Chapter 37 #2
My eyes soaked up all the advertisements in the cosmetic aisle. Mrs. Claxton read one and said, “Helena Rubenstein’s will be perfect on you.” She snatched up the black-and-gold tube that was on sale for eighty-five cents.
I’d never heard of this Miss Rubenstein, but the advertisement said Helena promised Bed of Roses was good for “Suntanned or Untanned. An ecstatic new color blooms rosy gold… Honey sweet on your lips.” The glamorous woman rested her head on a bed of orangish-red roses and wore diamond earring hoops while a hummingbird hovered above her.
The librarian said, “My daddy always said his girls should have a few things that make them feel pretty. He’d always work a few extra shifts each month to make sure we did.”
I pulled off the top and twisted the stick up and down, admiring the gift. “It’s sure fancy. Thank you, Mrs. Claxton.” I wondered what Jackson would think of me wearing cosmetics. Questioned just how ecstatic it might make one feel.
We walked down another aisle filled with bandages, antiseptics, cough syrups, and headache powders.
She pulled a small bottle of smelling salts off the shelf and held it up to me.
“Sure could’ve used this earlier when I met Cab.
I didn’t know whether I was going to wet myself or faint.
” She chuckled, and I laughed with her, my mood culling the worries.
While Mrs. Claxton paid for her purchases, I studied a ballpoint vending machine that touted pens for ten cents. I itched to feed a coin inside the slot just to watch the display spin around and drop the fancy retractable pen into my hand.
After paying for the purchases, she handed me the lipstick and moved us next door to Davis Brothers’ candy store. At a penny-candy shelf, the librarian selected licorice laces, a package of Mallo Cups, and Teaberry gum.
Then she led us over to the soda fountain.
“Let’s take a seat and have us a cool drink and rest after our busy morning.
” She signaled to the man behind the counter wearing a papery hat and ordered an icy cold Coke for me and an orange soda for herself.
I pulled out a quarter, but she pushed it away and shoved a dime and nickel toward him, paying for our drinks and his tip.
While she relaxed on the red stool, Mrs. Claxton dug out her record and Bible.
She ran her fingertips over Cab’s inscription, sighing.
“Sure was friendly of the movie star to give you his autograph like that.”
“Wasn’t it ever. I can’t wait to show the girls at the library. They won’t believe it!”
“Do you think you’ll ever get to hear him sing in person?”
“Reverend would never allow it. He feels this type of music tempts young people. I’ll just have to be content listening to him on my old radio.” She shot me a crooked smile.
“Tempts?”
“He thinks music that doesn’t praise or lift up God could cause harm.”
It was odd. “Ma’am, I never thought about God only liking one kind of music. One kind of birdsong.” From the look on Mrs. Claxton’s face, I know’d she hadn’t either.
I fished out the lipstick from my coin purse.
She said, “Do they allow it in prison?”
“It’ll likely be confiscated.” I twisted it and dabbed more onto my lips, savoring how silky it made them feel.
She took out her own and swept it across her mouth.
When we finished our colas, Mrs. Claxton offered me a stick of her gum. I was curious but shook my head. She had been generous enough giving me pay, stamps, lipstick, and now the fountain drink.
We walked past the businesses, stopping occasionally to talk about the window dressings, poke a finger at the latest advertisements and displays.
Inside the crowded Chili Parlor, Mrs. Claxton led us to the serving counter, where we waited in line for someone to help with our chili.
A radio played on a shelf. Newsmen talked about the rising price of gasoline, reporting it was a record-high twenty-eight cents, and noted an upcoming church picnic.
They went on to talk about Stalin and the Communist Party and a Russian historian denouncing something called hero worship.
I turned my attention to the diners in the room, soaking it all up.
Hearing her name, I cocked my ear when the radiomen mention Sassyann, telling the listeners her execution was still being debated, and the governor was in talks with his staff. Then they moved on to chat about grain prices and polio, its rise and Salk’s latest efforts for a cure.
Mrs. Claxton turned to me and noted my deepening color. “Chile, you’re looking a little peaked.”
“I’m worried about Jackson.”
She patted my arm. “I’ll try to find out if there’s a list since I’ll be talking with the mayor on Monday.”
Grateful, I thanked her.
When the young waiter asked what he could get us, we selected the toppings we wanted in our chili.
I followed Mrs. Claxton’s lead, and the man behind the counter filled my bowl with a generous portion of spaghetti, a steamy, fat tamale, and a ladle of chili juice, all of it topped with a big heaping of shredded cheese.
“Michael, I’ll be needing you to pack up a container of chili for the reverend, and some of that sliced cow tongue he loves so much.
Put an extra courting apple in there, chile. ”
Michael said, “Sure thing, Mrs. Claxton. Nice article about you today. I’ll bring it over to you shortly.”
We sat at a red-checkered-cloth table, the conversations rising cheerfully around us, Mrs. Claxton’s one of the most lively.
It seemed she know’d every person coming in.
Many congratulated her on the article. More than once, she’d whisper to a friend, giggle, and open her pocketbook and offer them a sneak peek of the treasures from Cab.
I stared down at the big bowl of chili and scooped up a tiny spoonful and tasted it with the tip of my tongue. I tempted a bigger bite. How odd looking, but it was delicious.
“I see you like our citified chili,” Mrs. Claxton noted, pleased.
“These cooks sure know’d how to make different victuals than back home.” I wiped my oily mouth with the napkin. “It’s ugly but tastes mighty pleasing, ma’am. Thank you for dinner.” And I gobbled down the rest of it.
***
“We’ll just head down Sixth Street to the Mammoth Life & Accident Insurance Company, where the tailor’s shop is. Come on, chile,” she said.
After a few blocks, the librarian stopped. “There it is.” She pointed to a brown six-story building rising among the smaller storefronts. “Next to the Lyric Theatre. See it, Cussy?”
Squinting, I stared up at the large sign.
Outside the shop, Mrs. Claxton greeted a small boy sitting on the sidewalk with a cut-up cardboard box and crayons, drawing. A tin of buttons rested at his feet.
“It’s a right pretty drawing, young man.” I stooped over and studied the child’s art, marveling that it was so detailed for his age.
“It’s a statue, ma’am!” Grinning, he jumped up and held open the door.
“And a fine one.” I smiled.
“This is the Hamilton boy, Ed, but we all call him Lil Biff,” Mrs. Claxton said. “Thank you, Lil Biff. Won’t be long now.” Mrs. Claxton patted his shoulder. “Two months and you’ll start first grade. You come visit me at the library for reading hour and homework help.”
We stepped inside the Mammoth Life building to a sign that read YOUR VALET SHOP and were greeted by another standing advertisement that touted thirty-five-cent hair cuts and twenty-five-cent shaves.
Scents of shampoo, menthol, woodsy soaps, and musky potions greeted us.
Catchy music floated around as a radio announcer broke in after a song: “Yes, sir, the weather’s been a scorcher here in the city.
That was Perry Como letting us know it’s ‘Watermelon Weather,’ so get out and enjoy the sweetheart-kissing season,” he teased. “Next up is—”
I was surprised to see a barbershop and, more so, a female Negro hovering over a man in a barber’s chair. The attractive woman turned and raised her scissors.
“A woman barber,” I whispered.
“Effie!” the barber screamed. “I read the newspaper, and we’re all so proud of you getting our people ready to sign up to vote.” She slipped off the man’s neck duster and hurried over to us.
“A fine thing you done, Mrs. Claxton.” The customer in the chair stood and turned to the mirror behind him, fingers combing through his cut, lifting a forest of stylish black curls.
I could see beyond the room where young’uns bent over stoops of throned chairs shining the shoes of men in suits, sneaking glances at us. One businessman with a newspaper looked up and waved. “Reading it right now, Mrs. Claxton,” he commented. “Good piece.”
She murmured her thanks. “Amy,” she said to the woman barber, “this is Mrs. Lovett, my borrowed librarian. It was her idea.”
“Where you from, honey?” Amy asked, lifting a lock of my hair, peering closely and up and down, but not a whisper of revulsion in her brown-jeweled eyes.
My skin flushed, a warm blue hue lifting to my ears.
“We’re practically neighbors. Not far from Fishtrap. Troublesome Creek,” Mrs. Claxton piped.
“Amy Hamilton. A pleasure to meet you.” She tipped her head slightly, her hair perfectly coiffed like in a beauty advertisement. “I hope you’re going to be with us awhile, Mrs. Lovett.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope to stay longer.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to keep her, Amy.”
Amy called out to a customer waiting for a cut and escorted him to her chair. A woman from the back appeared, a tape measure hanging from her neck, her apron pockets full of scissors and pieces of fabric. “Hello, Effie. Fine article.”
“Patience, this is Cussy. She’s been a great help setting up the literacy program. Cussy, this is our seamstress, Patience.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said.