Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Monday morning found Daisy sharing my pillow, whistling snores against the back of my head.
I carefully untangled a paw from my hair and moved her away as I sat up, trying to adjust to my new surroundings.
Mrs. Claxton cracked open the door. When she saw Daisy on the bed, she chided, “Law, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.
She won’t have a thing to do with any of my guests, and now look at her, cozying in your bed.
Daisy. Daisy, get your hairy bottom down.
Now. You have the rug over there. Stop being a pest.”
“Ma’am, I don’t mind. She’s good company.”
Daisy slunk off the covers and back over to her rug. She peered up at me and thumped her tail, an elvish grin stretching across her snaggletoothed mouth.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Mrs. Claxton invited. “I thought I’d let you sleep in on your first day.”
It was going on six thirty, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept past four a.m. Feeling lazy, I guiltily hurried to dress.
At eight thirty, Mrs. Claxton brought in three bottles of milk and two loaves of bread left by the dairy and bread trucks before we headed for the library. “He forgot to take the empties again,” she said.
I stood at the front door, inspecting the empty glass bottles she’d left behind. I’d read about it many times, that you could get such riches delivered directly to city doors, but seeing it actually happen on Mrs. Claxton’s porch was a wonderment that left me dumbfounded.
In the hot days of summer, the milk would be curdled and bread moldy before they ever found my cabin door in Troublesome Creek or our home in Thousandsticks. I scooped up her newspaper and followed her back inside.
“We’ll walk to the library today,” Mrs. Claxton said as she grabbed a brown sack and her shiny, bulky pocketbook, then stepped outside. “It’s only a little over two miles, and the fresh air will do us both good.”
Several times, I gawked at the folks bustling to and fro on the sidewalks in their business suits and stylish dresses. Boxy city buses whizzed past, crowded in between the blaring horns of black automobiles with their sloped tails and sleek, long-nosed bonnets sporting polished ornaments.
Mrs. Claxton led us west on East Washington, stopping to call out each street name.
“Cussy, we’re going to slip onto Hancock and then over to Main.
Then down Liberty and over to Ninth Street, where we’ll jump over to Tenth.
Remember, the library’s address is on South Tenth Street—604 South Tenth, to be exact.
Okay? I want you to learn the way in case I’m not here or you get lost.”
I turned the directions over in my mind, stopping to look up at the street sign at each crossing. “All those names. Never seen so many streets in my life, Mrs. Claxton. Why, it’s a wonder anyone ever makes it anywhere in this big maze.”
When I stepped down off the curb, she yanked me back just as an automobile blasted its horn and whizzed past.
“Chile, always look up and down the street for vehicles before crossing. You almost gave me a heart attack.” She pressed a hand to her chest.
The July heat and fuel mingled with smoking factories, businesses, and people scurrying with the energy of panther bees twitching for their next meal. More than once, I stopped to stare up at the tall brick buildings soldiered above us. Many times, I jumped at a blaring horn.
Ahead, two policemen escorted an unkempt man wearing tattered britches and a dirty shirt toward their official automobile. I looked at Mrs. Claxton, questioning his crime.
“A vagrant.”
“Because he’s poor, ma’am?”
“It’s a crime to be poor here, chile.”
There had been many such living through the Depression, and not just in Kaintuck but across the country.
My patrons, like the small schoolboy Henry, who’d starved and perished along with his whole family.
It struck me that the law would’ve had to jail all of Troublesome, and I shook my head at the idea of being shackled in ball and chains because of being hungry, poor.
We came to a giant yard full of children, and I paused at the iron fence to watch. “A playground just for young’uns,” I whispered in awe and pressed a palm to my belly, wishing such a place for the babe, worrying if my child would even have the chance to take a first breath.
“That’s our public park and playground. During the summers, it fills up early.”
“Only read about these in the newspapers. Weren’t nothing like it for the young’uns in Troublesome.”
“Yes, but we did have the forests and creeks,” she reminded.
The girls wore store-bought summer dresses, ruffled anklet socks poking out of patent leather shoes, and skipped past boys in short trousers and shirts.
Several stood on the ladder of a tall slide, waiting for a turn to speed down the slick metal ride.
A group of boys shot marbles on a square patch of concrete.
Still others climbed on connected iron bars, crawled across, swung, and dangled upside down.
Laughter rang out, and I turned toward the swings.
A boy and girl swung in harmony as they drove their legs, trying to climb faster and faster to the sky.
The swing set’s poles lifted terrifyingly off the ground, and the young’uns shrieked happily and pumped their lil limbs harder.
Behind us, a horn honked.
Mrs. Claxton waved to the people in the automobile before turning back to me.
“You sure know a lot of folks, ma’am.”
“We’re all close down here in this small part of the city.”
After they’d passed, the librarian said, “This must be your first time in Louisville. I was the same way when we arrived from Fishtrap. Only now the horse and buggies are long gone, replaced by noisy motor cars and more people.”
“I’ve only been to Lexington and Knoxville. But everyone pointed and gawked at me. Here, they don’t even notice,” I said, astonished.
“A good thing. And you’re in for a treat. If you think this is busy, wait till you see our bustling Walnut Street.” She looked over the playground approvingly and moved us along.
Again, I paused and pulled to the rumbles of tires shuddering under my feet. I looked down at the concrete.
“That’s the siren call of our business district, Walnut Street,” she teased and stamped a foot. “But we’ll need to save that for later and take the shortcuts.”
We waited at a stoplight, and I noticed a big blue steel box on the corner that had the word LETTERS on it. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen it before in any pictures, but couldn’t remember.
Mrs. Claxton saw me staring and asked, “Are these in Troublesome yet?”
“Ain’t heard of any getting installed.”
“They’re on street corners all over Louisville. It’s where you mail your letters.” She stepped off the sidewalk, ready to cross.
I looked back over my shoulder several times at the spectacle, wondering what Postmaster Bill back home would think about having them all over the hills, studying on how he would keep the raccoons and other critters from nesting in them.
Thirty minutes later we stopped in front of the stately library, the Western Colored Branch. It was a massive square building with handsome stone masonry and decorative columns of brick between large windows.
Inside the double doors, I read the sign above two other doors: Knowledge Is Power.
“Here we are,” she announced proudly. “Over there to the left, Cussy, is the newspaper alcove, my office, and the children’s room.”
“It’s a beautiful library.” I crossed to a shelf that held a silver trophy.
“Now that”—she pointed—“is from Kentucky’s first Negro poet, Joseph Cotter. He used to have an annual storytelling contest for the young people. After he passed, we continued the tradition.”
“Right nice tradition, ma’am.”
“Over here we’ve got our magazine area, a study room, and the adult room. Behind is our staff kitchen.” We walked into the room, and she placed her sack inside the icebox.
“I could never imagine a library as grand as this one. And one with its own kitchen,” I said quietly, mesmerized by all the finery the city held, knowing that most cabins back home could fit inside this kitchen.
She went on as we returned to the large room, “The high school children have the Douglas Debate Club room back here.” I followed as she led us through yet another door. It was spacious and warmly furnished with walnut floors and wall panels.
She motioned me over to a stand that held a copy of a book under its glass dome.
“This was the very first book checked out of our library in 1908,” she said proudly.
“It’s something else.” I peered at the gold letters stamped across the red book, Up from Slavery: An Autobiography by Booker T. Washington. Over fifty years old, and it was still in near-perfect condition.
Mrs. Claxton crossed to more shelves. “We have an extensive collection of Negro works.”
“So many books, ma’am.”
“The students debate important issues like women’s rights, the influence of women and how they’ve contributed more to the world than men, and whether Lincoln was a greater American than Washington.
We also train them to speak in public. It can get mighty lively in here during the school year,” she said, raising a brow as she closed the door.
An older Negro gentleman came up to us and tipped his hat to me. “Ma’am, ’scuse me. Mrs. Claxton, sorry to interrupt, but the paper’s late again.”
“I’ll call on Steven at once, Mr. Wilson.
” When he left, Mrs. Claxton said, “Our paperboy is having some problems at home. We’ll need to check in on him.
Let’s see, what else? Oh, we currently have 12,978 registered as borrowers.
You just met Mr. Wilson. He’s one of our oldest patrons and has been with us since the Carnegie Library fully opened. ”
“Almost thirteen thousand?”
“We stay busy acquiring the latest for the community.”