Chapter 45
Forty-Five
Dawn summoned the slow-waking city, shedding its Sunday cloak of darkness.
Inside the vehicle, hot breezes tangled through my heavy wig, the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume clinging to the fake hair, raging a protest in my belly.
I stared out at the muddy Ohio River as Mrs. Claxton drove us across the bridge, the radio announcer’s voice whirring as he delivered the morning news.
When the newsman said the governor was now prepared to execute Sassyann again, and as early as September, Mrs. Claxton moaned.
“Ought to be law against that kind of savagery. Law, she’s been living in a vegetative state and is as good as dead.
Looking sickly, chile. Lean your head out and catch some more air,” she advised.
I inhaled the fishy, earthen breaths of the dark river and could only imagine the horrors that awaited Sassyann.
Twisting around, I scanned for any signs of the law on our tail. I shuddered, suddenly jolted by the thought that if I made it, I would be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
Mrs. Claxton turned off the radio and settled more comfortably in her seat.
When I saw the Indiana state sign a few minutes later, my breathing relaxed. A glance to my hands showed the drug was still working, the color a pale ruddy pink.
I placed fingers to my belly and softly tapped. There’d been nary a flutter since we left the hospital.
Mrs. Claxton reached awkwardly under her seat, fumbled, and pulled out a strange black cap and placed it on the dash. “How’s that headache, chile?” she asked after crossing the Ohio River.
“It’s back, ma’am. But—” I was getting ready to tell her I hadn’t felt the baby but swallowed my grievance. Her face sagged under coal-bagged eyes. “Mrs. Claxton, I’m sorry I’ve put you through so much. You look spent.”
“Ain’t never felt more alive.” She jutted her chin and pressed down on the pedal.
I lowered my gaze to my draped stomach, silently begging for a sign of life.
We pulled into a small Indiana town and parked on an empty gravel lot. “I need to call Jed at the church. Then the prison.”
I waited outside the opened telephone booth as she fed coins into the machine.
“Jed, Jed. I’m glad I caught you. I have awful news.” She glanced out at me. “It’s our Cussy. I’m afraid we lost her.”
A long pause. Then: “Yes, they did everything they could to save her. Uh-huh, Susan took care of the remains. It’s all so heartbreaking.
Yes, that would be real nice if you called for a quiet prayer circle tonight.
Hmm. No. Yes, I’m calling the prison next…
Whining? Uh-huh, I imagine Daisy’s missing her about now.
She’ll be lost a bit. Take out one of my ham bones from the refrigerator and give it to her tonight. Uh-huh… I’m heartbroken.”
She turned, and the muffled strings of conversation were lost. When she twirled around, the librarian stretched the telephone’s chord and planted a shaking hand onto the booth’s glass, resting her head atop the clawed palm. A passing truck cushioned her conversation for a moment.
Then her voice climbed outside. “Thank you, Jed. I knew you’d understand.
A visit with Sister Rose will do good and right my nerves.
Uh-huh. Yes, I’ll be careful. No, I won’t stop unless I absolutely have to.
Yes, I have your cap on the dash. Phone Lillian for me and have her schedule Maureen to fill in.
I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll call you at the church tomorrow.
Uh-huh, I’ve got the books in the glove.
Yes, I’ll be extra careful. Talk to you tomorrow. ”
She placed the receiver in the cradle and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her damp forehead. After a moment, the librarian took a deep breath and fed the machine again, the thunk of coins lifting.
I paced across the gravel lot, itching to get farther away from Kentucky.
When Mrs. Claxton finally connected with the next party, her words lit across the wires somber and measured, ending with several promises to send a letter of high praise to the governor about the generosity of the warden.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve cast it to memory, exactly as you’ve said.
Yes, word for word,” she repeated. “Uh-huh…Thank him for your prison’s charitable donation of the inmate—declaring its services were a contribution to the city and adding a plea for the reinstatement of generous library funds.
I’ll get that written to the mayor today, ma’am. Yes.”
Its. The acknowledgment that I weren’t nothing more than an it to the warden cut across my damning heart.
The librarian slammed down the telephone and muttered something I couldn’t hear.
She stepped out of the booth and looked up and down the street.
“Let’s get back on the road. We have a long drive.
” She took her handkerchief and blotted her forehead again and winced.
“Law, we’ve got us another hot July day in store. ”
We climbed into her automobile, and I pulled off the sweaty wig, then glanced at the rearview mirror, relieved to see the drug was still working.
“Ma’am, you’ll check on Jackson? Get word to him and Honey?” I asked again.
“I promised you. Now, put it out of your mind.”
Turning to the window, I pressed a knuckle to my mouth. I didn’t want to nag her. She’d already risked so much. Her life.
***
For several hours we drove without speaking, stopping only once to relieve ourselves in the tall grasses on an empty country road. The steady hum of tires slapped, grinding across our nettling thoughts.
Mrs. Claxton slowed as we passed a white bullet-ridden sign hitched to a tall oak post: STRANGER, DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU.
I stole a peek at her and saw a fright rising.
At the next stop sign, Mrs. Claxton whipped the vehicle onto a dusty gravel road.
She glanced into the rearview mirror then pulled her troubled eyes to the dashboard.
Suddenly she groaned and parked the automobile off the road.
“The needle is almost on empty. We’ll have to find a filling station.
Hand me that book in the glove compartment. ” Her voice shook.
I opened it and held up a small green book and scanned the cover.
The Negro Motorist Green Book. Under the title was an outline of a scroll that had a long list stamped down it: hotels, taverns, garages, nightclubs, restaurants, service stations…
At the bottom, it noted the book was Prepared in cooperation with the United States Travel Bureau.
“No, I need the latest, the ’52 edition.”
I dug into the glove and saw several and grabbed the newer one, The Negro Travelers Green Book. On the bottom left was printed CARRY YOUR GREEN BOOK WITH YOU. YOU MAY NEED IT.
Confused, I had never come across one while on my Pack Horse route. I passed the book to her. “What is this—”
She held up a shushing finger and flipped through the worn pages, a finger chewing down the lists of names, her face creasing with concern. Finally, Mrs. Claxton handed it back, and I placed it inside the glove box, wondering why it was so important.
The woman held a palm over her mouth and squeezed as if trying to think of what to do next.
“What is it, ma’am?”
She didn’t answer.
“Are we lost?” I leaned my head out, searching browned fields. Beyond several dead trees, I spotted a farmhouse and pointed. “Maybe we can go ask for help?”
“Chile, get into the back seat. We need to stop and buy gasoline now.” She darted her eyes to the mirror.
Puzzled, I stared at her.
“Go on. We’re losing time, and that drug’s not going to last much longer.” Again, she glanced in the rearview mirror, like she was looking for someone or something.
I stepped out of the automobile and folded myself onto the back seat. “Is something wrong? Does it have anything to do with the sign we passed?”
She turned around and draped a bony arm across the top of her bench seat. “You’re a white woman now, stopping in a hushpuppied town with your maid,” she warned as a stiffness settled across her straightening shoulders.
I tucked my chin and picked through her haunting words.
“I have to protect myself, chile. And if that color of yours returns”—she stabbed a finger at me—“it’ll make two easy pickings for the nightriders.” As she turned her key in the ignition, the motor roared to life.
She scolded herself, “Law, I should’ve filled up in Louisville like Jedidiah always does before traveling.” She thumped the big steering wheel. “Dammit, dammit.” The curses rolled off her tongue. “Lord help me, I done landed us in a sundown town.”
Numb, I stared at the back of her head, feeling helpless, the hairs lifting on my neck.
Minutes later, we pulled into the filling station, a rusted Shell sign blistered and peeling, her dashboard showing the fuel needle was below the red mark.
“Sooner we get out of here, the safer I’ll feel,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” I looked over my shoulder out the back window, my own words winded and shaky.
“Don’t use that salutation again,” she snapped. “I’m your maid, you are the ma’am.” She turned back to the windshield.
I pushed myself deeper into the back seat, her sudden anger befuddling me.
Mrs. Claxton righted herself with eyes locked statue-straight as we waited.
The sticky heat rolled inside, and I leaned my head toward the window, the sweat beading my brow, the fear crawling around us.
Films of oil and gasoline pooled on the ground. Fumes seeped into our opened windows, blanketing fresh air. My eyes watered, and I sneezed and swallowed back the sickening taste.
The man thumped the hood and peered inside to Mrs. Claxton, then parked his eyes to the backseat. “Fill ’er up, miss?” He stepped over to my window and leaned his head inside. “Miss?”
The librarian shifted uncomfortably, and I straightened. “I’ll take a fill-up, sir.”
I ran fingers across my belly, tapping. My insides didn’t reply with so much as a stingy ripple.