, remembering how the Pack Horse librarians had fastened the old wooden ones onto the Center’s walls for extra shelves.
When he finished, I asked, “Would you have any old ladders the prison no longer uses? When I was a Pack Horse librarian back home, we used them for shelving.”
The man rubbed his chin, thinking.
“If I could get a few, I could hang them on the walls.”
“Let me see what we have over in the carpentry building. Might be able to round something up.”
“I’ll put them to good use.”
“You’ll want to wait a bit; Warden Alton has promised your warden that he’ll loan some of his men to paint your library as soon as we get more volunteers.”
I studied him, trying to decide whether I should ask him something else. When he looked at me questioningly, I dared. “I wonder if you might know my husband housed over there with you?”
“Who might that be, Mademoiselle Coosee?”
“Jackson Lovett.”
He turned away to pack up his toolbox, rearranging the tools just so.
I prayed I hadn’t overstepped.
Then: “I’ve met the young man. He’s doing fine.
I’ll give him your regards and let him know his jolie woman is safe.
Landed herself a fitting job. Gotta go, Coosee.
Transport will be waiting. I’ll be back tomorrow to install the busted wall outlet if it comes in from the hardware store.
Get your ladders to you as soon as I can.
Good evening, jolie bleue Coosee, la fille de la montagne. ” He hobbled out the door.
“Pretty blue mountain girl,” I said and repeated it in French, remembering librarian Mr. Taft from home once telling me, God saved the best color for His home. Then he’d pointed to the blue sky and back to me and said, “He must’ve had Himself a little left over.”
For the first time since my arrival at the prison, I felt joy.
I closed the door and pressed my back against it, grateful for Buttercup’s news on my husband.
Jackson was okay and would find out I was too.
Finally, there would be a way to get word to him, and I wondered if I could be bold enough to ask Buttermilk to pass a note to Jackson. Somehow I’d have to try.
I typed five more letters full of pleas for books and addressed envelopes to leave with a guard. After I dusted the shelves and organized the material, I stood behind the desk, waiting for my first patron.
Waited and waited while the second hand on the institutional clock kicked into the steady, impatient taps of my feet.