Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
By the time we arrived back at the Claxton home that evening, we were both spent.
After baths, Mrs. Claxton fried ham steaks while I set the table.
When Reverend finished his meal, he leaned back in his chair and stared at his wife a long time, something stirring under his clenching jawbone.
“Can I get you more meat, sir?” I half rose from my chair. But his stern brow pulled me back into my seat.
“Effie, Gregory Davis said he saw you over on Ninth?”
Mrs. Claxton swallowed the food and slowly wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Just visiting our neighbors to invite them to a special program that Cussy is leading.” She glanced at me. “Ain’t that right?”
“Yes, Reverend. We’re holding night classes to teach adults to read and write. Grow readers so they can vote.”
“Does this night schooling include harlots?” Reverend snipped.
She dropped her napkin. “Jedidiah Claxton, we need everyone’s vote!”
“I won’t have my woman associating with the likes of floozies.”
I pushed away from the table and began clearing the dishes.
“Cussy, I’ll see to ’em. Why don’t you take some food to Daisy and retire to the sleeping porch. We have a big day tomorrow.” Mrs. Claxton stood abruptly and scraped ham, gravy, and bread onto a saucer and passed it to me.
“Yes, ma’am. Good evening, Reverend.”
In the backyard, I fed Daisy, then found a stick and played fetch with her, trying to stay out of earshot from the open windows and harsh climbing whispers.
Hussy.
Bible.
Scarlet.
God.
Then Heathen.
The word left me thunderstruck. Daisy raised her head and then trotted over and nudged my hand with her wet nose. I knelt and patted her.
The dog must’ve sensed my anguish, because she stepped on my knee and licked my cheek.
Long ago, when I had attended the Fourth of July celebration in Troublesome, I’d suffered the accusation when I asked to join the women’s sewing club and brought them a scripture cake.
The women had called me a spectacle, a heathen, and more, damning me.
I flinched as the hot shame rose again, a feeling that was always there, like the coal dust that always found its way back into our home no matter how many times I’d swept it out.
Would this baby live long enough to feel it too?
Inside, Reverend Claxton’s words climbed over his wife’s.
I hurried back inside, bristling.
The Claxtons suddenly quieted as I entered the kitchen.
“Sir, about the women on Ninth Street. They want to learn—”
He shook his head and waved me away. “Don’t ya fuss at me, Cussy,” he warned.
“Jedidiah Charles Claxton!” Mrs. Claxton glared at him.
I stepped closer to the sullen man and said quietly, “I recall from my mama’s studies that God’s chosen people trusted Rahab, and God rewarded her.”
He drew his brows together while a scolding writhed across his tongue.
A ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of Mrs. Claxton’s mouth. “Well, now, I believe our Cussy is right about that, Jed. If God gave her equal rights the same as His chosen people, I reckon you should apply the lesson with these women and do the same.”
The reverend grunted as if he’d learned long ago that he didn’t have to win every argument with his wife.
“Now, Jed, I want you to make an announcement at your church meeting tomorrow morning and tell the deacons and your Bible study groups about the classes.”
He was getting ready to hold up a shushing hand when she said, “We have to get our people to vote if there’s going to be change.”
Reverend said, “I’ll let ’em know, Effie. And I’ll telephone the other pastors and ask them to announce it at their services first thing tomorrow morning.”
“It’s settled.” Mrs. Claxton lifted her chin. “Now, help me get these dishes, Jed. I’ve got to whip up some dinners for you for the next four nights. Cussy and I will be teaching late.”
“At least stop by the church to collect Bibles for the ladies’ first reading lesson,” he said, bringing the dirty plates over to the sink.
“I promise.” Mrs. Claxton patted his arm before walking me back to the sleeping porch.
“Cussy, we’ll need to leave for the library at seven sharp…” She paused at the doorway when Daisy scooted across the porch on her belly, wagging her tail, her bullet-shaped body inching closer. Mrs. Claxton started to protest when Daisy jumped onto the bed.
I scratched the dog’s chin. “It’s fine, ma’am.”
“Well, I can always put her in the washroom if she’s pestering. Daisy, no. Said no.” The woman bent over and shook a crooked finger at the wiggling pup.
Daisy lowered her chin to the quilt, wagging her tail as I sank down beside her.
“You’re spoiling her, chile.”
I rubbed her ears, thinking of Junia, worrying how she was faring with her ol’ bones and grief troubling her. “Good night, ma’am.”
“The pup sure likes you. My daddy always said, You can be fooled by fancy shoes and big-footed words, but you can reckon the integrity of one’s character by the way they treat the creatures. Appears Daisy knows that too.”
Daisy perked at her name, then stretched and wriggled onto my lap, her tail slapping furiously against my legs as she buried her nose between my arm and belly, winning her spot with a satisfied snort.
Mrs. Claxton lightly tsked her disapproval. “Good night, Cussy, sleep well. I was told you can grow readers, and I aim to squeeze every drop of that blue magic outta you.”