Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
I stepped out into the sunshine and steadied my nerves, closing my eyes to feel the heat on my face, the scents of lavender and lemongrass and surrounding farmlands inviting.
Sam nudged me to the back of the automobile.
Behind the steering wheel, he rattled keys, then reached for the ignition.
“The drive to the city shouldn’t take long.
If I hurry, I’ll be back in time for my slippers, a sip of Old Crow, and my missus’s fine Sunday supper,” he said, talking to fill the silence between us, and more to himself.
I inhaled the stingy breezes coming from his window on the hot July day and studied on what lay ahead.
Sam’s prattle drifted and soon dissolved as I let my thoughts wander.
We rode along the bumpy road until it opened wider into a smoother two-lane, the thrum of the big tires soothing. I turned to stare out at the farmlands and painted clapboards guarding rows of corn. Horses and cows grazed in pastures bordered by white fencing for miles.
Weren’t long before I could see the big city in the far distance, the tops of buildings budding in the sky as we got closer.
Soon, the streets became fatter and crawled with automobiles, trucks, and buses.
There were so many rose-brick buildings pinched in, it was hard to see where one began or ended.
Sam turned on the radio, and the announcer reported the latest news about the polio deaths, prices of grain, before moving on to the weather.
The station played several songs. Minutes later, the newsman broke in to confirm Sassyann’s upcoming execution, telling the listeners, “The Black Widow’s execution is scheduled July seventh at 6:01 a.m.”
Just two days from now.
Excited, he went on to say it would be the first execution of a woman in Kentucky in more than one hundred years. Sam mumbled a curse and switched off the radio, leaving me grateful for the silence.
Saddened, I leaned my head against the window, hoping our lessons had been a respite.
The Sunday city flagged its welcome, the rumbling of distant horn blasts and tired pumping factories preparing for the next week ahead. A slumbering buzz crawled across the waiting pavements.
I reckoned even cities got the Lord’s Day off.
Sam mumbled something about missing a street sign, cursed the city streets, then turned us around and headed in a different direction, taking a sharp right onto a side street, followed by more confusing turns and grumblings.
A small headache grabbed hold, and I stretched my neck toward the front windshield, taking in glimpses of the big town, bustling folks, and passing automobiles.
At a stoplight, I stared out at a church. Fancy cityfolk wearing hats and store-bought dresses and suits idled on church steps, their smiles and nods whispering gossipy news and invites.
Soon, Sam slowed down on East Washington Street.
It was dotted with a row of neatly lined, narrow brick homes with striking-green patches of grass protected by wrought-iron fencing.
A dozen or so years ago, I’d read about these shotgun houses, their history mirrored to New Orleans.
They looked prettier than the photographs that had accompanied the article.
It was said the homes got their name because you could fire a shotgun clean from the front door and it would go clear out the back entry, with nary a lamp or saltshaker disturbed.
But it noted some of the shotguns were also built with their front doors purposely hitched and not aligned with the other doors in the house to scare away the bad spirits hankering to slip in.
Sam parked between two black automobiles.
I walked up the small steps with him close on my heels.
The guard reached over my shoulder and knocked loudly on the door.
The older Negro couple who opened the door seemed somewhat surprised by our visit. And I worried what the warden had told them about me.
Sam took a step closer. They stared at me for an uncomfortable moment, until I feared they would shriek, turn me back over to the officer, and slam the door in my face.
They were a handsome couple and still had on their fine church clothes. Mrs. Claxton’s hair was neatly coiffed in short, tight peppered curls flecked with gray, and her husband wore a trimmed beard in white that didn’t match his dark, cropped hair.
I braved what I hoped was a friendly smile.
Finally, the reverend said, “Cussy Lovett, huh?” He raised a brow.
“Yes, sir. Cussy Lovett, Book Woman, at your service.” I hugged the pillow sack of possessions closer to my chest. “I can do just about anything concerning the books, sir, ma’am. Bind, scrapbook, and grow readers.” I shifted the pillow to my hip and tried not to squirm.
The guard cleared his throat. “Well, if there’s anything else you need, just telephone the prison. Warden said she’ll check in with you daily at the library, Mrs. Claxton. I’ll be back next Sunday afternoon about two.”
Reverend Claxton opened the door in a wider welcome and said, “Strange name for a young lady. And it better not be because of a bitter tongue, or I’ll be taking my Effie’s pine-tar soap to scrub out any devil sass in your mouth.” His face spread into a friendly tease.
Mrs. Claxton laughed and patted his arm. “Don’t scare away the chile, Jed.”
“Her papers are all here.” Sam passed them over my shoulder and bid the couple a good day, eager for his bourbon and supper.
Reverend raised a finger. “Mind ya, my wife’s soap is a lot stronger than any buttermilk lavender. Miss Cussy Lovett, pine tar will strip the hairy demons right off any wicked tongue.”
I nodded, knowing it would do just that from the homemade soaps Mama used to make. Somehow it was comforting. There was a familiarity with these folks, and I was suddenly curious and looking forward to the furlough.
With that, Mrs. Claxton said, “Come in, fellow Book Woman. We’ve been expecting you.”
Grateful for the warm welcome, I stepped inside on worn puncheon floorboards, noting the scattered hook rugs and clutching the small pillowcase of my belongings as I glimpsed the furnishings of my first city home.
A Bible sat on the seat of a corner walnut hall tree holding a gentleman’s fedora like the ones I’d seen in magazines.
Several umbrellas with carved wooden handles rested in its attached wrought-iron circle.
A large bookcase covered one wall brimming with books.
“Have a seat on the Chesterfield,” the reverend said as the couple sat down in matching wingback chairs across from me.
I sank down on a worn, velvety crimson sofa and scooted next to its fat arm, feeling small, waiting for the bark of orders.
Mrs. Claxton lifted the lid off a pretty glass candy dish and offered me a piece of Chicken Bones. Jackson was fond of the little nuggets toasted in coconut and filled with honeycombed peanut butter, always insisting he stop at the general store near the Tennessee and Kentucky state line.
I thanked her and dropped it into my sack for later.
“Where’s home, chile?” Mrs. Claxton inquired.
When I answered Troublesome Creek, surprise lifted in her eyes. “Reverend and I are from Pike County. Around Fishtrap. Do you know it? We moved to Louisville in 1905. Isn’t that so, Jedidiah?”
That was the familiarity I’d picked up on. “Never been to Fishtrap. But Pike County sure is a place of beauty. Your home’s something else, too, ma’am.” I brushed my palm across the deep-buttoned armrest, felt the soft teeth of velvet tickle my hand.
“A far cry from those Kentucky hills we’re rooted to.” Mrs. Claxton smiled, her eyes kind and friendly.
They were hillfolk, and for the first time since this morn’, I felt my spine ease itself out of the day’s uncertainty, the soft tug of stiff shoulders relaxing.
Then Reverend Claxton lifted a cold pipe from an ashtray, placed the tail in his mouth but never lit it. “We were told you were healthy?”
“Yes, sir.” I willed myself to remain calm. Stop the rise of color that would leave him doubting or, worse, fearful. Their home was lovely, quiet, and I was suddenly grateful for the short respite away from prison walls. It would be good for the baby. Me. “I’m healthy, sir.”
He considered this, and I could tell he wanted to know just how healthy.
“It’s only a color, Reverend. It’s not catching,” I said quietly, hoping to ease any discomfort they might be feeling—to escape the sudden worry crawling back over me.
Suddenly, his face spread into a widening grin as he reached over to pick up his Louisville Times newspaper.
“Now, wouldn’t that be something if a feller could catch color.
Imagine it would be quite a different world walking in all them shoes.
” He wagged his head at the thought. “Effie will show you to our indoor facilities, where you can clean up before Sunday dinner.”
I followed her through the middle room. Their bedroom was spacious, and the bed snugged a papered floral wall with side tables holding electric lamps flanking it. A pretty chenille bedspread rested atop the mattress, tucked around fat pillows.
On the opposite wall, a fireplace fixed with a fancy bronze summer cover of an etching of a lady in a flowing gown surrounded by garlands waited for colder weather.
The mantel held a photograph of the Claxtons holding a little girl, another of a married couple, and one of a young woman.
A dark wooden armoire covered most of the wall next to their bed.
“That’s my daughter, Vesta. She married and moved way out to California but visits occasionally.
” Mrs. Claxton beamed. “And this one here is my niece, Susan.” She lifted the photograph and showed it to me.
The smiling woman wore a nurse’s uniform.
“Her parents live down in Fishtrap, and the chile has always been like a second daughter to me. When Susan came to Louisville for her nursing studies, she stayed with us. We used to have us a Murphy bed in the living room where the bookcases are now.”
I could see the strong resemblance. “She’s a lovely woman and looks just like you, ma’am.”
“Susan comes over every Sunday when she’s not working at the hospital. She’s the nursing director,” Mrs. Claxton said proudly and brushed her sleeve over the glass and placed the frame back on the mantel. “They sure keep her hopping, but the next two Sundays, she’s off, and you’ll get to meet her.”
She moved over to the chest of drawers. “Don’t reckon you will with the weather being so hot, but there’s some quilts in the bottom if you get a chill.”
My gaze landed on the ornate hand-carved box with a glass lid atop the heavy piece of furniture. Inside, two death crowns rested on a sky-blue velvet lining. Mrs. Claxton pointed. “Those angel crowns were passed down to me and are from Mother and Grandma’s pillows.”
I pressed my lips together. Time would only reveal the prophecy of mine in Thousandsticks. For now, I was alive despite the demise of my freedom. But what about tomorrow? My husband and daughter? The babe?
“No doubt the angels took them straight to heaven.” She patted the box.
I was surprised. Not about the death crowns, as my kin called them, but that a reverend’s wife would take to such superstition.
As if hearing my thoughts, Mrs. Claxton said, “I believe He sends messages of comfort to those left behind.” She ran a gnarled finger alongside the framework.
She was hillfolk, and I know’d our people would proudly display the crowns discovered in homes after a loved one had passed.
It was believed if you found a hard lump of the feathers knitted in the shape of a halo inside the deceased’s pillow, an angel had greeted the loved one upon death and spirited them to heaven.
Most claimed if you found double crowns inside, it took two angels to carry the person to heaven. Others believed that discovering the wreath of feathers for some less-deserving folks meant their sins had been forgiven.
Still, some held the notion that if you found the knotted halo inside a living person’s pillow, death was near.
I’d checked Mama’s pillow immediately after, only to find nothing.
But then two weeks before Pa passed, I was changing his pillow slip and felt a lump inside and ripped it open.
My hands had trembled as I inspected the perfectly formed wreath.
Frightened, I’d burned the crown, pillow, and its tick down by the creek, then examined his new one daily until the night of the mine accident.
I’d kept the latest one of Pa’s locked in my trunk after his passing.
I fidgeted with my pillow stuffed with the prison belongings.
As if sensing my unease, Mrs. Claxton said, “Where are my manners. Let’s get you unpacked and freshened up before dinner, Cussy.”
Relieved, I followed her as she moved us into the kitchen. A pot of greens simmered atop the stove, and a shiny griddle and jar of hog fat rested beside it.
Clean white cupboards hung on the wall. A Maytag wringer washer on wheels shouldered a fat stove beside a bowlegged standing icebox.
I gawked at the machine’s wizardry and then turned to the rose-patterned dishes.
They were placed neatly on an inviting large table circled by four wooden chairs, awaiting lazy talks that come after a satisfying meal.
How I missed those with Jackson. Lingering in the kitchen with each other, making easy talk about the land, the critters, and the latest news he’d bring home from town before the daily chores swept us back to the drudgery of work.
Mrs. Claxton motioned me to the right, where a narrow door was recessed into a wall, and said, “We’ve had plumbing for years now. You can freshen up in there.” She reached for my sack. “I’ll just put this on the sleeping porch. Susan should be here any minute.”
I hurried inside, wondering what the nurse would think of me—fretted if Susan would try to pry and poke at me like all the doctors and nurses had done over the years.