Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
I knocked on the door of a cream-colored clapboard, the home neat and tidy. When no one answered, I rolled the flier and stuffed it between the doorjamb and knob.
Mrs. Claxton had me leave several inside the cast-iron mailboxes on porches. “A neighbor or schoolchild can read it to them,” she said.
We stopped on the sidewalk at another house. It was a two-story, a lot bigger than most, and the curtains were drawn. But when I reached for the latch on the ornate gate, Mrs. Claxton grabbed my arm.
“Ma’am, is something wrong? Are you all right, Mrs. Claxton?”
The woman stepped closer to me and whispered, “I’m not sure we should stop here.”
Puzzled, I glanced up at the home.
Her voice dropped lower, and I had to press my good ear closer to her mouth.
“Miss Johnna’s brothel,” she barely whispered. “A house of ill repute.”
I wondered what Mrs. Claxton would think about Waldeen.
“We had us one in Troublesome,” I remarked.
“Stitched high in the hills. There was a young librarian who started working with the Pack Horse project right before I left. The girl weren’t but fifteen.
The brothel was in her assigned territory, but the supervisor ordered her not to put the occupants on her route. ”
“What happened?”
“The child did the opposite.”
Mrs. Claxton cackled, and I laughed with her.
“Those women up in the cathouse ended up being the library’s biggest donors—funding lots of reading programs around Troublesome and the new library. Downright generous folks.” I glanced up at the bright-red double doors.
“I’m not sure the reverend would approve.” She pursed her lips.
“More voters, ma’am. Maybe even future congregants for his church,” I said slyly, curious to see what a brothel looked like.
Mrs. Claxton hitched her bulky pocketbook up over her shoulder. “Well, I guess whores should vote too,” she grumbled, crooking her arm around mine as we opened the handsome arched gate and took the wide steps together.
The door creaked open, and a silk-clad matronly woman puffing on a long, gold cigarette holder appeared.
She pointed her hand. “Why, Effie Claxton, I don’t recall the circus being in town.
Are you bringing me a runaway?” She peered down at me and then tilted her head upward, inhaling another draw of the tobacco.
“My customers would sure ’nough be interested in enjoying her pleasures.
” Her bronzed cheekbones lifted when she smiled as she whipped back her long, red wig.
A blush warmed my face.
“Johnna, this is Mrs. Lovett, our new librarian!” Mrs. Claxton announced. “We’re here to speak with your girls about our new library program.”
“Ladies, we have visitors,” Johnna called over her shoulder. She opened her double doors wider. We gaped at the young womenfolk who were scantily dressed, looking like paper doll cutouts in the Frederick’s of Hollywood Christmas mail-order catalog I’d received once by mistake.
Jackson had brought our mail home from town only to find out the postmaster in Thousandsticks had included it.
I tried not to stare at Johnna’s working girls, but I’d never seen such gussied-up women, decked out in sparkles as grand as a starry sky, other than the peeks I’d stole before tossing out the forbidden, naughty catalog before Honey could find it.
Seven dolled-up girls crowded inside the threshold, wearing racy red lipstick and painted nails, their brassiere-covered bosoms pointed to heaven, bodies squeezed inside shimmery-laced lingerie, black fishnet hosiery, and stiletto heels adorned with silky-feathered pom-poms.
One brown girl reached out to touch my hand, and a white one dared to do the same.
More hands glided over my arm, and two of the bravest touched my cheek and chin.
“She’s gonna steal my johns,” another said, sullen, her pale face rosied with rouge, heavy blue eyeshadow painted atop lids that popped her eyes.
A tall woman reached over and touched my arm, trailing coal-colored fingers across my flesh. “Oh, Johnna, whose room are you putting her in? I’ll take her. I like girls too.”
Mrs. Claxton swatted away their curious hands. “Ladies, this is Cussy Lovett, our new—”
At that, the young women giggled, and a blond licked my name across her tongue. “Cussy. Miss Johnna don’t allow no cussing.” A spark of mischief danced across her eyes.
Inside, a telephone rang, and Johnna excused herself.
Mrs. Claxton scowled. “She’s our new librarian, ladies, and we’re here to invite you to an important program we’re having tomorrow evening that will teach you to read and write. Vote.”
Several of the girls didn’t seem interested and slipped back into the house. Two remained.
“Ain’t heard from my people in years. It sure would be grand to talk with Mama,” a girl piped.
“If I could read, it’d be my ticket out of here,” a young one leaned over and whispered to me and Mrs. Claxton.
“Classes start at six tomorrow night,” I told her.
Johnna came back to the door. “Now, girls, our evening hours are the busiest, and I can’t have you losing me money.”
“Johnna, most of my johns slip away from their offices during the lunch hour,” the one who wanted to get away said.
“I don’t know, Frankie.” The madam mulled it over.
“Please, Miss Johnna. I’ll come straight back after classes and work till the last customer leaves,” Frankie begged.
“Johnna, I want to write my family and read some of them racy books you have on your bedstand,” the other said. “I’ll work double shifts too.”
Miss Johnna laughed, but the old librarian remained stoic in her stance. “Okay, Frankie and Otilia, but if I see my wallet thinning, the classes stop.” The madam nodded to Mrs. Claxton.
Fevered chatter rose among the young women as we told them about the evening classes.
“I hope we meet some cute fellers,” Otilia remarked while turning to leave. Giggles erupted from inside while Mrs. Claxton scowled as the door clicked closed.
We moved on to others who weren’t so keen on welcoming the idea. At some of the homes, we were met with folded arms, the people wary of our invitation. Still, we urged them to at least try a class. “Our fine city needs your vote,” Mrs. Claxton would push.
When we approached a smaller home, Mrs. Claxton leaned over and said quietly, “Mr. Kipple Culbreath. He’s a bachelor and likes tending to his flower garden out back.”
I latched the gate behind us and brushed past a pastel-pink rosebush, the delicate blooms heady and sweet as I passed.
The door slowly creaked open, and the older colored man squinted his eyes and stared at us curiously.
“Kipple, we’re here to invite you to our free library classes that will teach you to read and write so you can vote,” the librarian announced.
“Read books?” he inquired, rubbing his chin. “Why, Effie Claxton, you know’d I can’t even write my name. How am I supposed to up and do that, and at my age?” He laughed and shook his head.
“Yes, I know you can’t, but your sister was a smart reader. And she used to spend every weekend at our library. She would be proud if you honored her by trying. We need every vote we can get.”
“Sir, Mr. Culbreath, I’m the new librarian. Cussy Lovett.”
“Call me Kip,” he said.
“Sure would be wonderful if you could come tomorrow night. We can teach you.”
“Kip, why don’t you talk with Miss Cussy a minute. I’m going to check out those pretty zinnias in your backyard. Mrs. Lyons told me hers are the prettiest blooms she’s ever grown from the seeds you gave her.”
Kip beamed at that, then lowered himself onto the stoop.
I sat down with him and told him about the success of the Moonlight Schools, about the tales of pirates, big-city doings, and small-town secrets he could find in those books.
“I think you would really like The Great Gatsby, sir,” I said, standing after talking with him for almost thirty minutes.
He reached out his arm to me.
I flinched. First Susan had touched me friendly-like, and now Kip. It was hard getting used to it.
But suddenly I realized Kipple Culbreath weren’t seeing me. An escape from loneliness had just opened wider windows.
“From Louisville, you say, Miss Cussy? Right here in the city.” His brown weathered face opened in surprise. Then Kip extended his arm farther, waiting, and I helped him up, his bones stiff and creaking.
“Yes, sir, the character Daisy Buchanan was a flapper here in your city, sure enough, like Mr. Fitzgerald wrote.”
He scratched his chin. “Sylvia’s gone now, but I ’member her always chattering about the library books like they were friends. She was ’specially fond of one Kentucky author named Irvin Cobb. His books made her laugh, and she loved reading me a few pages from time to time.”
“A fine author. Come tomorrow, so you’ll be able to vote and meet new friends, sir.”
“Friends.” His eyes lit up. “I always thought I had no business at the library since I can’t read.”
“It’s your library, sir. It belongs to everyone.”
“Fitzgerald, you say? Will the library have a copy?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out for you.”
“Would you like to see my garden? Let me get you a cold cola? I’ll just go inside a minute.
Wait here and I’ll open that tin of butter cookies Sylvia sent two years ago.
I have a picture of her just inside I want to show ya,” he said, stalling for more time.
The gentleman gripped the wrought-iron hand railing and took the steps slow and measured.
“Be right back.” He winced as he tried to move faster.
“I guess Effie’s still in the back looking at my flowers. ”
Kip returned with the photograph of his sister and two soda bottles, passing one Coca-Cola to me. He forgot the cookies and wanted to go back inside, but I declined.
“You have a nice talk with Kipple?” Mrs. Claxton asked as we made our way down the street. “I had a conversation over the fence with his neighbor. Seemed interested in the classes but made no promises.”
“He’s a nice gentleman.” I looked back over my shoulder and saw him watching us, glimpsed a mixture of longing and loneliness in his eyes.