Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
I dropped the book when rowdy children whizzed past my bench, the hot breezes and playful shrieks stirring me back to the present.
The store’s clock showed I had only fifteen minutes left to pick up the suit.
Pa’s words of long ago crashed down on me: A sneaky time thief is in them books.
I jumped up and hurried toward the tailor’s.
After walking several blocks, I stopped and silently cursed, remembering I’d left Odette’s book on the bench.
The sidewalks were filling, and I paused to read the names of business signs, looking for the ice cream and soda shop. I passed several along the way, but they didn’t look familiar. I turned and walked back, searching. Not finding the store, I spun around again, rushing through the crowds.
At last, I spotted the bench and snatched up the book.
When I glanced inside, it showed I had only nine minutes until Mr. Hamilton’s closed.
Looking up and down the sidewalks, I grew more perplexed as panic splintered across my chest. Which way was the building? I prayed the tailor would keep his shop open a few minutes more.
I had to try.
Each step brought more terror.
If I was late, Reverend would not have the suit for his sermon tomorrow, and I hadn’t kept my word to Mrs. Claxton.
Would the Claxtons sic the law on me?
I began to run down the blocks, weaving in and out of the growing foot traffic, my clunky prison shoes pinched and growing tighter with each stomp against the pavement.
Confused, I paused to stare up at the names of the buildings and twirled around.
Once and then again. The business district filled quickly with folks getting off work, eager to spend weekly paychecks to shop and dine.
Automobiles parked alongside curbs, and traffic was heavy as horns and engines sounded in the streets.
I could still make it.
Catching my breath, I turned to a man walking a small terrier. “Sir, please, I’m looking for the Mammoth Life, the tailor—”
“Darlin’, why, you’re headed the wrong way.”
“Wrong way?”
He cupped a hand over his brow and pointed back in the direction from where I’d come. “Cross over here. You’ll see it there on Sixth.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But Hamilton closes his shops at five thirty sharp, darlin’. Better hurry.”
“Obliged.” I turned and stepped off the curb, hurrying past the wide tail of a parked automobile.
A horn blasted, and tires raged against scorching concrete a split second before I felt the sickening thud against my flesh. The stink of rubber climbed into the heat.
A woman screamed, and the panic-stricken shouts laddered into the blinding sunshine before darkness descended upon me.
***
I awoke to the man with the dog kneeling over me, worry flashing across his face. “Darlin’, just stay still. I’ll go call for a policeman.”
My eyelids shuttered against the bright sun. “No.” I tried to raise an arm. “What happened…”
“You’ve been hit by a vehicle.”
“Miss Cussy? Miss Cussy.” Someone shook my arm, and I could barely make out the face until I heard her voice call to me again. It was Frankie.
I tried to answer, the words a scratchy mewl.
“She’s the librarian. Help me get her up and over to Johnna’s,” she cried to the crowd of onlookers.
“Is she a librarian or a whore?” someone else shouted.
“She’s been working at the Western Branch while visiting Reverend Claxton!” Otilia rushed to my side.
“She was headed toward Hamilton’s,” the man with the dog said, his voice quaking. “In a big hurry, she was.”
Another man dropped to his knees, his weak blue eyes glued to mine, the smell of whiskey and sweet pipe tobacco souring his breaths, gagging me. Then he stood and yelled to the crowd, “She just stepped righ’ in front of my automobile. Without warning!” He flailed his arms. “None at t’all.”
I pressed my elbows against the pitted asphalt, fighting to rise.
“I’m real sorry, miss,” he said, frightened. “I didn’t see you.” He looked out to the crowd and declared again, “I didn’t see her.”
“The girl looks like she’d be from Johnna’s house,” a woman mused.
“She sure does,” one man clipped.
“She’s a librarian, you dimwits. A real Book Woman!” Otilia shouted at them, her face heated and hovering over mine.
Someone else hollered, “Call the police. She took a bad tumble!”
Otilia hissed, “I ain’t calling no coppers.”
“No police.” I struggled to move. “No.” It crossed my mind that the Claxtons might’ve telephoned the law and I could be listed as a fugitive.
“Miss Cussy, don’t worry,” Frankie said. “Johnna will take you to the hospital.”
“Not to Johnna’s.” The words scratched over my dry throat. My mind muddled. Reverend would be furious if he found out. “I—I’m fine. Just help me up.”
She raised my head. A slaw mix of sour lemons and sugar tickled my throat, then a flash of white-hot pain roiled across my eyes. I turned over and spewed my innards onto the concrete, my throat hot like crackles of glass had slid over it.
“Here, let me help. The name’s Melvin.” The man with the dog pressed a clean handkerchief into my hands, and I nodded my thanks.
“Let’s get her to the hospital quick, Frankie. She lost her shoe, grab it,” Otilia ordered.
I tried to sit but collapsed, the dizziness and headache colliding, eating across my head. “Where’s my book? Odette’s poems?” I scratched out.
“Here, let’s get you up, Miss Cussy,” Otilia urged.
I groaned. Pages were scattered across the pavement; its cover had been smashed and ripped.
“My vehicle is parked just across the street,” Melvin offered, his deep-brown eyes wide with fright.
Several hands lifted me up, carrying me to the back seat of an automobile over my protesting cries. Otilia and Frankie followed us and climbed into the back with me.
Melvin turned the ignition in the automobile and said, “I’m taking you straight to the hospital, darlin’.”
“I have to get to the tailor’s and then home,” I protested.
“We’ll let the Claxtons know as soon as we get you to the hospital,” he said.
“You’ve given us all a fright,” Otilia whispered.
“But Reverend’s suit is still at the shop.”
“You need to get checked out by a doctor,” Melvin said.
I could only hope they hadn’t called the law.
Frightened, I looked to the girls. Streaks of blackened mascara had dotted down Otilia’s contorted face, and she held my hand in her cold one.
Frankie sniffled into a handkerchief. “Scared the bejabbers outta me, Miss Cussy. Thought you were a goner for sure,” she burst out.
“Mrs. Claxton’s niece will take good care of you. She’s seen to plenty of us girls over the years,” Otilia said.
“Susan,” I said, then cradled my belly, praying the babe was safe.