Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Mrs. Claxton opened the gate at the next house, a small, unkempt clapboard. A windowpane had been cracked and another boarded up. She leaned closer to my ear. “This is Elizabeth Hall’s place.” She frowned. “Her husband is a drunkard.”
A young bone-white woman opened the door, a baby boy hitched to her hip, a toddler hiding slightly behind her skirts. Her skin had been bruised, and her brow bore an ugly scar knitted across it.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I’m librarian Cussy Lovett, and I would like to invite you to the library tomorrow night at six. We’ve started a free program to teach adults to read and write, so they can vote and have other freedoms.”
“A reading and writing program?” she said in disbelief. “I’m long-toothed—nineteen, past the schoolgirl age and getting longer in the teeth every minute.”
“Age don’t matter. Mr. Culbreath plans to attend, and he’s eighty.” I smiled.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Lizbeth. We sure would be pleased to have you and the babies join us. Tandy will be watching the children in the reading room while the grown-ups learn the lessons,” Mrs. Claxton pushed.
Lizbeth stole a glance to the librarian. “Mrs. Claxton, nice to see you again. Freedom is something I ain’t had for a long time. Since I was maybe knee-high.”
The woman looked behind her, then stepped out onto the stoop, quietly closing the door as the toddler clung to her skirts, sneaking peeks up at us. “My man is…napping. I don’t want to disturb him.”
I had an uneasy feeling by the look of her fresh bruises, her man was likely pie-faced and passed out.
Mrs. Claxton laid a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Come learn, chile. There’s a whole lot of freedom in that. Help yourself and others in our neighborhoods by voting.”
“Not sure any book’s gonna free me.” Defeated, Lizbeth stared past the rooftops and blinked her misty eyes.
“Please come, Miss Lizbeth,” I pleaded.
She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, hitching her babe closer to her chest.
From behind the door, Mr. Hall called out for her, cursing and slurring his words. Then something crashed inside, and she jumped and turned toward the door.
Frightened, the children looked back at the home and then at their mama as their eyes welled. The toddler at her side blubbered Mommy and covered his crotch. I looked down. He’d wet his pants.
Lizbeth winced. “Shh, shh, we have to be quiet. Be brave lil men for Mama.” She jiggled the child on her hip and squeezed the toddler’s hand in warning. “Thank you, ladies. I better get back in ’fore he tears up the house and takes a belt to me.”
“Do it for you and the children,” the librarian urged.
When we left, I said, “Can the law protect her from him?”
The librarian shook her head. “Chile, those stuff-coats in Frankfort, all over these United States, make laws to protect the powerful, not the common man, and especially not womenfolk. It’s 1953; you would think it would’ve changed by now!” she spat.
“But won’t the police—”
“If the policeman arrives and sees she’s bloodied and bruised, their hands are tied by the lawmakers in Frankfort.
They can only offer to take her downtown, ask her if she’d like to swear out a warrant.
If that. Now they ain’t going to be caring about women, especially a poor one.
Unless her man is bothering them. And if by some miracle she has him locked up, well, he’ll be out lickety-split—and back home waiting for her with a razor strap and harder fist. Men protect a man’s property first and foremost.”
***
At the next home, Mrs. Claxton paused on the sidewalk. “This is our paperboy, Steven’s, place.” She walked up the crumbling concrete steps and banged the brass doorknocker.
A rusted blue bicycle with a flattened tire rested to the side of the stoop.
The door swung open, and a tall, young colored man widened his eyes when he saw us.
A litany of apologies spewed as he grabbed a shirt off the chair and slipped it on.
“Mrs. Claxton, please don’t report me. Daddy was sick, and Mama took another bad spell.
I aim to deliver them papers as soon as my sister gets back from the washateria.
” He stepped outside and I glimpsed an old man slumped in a wheelchair and a frail-looking woman asleep on a narrow iron bed behind him.
“It’s fine, Steven. Why don’t you shut the door and come on down to the yard so we can talk while your parents rest.” Concerned, Steven closed the door and followed her out into the yard.
“You got a busted tire, I see.” She turned toward his bicycle.
“People forget to sweep up their broken glass. Some streets are worse than others, but it’s so dark when I deliver papers in the morning I can hardly dodge all of ’em. Costing me a pretty penny too.”
“Stop by the library, and I’ll have maintenance repair it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claxton. Is there anything else? I should be getting back in there.”
“How old are you now, chile?” Mrs. Claxton asked.
“I turn twenty in three months.”
“And have you signed your sister up for the school year yet? Carole must be, what, nine now?”
He scratched his brow. “Ain’t been no time for schooling, ma’am.
I need her home to help so I can work and pay the bills.
I’m hoping one day to hire on at Belknap Hardware and Manufacturing, soon as I can fill out their paperwork.
With decent pay, I could pay for help to come in for Mama and Daddy. ”
“Paperwork,” Mrs. Claxton remarked. “And exactly what I want to talk to you about.” She handed him one of the fliers.
He stared blankly at it and gave it back, peering over her shoulder.
“Ya know I don’t read, Mrs. Claxton. Oh, there’s Carole now.
Where ya been? Git on up here, girl.” He gestured to her. “Hurry it up.”
Carole shuffled slowly down the sidewalk with two stuffed pillowcases clutched in front of her.
“Carole,” he hollered, “what’s took you so long?
You should’ve been home almost two hours ago, girl.
I need to deliver these papers before I lose my job.
” Steven grabbed a sack and opened it, digging inside.
“The clothes are wet. You done went and spent the laundry coins for the dryer on candy again? Dammit, Carole.”
The little girl’s big brown eyes watered. “I was hungry, Steven—”
“Ain’t my fault you wouldn’t eat the Cream of Wheat I fixed you this morning,” he shouted.
“Mommy always made it with milk.” She stuck out her lip. “I can’t stand it with water.”
Steven swatted her on the bottom. “We can’t afford milk, girl. And we sure as hell can’t afford sweets. Git on inside, and hang them wet clothes up ’fore I take a belt to you.”
Squalling for her mama, Carole dropped the other sack of laundry and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Mrs. Claxton sighed. “Steven, we’re holding classes tomorrow evening at six to teach adults to read and write. We need more young voters. It would be good if you could come, chile.”
“It’s useless.” He waved his arm toward the house, then picked up the bags of laundry.
“I can send one of the volunteer ladies from the church to help out this week,” Mrs. Claxton offered.
I stepped forward. “Steven, I’m Cussy Lovett, a librarian too. If you can get better pay, you could hire that help to come in to tend to your ailing folks.”
“Too damn saddled with bigger troubles.” He bounded up the steps.
Mrs. Claxton called out, “I’ll send someone by just in case you change your mind.”