Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Inside a clothing store, I studied the pink box of necessaries that said DAYS OF THE WEEK PANTIES, admiring the cardboard that had been cleverly fashioned to look like a miniature chest of drawers. Gingerly, I opened each titled day’s slot, searching inside.
I could hardly believe cityfolk clamored for such things. Did they really need to be reminded to change into fresh necessaries every day? I dared to touch the colorful nylon fabric, surprised by Saturday’s devilish black pair. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I quieted a giggle.
Woman’s necessaries back home were home-spun, made from flour, sugar, and nut feed sacks. All bleached, sunbaked, washed, and stitched out buttery soft, sewn by generations of women’s gnarled hands. These drawers were embroidered in fancy cursive and marked for each day of the week.
A woman reached over my arm and picked up a box. “For my niece; she’s been dying for a set.”
If I bought Honey these, I know’d she would feel scolded, insulted. She’d been changing into fresh drawers daily since she was old enough to pull on socks. I moved on to a rack of hanging undergarments and scanned the racy lingerie, the sheer colorful fabrics.
A man sidled up beside me. “I’m needing a gift for my gal. It’s our fifth anniversary. Which one do you favor, miss?” I stepped back.
A man right here in public asking about a woman’s necessaries.
I stepped away, feeling my face warm, nearly tripping over a dolled-up mannequin as I made my way out the door. I passed Davis Brothers candy shop, the scents of taffy and fudge pulling in customers. EVERY DAY IS DERBY DAY, an advertising sign in the window proclaimed.
Inside another corner drugstore, I looked over all the goods, pausing at a bin full of children’s books.
Looking through the pile, I spied an old copy of Poems of Childhood by Eugene Field for twenty-five cents.
I studied the cover of the giant sitting on a big stone and the small boy with the sword looking up and grabbed it, thinking of Odette in Forensics.
The girl loved the poetry I’d read to her, and Warden said her seizures had all but disappeared.
I would somehow mail it to her, hoping it would help keep the affliction away. Maybe Mrs. Claxton could take me back to the big letter box again. Though the thought made me wince to trust such a risky contraption.
At the cash register, I paid for the book with the money I’d earned. It had been years since my last paycheck from riding my library route with Junia, and I felt proud.
It was 4:12 when I spotted the big clock inside the ice cream and soda shop. I plunked down a nickel for a cold lemonade and took it outside to the bench, enjoying the stream of cheerful passersby.
Frankie and Otilia paused to wish me a good day as they toted brown sacks, their chattering tongues spinning the air. “It’s good seeing you, Miss Cussy,” Otilia said. “We’re just picking up Miss Johnna’s liquor for our Saturday-night guests.” She wriggled mischievous brows.
Frankie exclaimed she’d written her very first letter to her mama. “I’m praying she’ll write back, ma’am, and send me a bus ticket home.”
I could see that the young woman was desperate to leave, and her smile never reached the homesickness pained in her eyes.
Otilia beamed, itching to tell me her news too.
“Ma’am, the manager down at the print shop said he’d consider me.
Last year, I stopped in twice, begging the old codger for a job.
But now, I just filled out my first application, and he looked pleased.
” She bent over and cupped a hand and whispered in my ear, “That copper I helped with his lessons is taking me on a real honest-to-God date. Picking me up at the library and escorting me to a matinee at the movie house next week.”
They talked a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes.
I watched the crowds of people passing as I sipped on my lemonade. Many had shopping bags in their hands. Up and down the streets, shop bells rang. I studied why the seamstress at the barber shop had fretted about the government destroying it all.
I shook my head at the absurd idea of such. Know’d that the government man wouldn’t make the mistake of loosening their fat wallet to lose fatter tax dollars from these shops. But one never know’d the foolishness they might entertain.
The sun was warm, and I swatted away a thirsty bee as I finished my drink and placed it in the trash can beside me.
Turning back to the storefront window, I saw there was about twenty-five minutes before it was time to pick up the suit.
Exhausted from last night’s restless sleep, and the new sights and sounds of the lively streets, I sat on the bench and pulled Odette’s book out of the paper bag. Enjoying the rest, I opened the pages and began reading under the shade of the shop’s awning.
I paused to admire the beautiful colored illustrations and stopped to read “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.” When I finished “Jest Fore Christmas,” I looked up, ticking off numbers. Why, the babe would be due around Christmas.
My mind drifted to Jackson, Honey, and this new life tucked safe inside. I reread the pages, relishing the idea of a Christmas babe as I daydreamed about family.
Somewhere, a radio played: “Goodnight, my love, the tired old moon is descending…”