The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  I turned away, kept my eyes on Junia outside, a tear weighting my cheek. I know’d Harriett’s mama had married kin, that her kind had relations with close relatives. It just didn’t show up in her pasty-white flesh, only in the small eyes hugging her sky-saluting nose. Her clan was the same as most kinfolk in these parts. Courting was hard, and a horse and mule could only travel so far, making it difficult to meet and marry outside these hills. Still, my great-grandpa’d done just that, all the way from France. And here Harriett was the one who pined after her cousin.

  I turned partway to Harriett. She had her head bent over a box of catalog cards. Stinkin’, she’d called me. Tilting my head, I rolled my shoulder into it and sniffed under my arm. I smelled the same as everyone else, better than some.

  “I said, get back to work,” Harriett squawked.

  I snuck one more glance out the window for Pa, worrying where he could be, before slinking quietly over to the shelf.

  Another librarian walked out of the post office into our room, and a hush fell over the room. Eighteen-year-old Birdie, the youngest Pack Horse librarian, walked past me. Her route was along the rocky creek beds and across the river into the neighboring community of Silver Shale. Birdie would tie her horse to a tree on the banks, take a small boat to haul her books across, then hike her route the rest of the way.

  She was a thin, tall girl who Harriett poked fun at and called Bird Nest, always taunting her by asking if she was hiding one way up there, each time with a cackle at her own sorry, worn poke.

  “Howdy, Bluet.” Birdie shot me a bright smile. “I had a devil of a time rounding up Ol’ Paul. That lazy horse didn’t want to get moving and wouldn’t come out of his stall. Me neither.” She winked. I smiled back. Birdie grabbed a box of outdated textbooks and pulled the carton atop an empty table, yawning. “And the baby fussed most of the night.”

  Birdie’s husband had moved out of Troublesome for factory work in the city, leaving her alone with the babe till he could fetch her.

  “Morn’—” I whispered.

  “Morning, Bird Nest,” Harriett snipped into my return greeting.

  Birdie said, “And a good morning to you too,” and mumbled an added “Miss Bird Brain” behind Harriett’s back.

  Constance Poole walked into the Center, bigger than two singing Sundays in her pretty dress, snappy and stylish, as she breezed right past me. “I’ve got some new sewing patterns for your help,” she told Eula, the last word dripping airish. Constance was the head of the sewing bee club, and she would donate quilt and dress patterns to the Center from time to time for the mountain scrapbooks. She always enjoyed stopping by to tell stories about her monthly sewing club: the young talented ladies who always had so much fun trading fabric, threads, and cheerful conversations.

  Eula and Harriett huddled around her and bent heads to the matters of the Pie Bake Dance, sharing giggles and fast whispers.

  After a few minutes, Constance told the supervisors she was off to shop for thread and pie ingredients. “Just three days to the big dance, ladies, and I still haven’t decided on my pie,” she told the supervisors. Constance stepped far around me, snipping off a short greeting of “Widow Frazier” as she swept past.

  Queenie came in through the back door and dropped her pannier onto a table, then rummaged in her sack.

  Harriett switched on the radio.

  I fixed my eyes on Queenie, trying to see if they held a secret for me, that she’d gotten my note, word from Pa, but Queenie was flitting about.

  “Morning, Queenie,” me and Birdie called out, while Eula and Harriett swallowed any regards as if she weren’t there.

  Queenie murmured hello and busied herself, rooted inside her bags.

  “Start on the crates the railroad left,” Harriett ordered Queenie.

  “Not today,” Queenie snipped back.

  Every six weeks or so, crates of books came in from library centers around Kentucky. We’d exchange books and send them back, packing the wooden boxes with about fifty books each, to be hauled over to the railroad depot. The L&N Railroad donated the shipping costs, carrying the books to other Kentucky libraries and dropping new ones off to us, free of charge.

  Unpacking the new books, loading the crates back up, and then setting them out to be picked up could be backbreaking work. Harriett always put it off on Queenie first, saying it would silence her sassing mouth, and if she wasn’t around, she’d push it on me.

  Queenie pulled out an envelope and wagged it at Harriett. “I got the job. Assistant librarian for the big Free Library of Philadelphia. I’m here to shelve my books and then off to the post office to send my acceptance. Pack them yourself.” Queenie walked over and slapped the envelope onto Harriett’s desk.

  Harriett leaned back, and her hands flew up. She wouldn’t touch the envelope. Eula rushed over to her assistant’s desk and opened the letter.

  Eula glanced at the note and then back to Queenie. She finally folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. “Post a job opening, Harriett,” Eula said, wiping her hands with a hankie. “Let everyone know.”

  “Gladly,” Harriett chirped and snapped up a long sheet of paper and began to write the advertisement.

  “Spread the word, librarians,” Eula said to me and Birdie. “We can’t lose this route.”

  It would be hard to get someone to apply for the tough route, and the patrons would suffer, dearly miss their books. I ticked through all my patrons, my daily routes, and stopped at one of my male patrons.

  “Yes, ma’am. Congratulations, Queenie,” Birdie sang out, interrupting my thoughts.

  Queenie beamed.

  “Congratulations,” I said, but worriedly searched her shining eyes, looking for any hint of news of my pa.

  “That sure is a wonderful promotion,” Birdie said.

  “Sure is, Miss Birdie, thank you,” Queenie said. “And $4.85 of extra wonderful a month.”

  Harriett made a hissing sound. “That’s a crime to pay a darkie more. Why, we only get 95 cents more a month, Eula. Eula?”

  “Indeed,” Eula barely breathed, her hard eyes pounding on Queenie’s backside.

  “Eula, you need to write a letter immediately and ask for more,” Harriett griped. “I’m going to send in a complaint to the Philadelphia library and tell them it is shameful to waste top dollar on the likes of them.” Harriett nailed a scowl onto Queenie and cut a bigger one at me.

  I know’d my job was about to get harder with Queenie leaving, and with me being the only colored, I’d suffer twice as much. But even Harriett couldn’t steal my grin. I was so proud of Queenie. Admired her courage and envied it at the same time. Philadelphia. Assistant librarian.

  I joined her side. Queenie held out her hands, and I took them eagerly and squeezed.

  “What grand news,” I said, meaning it. “It’ll be a fine place for you and your family.” I held onto her a bit longer, searching her face for news. “Pa.” I dropped the word in a whisper. But Queenie’s eyes were jeweled with tears, and she didn’t see anything but her future out of here. She said, “Oh, honey, they have a great collection of Charles Dickens letters and, oh, the manuscripts and—”

  “You’ll get to see it all, touch them,” I said, knowing how fond she was of the old author.

  “They’re training Negro librarians now at the Hampton Institute.” She wiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand.

  “You’d sure make a good one.” I pulled out my clean hankie, handed it to her, letting my hand linger on hers. I leaned in closer and barely whispered again, “Did you get—”

  “Back to work!” Harriett ordered. And to Eula, “Lawd, these lazy coloreds’ll use any excuse not to work.”

  Queenie sassed her with her eyes.

  A few minutes later, Queenie sidled up alongside me, shelved a book over my shoulder, and gently bumped me.

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nbsp; She pushed a note into my hand and whispered, “From your papa. I’ll come by before I leave.” She slipped back over to her worktable to get the rest of her books.

  My heart pounded so hard I feared it would rip the buttons off my dress and knock itself out. Quickly, I stuffed the letter into my pocket and hurried to shelve the last books in my pile, dropping nearly half of them onto the floor along the way. Harriett mumbled something rude, and I rushed to finish. Done, I grabbed my bag and one newspaper out of a handmade broom-handle rack beside Harriett’s table and was out the door, the screen clapping into the supervisors’ fury.

  “Widow Frazier—” Eula cried out.

  “Bluet! Bluet, you need my permission for newsprint,” Harriett yelled. “Get back here, or I’ll see you down on them bloody-blue knees scrubbing my ladies’ latrine and polishing the floors. Eula, make her—”

  For once, I didn’t care what Harriett thought or what punishment she’d dish out to me. I had myself a newspaper for my patron, Queenie was going to be the assistant librarian in a big city, and, the very best, Pa was safe.

  Twenty-Five

  I waited until I was a far piece from town before I rested. A relief washed over me that Pa was alive. Nothing was more important than my only family left, and I forgot about everything but him. Then, fear of what Queenie’d done hit me cold. If the Company had found her with the letter, passing notes from union men, they would have beaten her, then burned her out of her home, maybe murdered her, gone after her family. That I’d put Queenie in danger by using her and her patron to get word to Pa left me shamed, terrified for her.

  It was just last year when the Company had gone to Gordon Brown’s home at the miners’ camp after they’d found his wife passed letters from her husband to gather miners for a strike. When they didn’t find Mr. Brown, they ransacked the house, destroyed every stick inside, then lay in wait all night to shoot her husband. The next day, when Brown still hadn’t come home, the Company bosses evicted the wife and their seven children. Not a week later, a sympathetic barrister in the next county went to meet with Company bosses on behalf of the Brown family and other wronged miners. Two days later, the young lawyer was killed when his motorcar was bombed.

  My hands picked up a tremble and I touched my pocket, pressed my palm against the letter. Queenie was safe. Pa was safe. That’s all that mattered, I told myself. Slowly, I scanned the trees, looking behind me and all around. Twice, and then a third time to make sure I was alone.

  Junia led us along a wooded path as I tore open the envelope and read as best as I could, again pausing to look over my shoulder in case Company bosses were afoot.

  Pa’s letter said he was near the Tennessee line in family talks and was in good health and would be home in two nights. Family talks was code for mine meetings.

  Another two nights…

  Here he’d never been out of these hollers more than two minutes. I worried about these talks and the trouble he could be getting himself into—the unrest with the miners, the dangers they were stirring up.

  Mama’d fretted it and loudly when she was alive. But every time I’d try to talk to Pa about it, he’d rail a bit, then walk away grumbling.

  Junia halted, and that’s when I saw it in our path. The mule pawed and stomped a warning, but the rattlesnake stilled, slowly coiled itself into a tight S, rose partway up, forked its tongue, and wagged its rattler, refusing to slither away.

  I pulled Junia’s reins, nudging her to circle around. But the ol’ girl weren’t having none of it. Flicking her tail, she stared off to the left and bared chomping teeth.

  I snapped the reins.

  The snake shook its rattler harder, raising it.

  “Back, ol’ girl. Ghee around now,” I cautioned.

  The mule snorted, backstepped, and teetered, raring to stomp. I tugged again, ordering her to pull back and around, like we’d done before, and to give the creature time to cross.

  “Back, Junia, whoa, whoa,” I commanded, dug harder into her sides. “Easy!”

  Then I was falling, hitting the earth, tumbling toward the snake. My hands went to my face, and I curled myself into a ball to ward off its deadly strike.

  Hooves pounded the earth, and then a strangled cry shivered the pines. For a second I couldn’t make out if it was mine, Junia’s, or another’s.

  I let out a few hard breaths and dared to open my eyes. To my horror, Pa’s letter rested next to the snake. Wriggling, I rolled over onto my belly, crawled, inched toward it, and slowly stretched out my arm, my eyes locked to the serpent, my fingers almost on the paper.

  An explosion rang out, and Junia bawled into the thundering blast of gunshot. I recoiled and cradled my head, a terror striking like no other that the Company had found me out.

  Dropping my face into the dirt, I wrapped my arms over my head, the weight of my crime pummeling my chest, shoveling me into a shallow grave, my flesh exposed, bait for the snake’s poison, for the Company men’s bullets. Seconds later, footfalls sounded, then quieted, and I risked raising my head slightly to peek.

  Angeline stood on the leaf-scattered trail with her arm clasped over a small pouting belly, an old rope looped loosely around her swollen waist and knotted with a dead rabbit dangling against her skirts, a floppy brown hat atop her blond head, the sulk dragging her mouth, a polkstalk gripped hard in her white-knuckled hand.

  “Junia, you ol’ ill-tempered Apostle. Scat!” Angeline lightly knocked the mule’s knees with the butt of her gun, tapping her away from the dead snake. “Back. That’s my supper, and you hain’t gonna smush it ’fore I can get it in the skillet.”

  “Ang…Angeline,” I barely breathed, and pulled myself onto my knees. I pressed my hands to my pounding chest, took another quaking breath, and slowly rose.

  Angeline latched onto my arm and helped steady me upright.

  “The mule—she wouldn’t go off the trail,” I said.

  Junia nickered loudly. She had her nose aimed to the side, ears flicking, looking at nothing but a smatter of rock in tall grass.

  “Dammit,” Angeline said, and dropped my arm.

  She broke down her single-shot, pulled out the spent shell, retrieved a new one from her skirts, and reloaded. I scrambled for Junia’s reins. Aiming the barrel over to the base of the rock, she fired, sending up dirt, grass, and a knot of baby snakes.

  Burnt gunpowder filled the air.

  Angeline rushed over to rocks. “Got ’em. It’s the nest, sure ’nough,” she said. “That’s why Junia wouldn’t go around, scared she’d step on it.” Angeline poked it with her gun. “That ol’ rattler was gonna make sure she didn’t either.” Angeline turned back to me. “Oh, Bluet, you hain’t hurt none, are you?”

  I let out a breath. “Fine. Thanks, Angeline.” I slapped the dirt off my sleeves, flexing my hands, and inspecting for any injuries. “I didn’t expect you out here.”

  Angeline plucked a torn leaf from my hair, rubbed off a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “I’m getting food now that we’s got some bullets from the tinker man passing through. Willie traded him some ginseng root.”

  She looked a little wild standing there, fierce, her tanned feet comfortable atop ancient knobby tree roots like the earth was her Cinderella slipper. The loose plait in her light hair glistened in a blade of sunlight.

  For a minute I envied her, wanted to send Junia home, unlace my heavy, tight shoes, and run free with her to escape Frazier, the doc and his medical tests, and everything damning me—to hunt and fish in the woods like I’d done as a child. To be wilded. Have a wilded heart in this black-treed land full of wilded creatures. There were notches in these hills where a stranger wouldn’t tread, dared not venture—the needle-eyed coves and skinny blinds behind rocks, the strangling parts of the blackened-green hills—but Angeline and hillfolk here were wilded and not afraid. And I longed to lift bare feet onto ancient paths and be wilde
d once again.

  Angeline said, “Willie’ll be out here fetching victuals soon. He’s getting well now. Been hobbling out to the garden and back every day. Them bottles you gave us sure are curing him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Angeline lifted my hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Thank you for saving him, Bluet.”

  I snatched it back.

  “You ought not do that, Angeline. Someone might see you touching me. A Blue. And they could cause you trouble. It might anger Willie—”

  “Hmph. Willie totes his pride in a beggar’s cup. He wouldn’t be here if not for you. And hain’t caring a snit ’bout those that don’t care none for me and mine.” She gave a bright smile. “Here it’s already June, and Honey’ll be here next month and have herself a pa now ’cause of you.” Angeline bent over and grabbed the snake, tying it to her rope. “And I got us fine meat, more’n one supper’s worth.”

  Supper. I licked my lips, tasting. There’d been so little of it lately. Tonight I’d hunt for nettles to have soup.

  Twenty-Six

  I cooked a pot of nettles on Friday, hoping for Pa’s return. The bright-green broth simmered atop the stove as the June breeze slipped into the warm cabin, stirring the earthy scents, the long day beckoning the dusk.

  I tried to read Jackson’s book, but I jumped up at every creaking board and rattling pane, and soon the uneasiness drove me out to the yard. Restless for Pa’s arrival, I searched the trees, startled at every falling leaf and acorn. Darkness was near, and I watched as the last bird hurried to its nest.

  Unable to stand it any longer, I grabbed a lantern and rode Junia toward Troublesome.

  In town, we circled around the Company store several times, the night sky cloaking us. I checked in back of the courthouse for Pa or any miners, and over at the post office, hoping I’d see him, then moseyed over to the old feed store.