Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
A lady closer to my age rose from the kitchen chair and extended her hand. “I’m Susan. Nice to meet you, Cussy. I was just telling Aunt Effie I’ve never been to Troublesome, nor met another like you in my nursing career.”
I dared not touch her hand and risk offending her. Instead, I offered a smile and mumbled a pleased to meet you.
Mrs. Claxton said, “Have a seat, Cussy. Susan’s very interested in medicine and knows more than most of those biggety-britched doctors she works alongside.”
The nurse’s eyes were gentle, and I was pulled to her kind face like Mrs. Claxton’s. “It’s called methemoglobinemia, ma’am.”
“Please call me Susan,” she insisted.
Curious, she asked about my doctor’s diagnosis of methemoglobinemia and the drug methylene blue, which makes me turn white.
“We’ve never seen this deep of coloring at the hospital,” she said, wanting to hear more. “In all my twelve years of nursing, it has escaped us here in the city.”
Hesitant, I slowly told her about Pa and my other kinfolk who had it. How my great-grandpa had come over from France to claim a land deed in the early 1880s.
“And you say he was a Blue like you but married a Kentucky woman who was white, and that they had the same genes…and no ailments.” She paused to marvel at the wonder, and I appreciated her thoughtfulness on the matter.
“None. We’re fit. Strong enough when left alone.”
Mrs. Claxton and Susan bobbed their heads in unison.
Susan said, “It’s an interesting disorder to have.
Downright fascinating, Cussy. Thank you.
I’ve seen the methylene blue drug used for heart patients and for cyanide poisoning and other lung ailments—for those coming in looking slightly blue—but never knew your coloring could also be congenital methemoglobinemia.
But again, I’ve never once seen a patient with your coloring. ”
“The drug does terrible things to me. Headaches and nausea something fierce.”
“And I’m guessing that’s why you remain blue.” She jumped up. “Oh, Aunt Effie, let me get those serving dishes down from the cupboard for you.”
“Now, chile, you run yourself ragged over there at General Hospital; you just sit and enjoy your Sunday dinner and visit with our guest.” Mrs. Claxton caught my eye. In a flash I saw I was only a guest. Not an inmate and nothing more.
After a meal of catfish, wilted greens, slaw, and blackberry cobbler, I helped the women wash the dishes, then set about to mop her kitchen floor, slipping back into my routine of prison work.
As I knelt, Mrs. Claxton took the rag from my hand, pulled me up, and said quietly, “We didn’t bring you here to wear you out. ” She placed a hand on my shoulder.
At this, the busy day rubbed at my nerves, and I felt the sting of unshed tears.
It had been a long time since I’d received a heartfelt welcome from strangers—an eternity since I’d felt I belonged somewhere.
I ached for the hillwomen back home. Ol’ Loretta, my sassy elderly patron, had been such a blessing to me and got me through my toughest times. Mrs. Claxton reminded me of her.
I mumbled an apology for taking over her kitchen.
Susan kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I have a four a.m. shift, Auntie, so I need to get home to bed. Cussy, I hope to see you next week.” She squeezed my arm and left me gawping, unable to voice a proper goodbye.
She weren’t scared nor scarred by my color none.
Didn’t feel the need to inspect me, poke, or pry.
“That reminds me, Susan, Cussy’s leaving next Sunday, so come a bit earlier for dinner and you can see her off.
” Mrs. Claxton walked her to the door and returned to the kitchen, where she chatted about Susan’s hospital duties and busy schedule.
By the time we’d stacked the last dish back into the cupboards, it was growing late.
Satisfied that everything was in order, she led me to the back of the house.
“Since we only have the one bedroom, I try to make the sleeping porch comfortable for guests and my daughter when she visits. Do you have children, Cussy?”
“I have a girl who’s a teen. Her name’s Honey.”
“Sweet name, and if she’s as polite as her mama, I bet she honors it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure proud of her; she’s taken over my old Pack Horse librarian route, delivering books in Troublesome’s hills.”
“A young librarian with an important job,” Mrs. Claxton said admiringly.
“We had some hardworking Pack Horse librarians here in Jefferson County near the Jefferson Memorial Forest and other outskirts of our city. But that’s been years now.
I do remember two of those librarians who still send Christmas cards—an Arlene Sahraie; the other, Letty Garza.
They visited us at Western and made quite the impression on my librarians. ”
While she chatted, I followed her into the airy screened-in porch, an overhead fan cooling the room, licking at my skin.
She pulled down a rattan shade and jerked it up again.
“Use the blinds if you need more privacy or the rain blows; sometimes city summers are unpredictable like that.” A narrow iron bed was tucked to the side closest to the door.
Several blouses, dark navy skirts, and black stockings had been draped over the footboard.
On the pillowcase was a carefully folded nightgown and light robe. I picked it up, brushed the silky cotton across my cheek, examined the delicate trimmed lace on the arms and neckline. “It’s sure beautiful.”
“That old thing. Why, it should be in my rag bin. Hope it all fits.” She was pleased, and the comforts and care she’d tendered warmed me.
“When I spoke with your warden, I asked about your size. Another of my nieces ran these over yesterday. Comfortable summer skirts. So you can just pack up that dress”—she pointed to me—“and any you brought along. You’re our librarian now, not a prisoner.
” The woman held up the linen skirt, pushed it against mine, studying, cocking her head from side to side.
The hem rested at mid-calf and had been carefully pressed.
“Looks like it’ll fit right fine, if not a bit snug.” She looked up at me, and for a second I glimpsed something strange, then she washed it away and began humming, studying the skirt again.
Did this wise ol’ woman somehow guess I was carrying? Ol’ Loretta know’d everything, it seemed, and most times before I did. Maybe Mrs. Claxton also had the gift of grannying in her Kentucky bones. “I’ll take good care of the clothing, ma’am.” I took the skirt and blushed, grateful.
“You should be fine here,” she commented, her eyes scanning the porch.
“It’s perfect.” To finally be outside in the fresh air brought a comfort like no other.
An oscillating motor fan rested on a low table beside the bed, swirling the occasional breeze while an electric hand-painted hurricane lamp perched beside it. I admired the fancy pink roses and green leaves painted on the lamp’s glass.
“It was Mother’s favorite,” Mrs. Claxton noted. “She loved to sit by it and write her poetry. She always yearned to be published one day.”
“My Honey loves the poetry, too, ma’am.”
Two wicker chairs were arranged on the opposite side with a small table holding a six-welled glass ashtray between them. She smoothed down the soft feed-sack quilt on the bed. “Mother made this for me when I got married.”
I bent over and admired the tight stitching. “It’s a fine quilt.” It reminded me of the sugar-sack quilts Loretta sewed back home.
“You should sleep comfortable enough. I just pulled the linens from the clothesline after church services.” She looked around and pressed down the bodice on her pale-violet dress, as if trying to remember everything. “If you can’t sleep, you can help yourself to a book in the parlor.”
“I’d like that.”
Turning toward the yard, I peered out, soaking up the summer breeze. My newfound freedom. It was as electrifying as the city lights buzzing under the streetlamps around me. I itched to toss off my clunky shoes and drab prison garb and run circles around her yard in my assigned prison slip.
But I didn’t dare.
The grass was neatly trimmed, and a blond-and-white pup lounged under a tree.
Geraniums, fist-size zinnias, and showy pink ladies circled a concrete birdbath, while several blue snowball bushes and climbing roses hugged the iron fence around the yard.
A long clothesline ran along one side, an empty basket at the bottom of one pole forgotten.
“That’s Daisy under the Kentucky coffee tree.”
“I’ve never seen a dog like her.”
“She’s what they call a Welsh Corgi. Nine years ago, Vesta gave me the pup for Christmas.
Now, when we first moved here, I planted the tree in memory of my great-grandmother Eliza, who was part Shawnee.
A reminder to keep the dead who breathed life into us living.
” The librarian called for her dog, and it stretched and ambled to the door, its stubby legs lightly making their way.
“I don’t like her barking after dark and disturbing the neighbors.
The old girl sleeps over in the corner. You won’t know she’s there. ” Mrs. Claxton pointed to Daisy’s rug.
I looked out at the cluster of homes surrounding the Claxtons’.
Heard the rumbles of automobile engines and horns.
The laddering voices of nearby folks and children at play.
Weren’t no way Daisy could possibly be louder than that.
Back home, you could hear a leaf fall, and I worried if this city would let a person sleep.
“Thank you for the delicious supper and fine furnishings, Mrs. Claxton.”
“I’ll let Reverend know. The men caught the fish in the Ohio River early this morn’ before church services.” I could see she was itching to talk more. Then: “If you’re up to it, I’d like to have a few more words with you about your library duties before you retire for the evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We can sit over here.” She moved to the wicker chairs. “You’ll be working in the children’s room with me. Most attend the nearby school and read well.”
For the next few minutes, we talked about favorite children’s books, the conversation peeling off the day’s nerves. And I could see it righted hers also.
“One of my biggest concerns is getting the parents to read. We need more of my kind who can read and write. If we can just get them to learn, they could contribute more to the community. Vote.”
“Maybe I can help, ma’am.” An idea latched hold, and I turned it over in my mind.
“Now, wouldn’t that be something of a miracle.” She stood. “You’ll be compensated forty-five cents a day. I’m afraid it’s all the library has in the budget currently.”
“Ma’am, a few stamps to write my daughter would be payment enough if you can spare them.” I dared not write to Jackson after what had happened, and what awaited me back in the prison.
“We can do both. Get some rest.”
When she left, I slipped out into the yard under the coffee tree. Lifted my face to the sprays of leaflets heavy with leathery reddish pods, inhaling the earthy scent of the yard.
Freedom.
Unlike the prison’s countryside, the city was soaked with a mixture of haze, smoke-belching engines, busy life, and the spent energies of a busier day. The sun was setting, and around me I could see the glow of towering streetlamps.
I trailed my fingers over a pod and looked below. The thick grass was covered in coffee tree seeds, and I plucked one up.
Tearing apart a leathery shell, I jiggled a couple of the brown seeds in my hand. Maybe Mrs. Claxton would let me borrow a needle and thread so I could make Honey a necklace for her birthday.
I stood still, wrapped in the city rhythm, watching soft, golden lamps come to life behind shade-pulled windows, the hawkish cries and clatters of the city falling and fading like a mewling babe fussing against sleep.
Back inside, I washed up, then returned to the sleeping porch. Content, I peeled off my heavy shoes and slipped into Mrs. Claxton’s gown, eased down onto the bed, and closed my eyes, cocooned in safe shelter for the moment.
Daisy jumped onto the bottom of the bed, sniffed my ankle, and rested her chin there. Shortly, the lil dog snugged up alongside me and lay her head on my belly.
Suddenly, I felt a weak flutter. Daisy jerked her head up, noticing it too. She peered down, tilting her face from side to side.
In awe, I pulled up the cotton gown and stared at the naked flesh on my belly, the babe stealing my heart.
Gently, Daisy poked and sniffed me, then flattened her chin atop my small, rounding belly.
I smiled, thinking of Junia. How the sweet beast always sponged up my worries.
Daisy looked up at me with big, doleful eyes. I ran my hands over her head, ruffling her furry face. She released her own sputtered worries in a long, bumpy sigh.
The baby was safe.
I needed to rest to keep us safe.
I sank deeper into the comfortable mattress, my breaths easy and relaxed for the first time in a long time.
From the kitchen, I could hear the rise and fall of the Claxtons’ voices, reminding me of my parents and their nightly kitchen-table conversations, which would soothe and lull me to sleep when I was young.
Outside, the lilt of child-song carried down streets as tired mothers corralled their young’uns under starless city skies. Somewhere, the ribboned trill of a cricket protested, pulling me home toward the piney woods of Troublesome.
Wriggling my toes, I stretched under the scent of oily city breezes skittering across the washed cotton linens under my chin, a gentle nod culling my worries.
Weren’t long before the city noises cobbled across the final lullaby of a child’s laughter, lifting memories of Honey. Daisy’s snores climbed into the whirs of a tottering fan, and the fat, deep hours of sleep came calling.