The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  “Uh, Mr. Smith, did I mention that Mrs. Hamilton’s husband also has a dandy tip on picking the best witch sticks in there?”

  Devil John tucked the Boys’ Life under his arm and flipped through the scrapbook.

  “Real good diviner tips, sir.” Mountainfolk and bootleggers always looked for good water and places for new wells. Diviner Mr. Hamilton was a reputable water witch, and he’d used his forked peach switches to find water for decades, staking the spot when the twig pulled to it. It was true nary a soul ever dug a dry hole when Mr. Hamilton witched for a well. Hamilton’s finds were so accurate that folks said he could tell a fellar how many feet down the water was by the number of times his switch nodded over a spot.

  “Well, I reckon these can’t hurt none. Might get ’em working,” Devil John said lazily, tugging his beard. Another long moment passed, then, “But only bring the canning and recipe books after planting and after harvest. Only that. Only then. They’ll not have the others till winter, and only after I see to it they’ve finished their chores. And not a minute sooner.” He clutched the books in the crook of his arm and lifted a finger. “Not one Kentucky second sooner, Book Woman.”

  “Yes, sir.” I swallowed hard. “Please give Martha Hannah and the young’uns my regards.” I watched him slip catlike into the trees despite his big, clunky cow shoes. A dangerous man and also a strong, providing one, but someone you dared not cross. I wiped a damp brow and hurried Junia onward toward Miss Loretta’s. We wouldn’t rest until safely through the forest.

  Twenty-Three

  When R.C. Cole spotted me late Wednesday morning, he raised his arm, let out a whoop atop the tower railing, and flew down the steps barefoot like a bald hornet had lit after him, the steel stairs trumpeting an echo across Hogtail Mountain that clanged against rock face.

  At the bottom, he absently shoved me his loan, practically dancing for the envelope while tucking the newspaper I handed him under a sweaty arm without even a glance.

  “I found an article about a forest fire,” I said, and gave him the letter from Mr. Beck and went over to mount Junia, leaving him to his privacy.

  He ripped open the envelope. I heard a hiss, turned, and saw his paling face, the tears blurring and reddening his eyes.

  “He done said no,” R.C. murmured, swiping the back of his hand across his lids. “No. Said I wasn’t good enough for Ruth, and my work ain’t honorable, an’ I ain’t got myself a proper home for his daughter.” R.C. rattled the letter. “He aims to have her take a coal miner for a husband.” He thrust a fisted letter into the air. “A coal miner.”

  I whisked out a sorry for him.

  “I get good pay, and I’ll get more when I’m a ranger. I’ll build her a fine home, finer than any coal miner could.” He slapped the letter against his leg. “I will!”

  “I know’d you can do it, R.C. Just keep reading, and I’ll keep bringing the books.”

  “Look.” He lifted the paper and tapped the page. “He says he won’t give her hand to anyone in the We Poke Along program. Calls it lazy work.”

  I winced. That’s what some folks called the WPA program. A lot of men around these parts would rather starve than participate. They thought it was charity, dishonorable, and downright sinful to take the 75 cents a day the government offered to erect simple outdoor privies for folks who had none, build access roads into the hills and around, or lay split-timber bridges across creeks. Lazy work, the prouder hillmen claimed.

  R.C. stretched his neck up to the watchtower, misery rippling across his freckled brow. “But I love her…”

  He slowly folded the letter and rolled it into the newspaper, tucking it all into his loose waistband. “I ain’t letting her go. Ain’t letting a dirt digger have my girl.”

  I cringed thinking about Pa and the other miners, but know’d the young boy was hurting and didn’t mean it.

  “I’ve got to get to the train depot. Get my bride,” he said and clenched his jaw and took off down the mountain, his feet pounding the declaration into the red-dirt path.

  I didn’t know a lick about matters of the heart other than what I’d read in books, but my hand curled into a tight fist and lifted up his declaration for a victory.

  Twenty-Four

  For the rest of May leading up to the Pie Bake Dance, there was talk about Vester Frazier’s disappearance, and a few suspicions on his whereabouts, everything from him running off with a floozy to him falling prey to a hungry bear or pack of mean dogs. Folks around here had heard about my short union with Charlie Frazier, but they didn’t know spit about his kin accosting me.

  The talk didn’t bother me much. Folks know’d the Blues were unchurched and didn’t associate with the preacher. But I couldn’t help fearing he’d be discovered, worry on what Devil John might’ve seen, worrying more that Doc would let something slip, or someone’s hunting dog would come along and dig him up. Lately, I’d been peeking behind Junia’s stall, scattering leaves atop the preacher’s grave, piling on more sticks, rock, then dragging logs from the woodpile onto it. Made sure he stayed good ’n’ put, couldn’t push his devil-rotted, fire-wagging fingers up from the black earth and grab himself another sinner.

  Pa’d fussed at me and ordered me to stop, saying I was making it worse by stacking a big marker like that. But I couldn’t stop fretting over Frazier’s grave, stop piling on more debris. The last week of May rolled in, and Pa made sure I wouldn’t fuss the matter again. I awoke and found the site cleared, the hole empty, and Pa’s conversation just as vacant.

  Folks’ talk drifted from the missing preacher to the union fighting for more pay and better working conditions for the miners and the young boys picking slate down in the hole and making pleas for better living quarters in the mine camp on the other side of town. The Company came back with a vengeance against the union; there was more violence, threats of shutting down the mines, and coal miners’ strange disappearances.

  Beginning with Pa’s.

  Two days earlier, I had come home from my route and found him gone, thinking he was off to one of his meetings. But the next morning, when he still hadn’t returned, I was beside myself. I’d paced the cabin spitting out prayers, wearing the old floorboards until the rhythm of the creaks and groans skint my nerves and drove me outside. I ran over to Junia’s stall and cried out, “We’ve got to go find him.”

  We trailed Pa’s route to work, searching for any clues of an animal attack, anything that might lead me to him, until we saw the mine in the distance, and I pulled the reins and brought Junia to a halt. I was frantic for news, but I didn’t dare go closer and I couldn’t ask openly in town. Hoping to get word of Pa’s whereabouts, I’d penned a letter yesterday when he still hadn’t returned. I addressed it to Mr. Moore, a coal miner I’d heard Pa speak kindly of, and then boldly rode over to Queenie’s house and asked her grandma Willow to give it to her. It’d taken half the morning, and I spent the rest of the day riding the mule hard to make up the lost time taken from my book route.

  Pa’d been gone three days now, and I hadn’t three seconds of peace worrying it all.

  And when the couriers had left notes at the librarians’ outpost requesting we come into the Center a week early to help with the large delivery the railroad had left, I was more than eager, hoping Queenie would bring news of Pa, or I’d see him in town.

  Inside the Center, I sorted the mail and reading material at my table, keeping an eye on the Company store across the street and on the lookout for Pa. If I heard noises outside, I’d rush over to the window to see if it was Queenie, hoping Willow remembered to give her my letter.

  Several times I dropped things, the nerves whittling me down. When Harriett slammed a stack of catalog cards onto my table, I jumped, knocking books onto the floor.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped, looking at me suspiciously, slapping down more cards. “You sick or something?” She took a step
away from me. “You’ve been clumsy all morning.”

  “No, ma’am. Sorry,” I mumbled, and picked up the books and began sorting the cards into the makeshift filing cabinets we’d made from cheese boxes the Company store had set out for trash, while Eula and Harriett gossiped about the upcoming dance this Friday.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Doc outside, and he raised a friendly hand in passing. He still hadn’t dropped off the promised basket of food, and I wished I could ask him about it. Doc had mentioned the last time we drove from Lexington that he’d pick me up the third Saturday in June, so I reckoned I’d have to wait till then to talk to him.

  I looked over at Eula and Harriett talking about the Pie Bake Dance, tempted to slip out and speak with him, but I quickly lost my courage when he disappeared into the Company store. I’d make sure to ask him for the food on the way to the city. It was a relief knowing Winnie would have it for her schoolchildren, and for a few minutes I let myself imagine the students stuffed and happy, looking like the fattened children in my storybooks.

  Eula changed the conversation and chatted about the Penny Fund that Lena Nofcier was starting, and I perked at the mention. Miss Nofcier was the chairman of the librarian service for the Kentucky PTA and pushed each member to donate a penny to purchase new books.

  It sure would be something to have a room full of new books—satchels brimming with ’em—and to see the looks on the hillfolks’ faces. It would be thrilling to hand out stacks of the latest newspapers, and brightly colored magazines, and books with their perfect new covers, fresh ink, and crisp pages.

  I kept an eye on the street and filed the catalog cards, picking up pieces of Eula and Harriett’s other tattles, one about a partial cave-in at the mine, the Company shutting down coal production and pulling out, somebody’s lost hunting dog, and the recent births of several babies.

  I’d heard about the cave-in weeks ago when Pa told me about the two small boys who had to be dug out.

  Both of the women dropped their voices to a near whisper, looked around in all directions, and right past me. They didn’t care if I heard. My presence was of no more matter than a spent moth on a sill. Still, I’d kept an ear bent, listening for the hard and hurtful things others might say about me and mine. Seems I had learned to hear a lot of talk that other folks didn’t think I could.

  Harriett prattled while binding a book. “Mrs. Vance had her babe seven months after she wed, though she’s claiming a sudden fever brought it early.”

  “It had fingernails on it like an old woman’s,” Eula said. “Nine months of nail growing if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Nine months after he first came a’courtin’,” Harriett snorted.

  “Oh, did you see Mable Moss’s new baby?” Eula’s eyes rounded. “It was born with an ugly red stain across its long tongue that ran out onto its lip that ain’t lifted.”

  “Uh-huh. And Mable’s done insisted the baby got it by falling off the birthing bed,” Harriett said. “I pity poor Mr. Moss having wed the homely girl only for her to give him a long- tongued liar.”

  “It is surely the mark of a liar,” Eula agreed gravely.

  I moved up by the women to stack books onto the old loft ladders we’d hung across the walls for the books. Stepping behind their tables, I kept an eye on them and an ear cocked to their words, hoping for any news of the missing miners, of Pa.

  They whispered about other folks’ latest ailings, Harriett’s newest, and the Lysol douche she was using to cure it. I stretched my ear to listen to Harriett’s shocking illness.

  “It’s—” Harriett stood and leaned over her table toward Eula, grabbing the edge. In an elaborately hushed voice, she said, “Well, I’d had this horrible itch.” Harriett pointed to Eula’s privates, then jerked her flushed face up when Eula’s gaze fell below Harriett’s belly. “I couldn’t go to the physician. It wouldn’t be proper.” She paused, snatched glances all around again for anyone who might’ve slipped into the Center, her face coloring ripe red.

  Eula bobbed her head in sympathy, though there weren’t none in her rounding eyes.

  “Well…” Harriett dipped her voice lower and caused me to strain. “Then I spied an advertisement in Movie Mirror. Mind you, I was only checking it for any filthiness that might offend our God-fearing patrons when I saw a picture of the brown bottle of Lysol, touting the inner rinse that would clean and kill germs.”

  I had also seen the feminine hygiene advertisements in magazines and newspapers. The pictures of the weeping lady with a dainty hankie to her eyes showed she’d been a good mother, good housekeeper, good hostess, good cook, all those things, until 6:00 p.m.

  The feminine wash advertisement scolded the sad lady, insisted the perfect homemaker did one disgraceful thing her husband couldn’t forgive by forgetting her smelly lady parts. It warned womenfolk about the dangers of neglecting intimate personal hygiene and reminded them to use the feminine wash to keep from wrecking a marriage. A powerful germicide, the product promised, and one that removes all kinds of powerful things and even stranger things I’d never heard of like “organic matter”… It will keep your man happy and is a surety for a happy marriage.

  I squeezed another book onto the shelf and glanced outside, gave a prayer for Pa’s safety.

  Harriett continued, “I had my cousin over in Virginny send me the Lysol right away. But when Postmaster Bill handed me my package, it was busted open. That simpleton gave me the bottle right in front of God and everyone.” Harriett pressed a hand to her chest.

  “Oh my!” Eula knocked a fist against her own.

  “The postmaster blubbered something about ‘spring cleaning,’ and I snatched it from his hands and took it home, and fast. Lawd, that Lysol fixed me good and proper,” Harriett said, proud of her new cure. “Just in time. Oh, Cory Lincoln’s coming to the dance on Friday,” she added and this time louder.

  Cory Lincoln was Harriett’s cousin she was sweet on. He got hired on at the coal mine after being released from the penitentiary last month. And by just in time she meant it was the upcoming annual dance and pie auction time.

  “I finished my dress,” Harriett told Eula and raised a sly brow.

  “Oh,” Eula exclaimed. “Did you use the lace on the hem or—?”

  “You’ll see,” Harriett singsonged, her eyes mischievous, holding a secret.

  They talked excitedly about which man might win their company for the dance night, speculated on who they hoped would, and side-talked about the other girls, handpicking dull suitors for them, bursts of cackling punctuating each insult.

  I pushed books into the ladder rung and moved to the next section, then heard Junia fuss outside and went over to the window. She pawed and strained from her tethered post.

  Jackson Lovett stood in front of her, dressed in high-waisted stylish pants held up by suspenders like I’d seen in the magazines. He had a bouquet of blue flowers tied together with a ribbon. It looked like he was trying to get past her, maybe come inside the Center, or more likely pick something up in the post office. But the old mule blocked him.

  I watched, knowing who’d win the argument. I wanted to raise the window and caution him, but the thought of doing so in front of the supervisors stopped me.

  Junia blew at him, her loud snorts filling the quiet, sunny morning.

  Peeking over my shoulder to the supervisors and back to Jackson, I lifted the window, careful not to disturb the already frayed rope cords that held the lead weights. I was determined to warn him again about the old mule’s temper.

  I glanced back once more to Eula and Harriett, tucked tight as fatted ticks in their gossip.

  I stuck my head out just as Junia pricked her ears forward, hovered over the flowers and sweetly raised her nose over the bouquet, then snatched them, gnashing them in her teeth, chewing them like they were her special gift from him, gobbling them in one bite. She
flopped her ears at him, pleased.

  Jackson struck a mild curse and pulled the ribbon loose from her jaw. A flower fell along with it, both fluttering to the ground.

  Junia showed her teeth as if thanking him, brushing his hand with her soft mouth.

  “You like flowers too, old girl?” Jackson softly chuckled, scratched Junia’s ear, and patted her neck—and she let him, the first man I’d ever seen her allow that privilege.

  I pressed my hand to my mouth and choked back a giggle, surprised at the quickly eaten flowers, at my astonishment for how the two got along, at my wishing.

  “Those were for a pretty lady,” he said to Junia, not giving any hint that he’d seen me gawking out the window.

  I wondered who Jackson might be courting, what old woman he was visiting.

  Jackson looked up and around and then directly at me. He called out, “I imagine Junia’s like all the ladies, liking herself some pretty flowers now and then.”

  I took a small step back from the window and bumped into Harriett, who’d snuck up behind me. She screeched and knocked me aside with her hip.

  Harriett’s eyes pulled to Jackson, then back to me and once more at Jackson.

  “See you soon, Cussy Mary,” Jackson said.

  Smiling the whole time, he picked up a single bloom from the dirt, tucked it into his shirt pocket, tipped his hat, and strolled away.

  “You’ve been staring out there daydreaming all day. Get back to work.” Harriett slammed the window shut, rattling the heavy glass and snapping the old window pulley rope on one side, the weight clattering down inside the frame. “Keep it shut! It reeks enough in here without letting in your filthy mule’s stinky droppings too.”

  Harriett raised her chin, pinched her nose, thudded back over to her table, and plopped heavily into her seat, scattering papers. “Stinkin’ inbred,” she huffed.

  Eula pretended to read her mail.

  Harriett clucked to Eula, “Jackson’s a fine one to greet our Blueberry. A charitable man to pity her, waste greetings on her kind.”