The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  He’d been in an accident, maybe worse. His face was bruised blue as the color that stained my chamber pot each morning since I’d been taking the methylene.

  “Here, have a seat.” He pointed to a step. “You’re white as the fog up here after a heavy rain.”

  How many times had I envied those words, white as? How desperately I’d wanted those words for my own, a prideful thing. I could stop this madness now, toss the medicine, but I craved the color more. “I am a little under the weather, R.C.”

  Over his shoulder, a girl stood behind him. She was reed thin with big doe-brown eyes. There was a cut on her mouth, and one eye was swollen and bruised purple.

  The boy looked worse. His nose sat crooked, and an arm hung limp and twisted to the side. A front tooth was missing, and a good part of his left ear had been clipped.

  “R.C., what happened? Does it hurt—?” I asked. “You must be in a lot of pain. Here, you sit.” I scooted over.

  R.C. waved away my concerns. “Hold on, ma’am. Stay seated, and I’ll get you something to help.”

  “I’m fine. Please don’t trouble yourself,” I pleaded, worried he’d hurt himself more fussing after me, but he was off, racing up the steps, thundering his way back to the cabin.

  The young girl stared at me, rocking on the balls of her feet. She glanced up the stairs and said quietly, “My man’s a good one. Smart. He’s gonna learn me the books too.”

  Feeling ill, I could only bob my head.

  “My daddy said we could live with him, but that tin room up in the sky there”—she raised her chin—“is bigger than Daddy’s whole cabin,” Ruth chattered on. “R.C. turned him down. Said he’s looking to grow our babies up here, just like his folks done with him. He’s gonna work hisself up to forestry dispatcher and then get the schoolin’ to be a forest ranger. Be the lawman of the whole forest. He’s real smart like that,” she said again, proud.

  “He is. I’m sure you’ll be happy here.” I wished it.

  “I sure is happy to be with my man. My brothers were real ornery, and my daddy and them whipped me a lot, but R.C. sweared he won’t whoop on me.”

  R.C. came tromping down the stairs. He handed me a mug of water and shoved a generous piece of yellowroot into my hand.

  I murmured thanks in between tiny sips and gnawed on the root while R.C. and Ruth watched. In a minute, the herb eased my ails. Standing, I gave my thanks again, set the cup on the rail, and pocketed the yellowroot. We swapped out his old newspaper loan for a fairly decent copy of an American Forests magazine and the flyer.

  “This just came in from Lexington,” I said, pleased to give it to him.

  “Oh, Miss Bluet, this magazine is surely a great one,” R.C. exclaimed. “It’s gonna be the best! Look, Ruth.” He handed her the advertisement for the Fourth celebration. “Here’s the celebration I told you about.” R.C. showed her the flyer and pulled her up beside him. “Shoot, ma’am, I plumb forgot my manners. This is Ruth. Ruth Cole, my bride. Ruth, this is Book Woman, but you can call her Bluet, though she don’t look much like a damselfly today.” He grinned.

  “Hello, Ruth.” I mustered a smile.

  Ruth looked down at her bare feet. “We’s met, R.C.” She dropped into a half curtsy for me. “Howdy again, ma’am.”

  R.C. beamed. “Do you think you can bring her some of them female magazines and scrapbooks, ma’am? I’m gonna learn her to read.”

  “I sure will.”

  “Ruth, you best go back up and watch the Osborne, hot one comin’ up today. I’ll see Book Woman down.”

  She gave a shy wave and said, “Hope to see you at the Independence celebration tomorrow, ma’am. R.C. done told me all about it. And the Forestry is giving my man two paid days off starting tomorrow.”

  R.C. led me down the steps.

  At the bottom, he said, “I never did thank you proper for bringing me the letter the last time, ma’am. Mr. Beck didn’t want to let Ruth go, and he whipped her.” He tilted his head up to the sky, squinting. “I had to fight him for her.”

  I’d heard some unfavored courters did that. Had to fight for a bride. A test to join another clan.

  “I’m sorry, R.C.,” I said, letting him talk it out.

  “Him and his sons tore into me, busted me some.” He wrinkled his broken nose and winced, then rubbed a shoulder. “Didn’t matter none when this was already busted.” R.C. thumped his chest. “I took their whippings, and they was mean ones all right… But I got my licks in, mind you,” he added. “After, they said I’d earned her, and we drank to it.”

  His smile was childlike, but a manliness settled into his face after what he’d done. “We had us a preacher over in Crooked Branch officiate it, and afterward, her family put on a right good feast.”

  “Congratulations on your marriage. Be well.” I dared to lightly touch his arm.

  He didn’t pull away, just scratched his head and beamed. “I’d take a dozen whuppings for that girl.”

  I stared at him, awed by what lengths folks go to for love.

  “Yessir, two dozen, even,” R.C. said proudly.

  I couldn’t imagine finding any man that would take one for me, and for a moment I tried.

  “Feel better, ma’am. And you be sure an’ nibble on that root and get yourself well. You’re mighty important to us and all. Can’t have you sick, or worse.”

  Worse. The word slid over me, leaving its biting mark. That the drug could cause such fierce reactions made me suddenly wonder if it could get worse.

  Thirty-Two

  Heat trembled atop skinny pine forests and licked at mountain rock that rose above Troublesome. The hand on my pocket watch hadn’t struck eight, and the July morning was already boiling, the blanket of air clammy, pleated with buzzes of excitement over the town and its tiny Independence Day celebration.

  I snapped the pair case shut, slipped the timepiece back into my skirts, and watched from atop Junia behind a thicket of brush and tall briar on a knoll as folks set up tables below, went about fancying the town for their big two-day celebration.

  Several times I glanced at my pale hands, each time feeling relieved, my excitement growing as I dared to go down and join the white folk.

  Women carried cakes, pies, and tasty eats and arranged them on red-checkered cloth tables. Menfolk sliced watermelon and made a dandy spread of deer sausage and other game they’d trapped for the festivities. Folks gathered at the Company store to chatter. Families claimed patches of grass in shady spots and spread out quilts and baskets groaning with prized recipes.

  I ran my hand down over my thick saddlebag. It held a Scripture cake, one of the first recipes Mama’d taught me so I’d learn my Bible verses while baking. I had cut the cake with cinnamon, figs, and a dollop of expensive sorghum I’d saved up for and had Pa tote home from the Company store after Queenie had suggested I attend the celebration. Pa usually balked at spending money like that, frittering away hard-working pay, but he weakened when I told him it was Mama’s recipe. I’d made a smaller cake for him, and he’d ate it heartily, grunting compliments in between mouthfuls.

  Surely it was good enough for today.

  Impatient, Junia nickered for us to go. I fought again to get my gumption up, wavered between turning for home or joining the townsfolk. I stared down at the crowd, lifted an arm, and admired my new color. I didn’t have to watch this celebration from a window, and I took a deep breath and snapped the reins. “Ghee.” The mule agreed and hurried down the slope.

  I led her over to the post office, dismounted, and watched the coming and going of happy folks, curious wide-eyed children, men gussied up in their Sunday duds and smart hats, and women in new-sewn dresses. Young’uns played tag and kick the can in the dusty street. A group of small girls held up new apple dollies their mamas had peeled and carved out from fat Granny Smiths, showing off the funny-face whittled fruits. Th
ree boys sat on a stoop at the post office with a pile of forest sticks and made whimmydiddles, digging out notches on the wood toy with their pocketknives, carefully selecting more sturdy twigs to make the wooden spinners to top them. “Ghee-haw,” one of them shouted, raised his new toy, and furiously rubbed the notched whimmydiddle with a thick stick to make the top spin.

  A few folks had set up display tables to sell deerskins, coon caps, rabbit foot charms, and other pelts they’d fashioned from their hunts. Junia lifted her nose toward a large cast-iron pot hanging over a small fire. The aroma of turtle soup filled the air with garlic and onion and other spices.

  The Company store had set up a stand under a banner, and red, white, and blue streamers with Old Glory were mounted beside it. A man in a yellow bow tie stood in front of the wooden booth barking at passersby. “Get your tickets for a chance to win the celebration quilt from Troublesome’s finest sewing club. Tomorrow at dusk one lucky winner takes home this year’s quilt. Right here, step up ’n’ get your ticket,” he barked.

  The booth was stocked with hand-held flags, spangle sparkler lights, rockets and firecrackers, candy treats, and other notions they would give to the townsfolk. The Fourth was the only time out of the year the Company shut down the mine for a two-day holiday and donated goods to Troublesome. Families would come down from their hollers, across creeks, and out of coves to enjoy the free festivities, stuffing themselves and having an excited social with their neighbors.

  My folks had taken me once when I was little. We’d gone with Uncle Colton. A fight had broken out when a drunk put his hands on Colton’s wife. Words and slurs had hit the Blues like punches, and Pa had grabbed Uncle Colton, his wife, Mama, and me, and rushed us back to the holler. That was the last time I saw my uncle—the last Independence Day celebration we’d attended.

  “But I’m white now, and a respectable librarian,” I told Pa last night when he insisted I stay home.

  “Daughter, no good will come of you going to mingle with them folks,” he’d warned.

  “I’m the same as them now, Pa. Look at me, look at my color.”

  “I don’t like it,” he grumbled. “Those that can’t see past a folk’s skin color have a hard difference in them. There’s a fire in that difference. And when they see you, they’ll still see a Blue. No city drug’s gonna change small minds, what they think about peculiarity. For them like-minded folks, there is no redemption for our kind. Stay put where you belong, Cussy.”

  Two young’uns raced past me, brushing my skirts. I recognized one of them as Winnie’s student. He stopped and turned back to me, waving a handful of sparklers. “Book Woman, looka here.” The boy raised the fireworks higher. “It’s July 3, and these are for me! I’m eight today, and Pa says all these fireworks are for my birthday! An’ we’re gonna celebrate it Thursday and Friday.” He grinned and was off to catch up with his friend, not even noticing or caring about my color. Again, I checked my hands.

  The celebration crowd was growing larger, and laughter floated down the street. I tied Junia to her spot at the post office, straightened my skirts, and carried the pie toward one of the gathering tables the townsmen had built, suddenly aware that the excited folks weren’t really paying attention to me at all, that Pa was wrong. I belonged, same as everyone else.

  With a lightness in my step, I found myself smiling. I spied Jackson ride in on his horse and watched him secure it next to the Company store. Harriett, in a new flower-blossomed dress, rushed up to greet him, full of the once-a-year fever that came with the town’s special day.

  She jabbered happily at him, trying to keep up with his long strides until Jackson said something to her, tipped his brim, and moved on to a small group of men. One of them, Mr. Dalton, Troublesome’s banker, greeted him with a friendly slap on the back, and the other men shook his hand heartily.

  He didn’t see me when I bustled past toward the sewing circle. Likely, he wouldn’t want to neither after the fuss I’d made on the trail. It was just as well. He was a patron, and only that. I’d been foolish to think our friendship meant more, or could ever be.

  I approached the table with seven women around it. Constance Poole and her sewing bee chattered gaily over the folds of fabric, putting the finishing touches on the celebration quilt. From a few feet back, I admired their workmanship, studied the red, white, and blue blocked star design, and listened to their excited talk.

  I reached up and touched my collar, then inspected my capped sleeves, my own needlework. I’d searched through magazine advertisements for dresses and hairstyles, then through our trunks and found some old lace and a few seed pearls of Mama’s, and sewed them around the neck and onto the sleeves of my old soft, brown dress to make it more fashionable and less drab. For the past week, I’d practiced rag-curling my hair into soft wavy curls. This morning, I awoke hours before dawn and carefully worked damp ringlets around the strips of fabric. When my hair dried, I pulled it all back loosely with Doc’s new white ribbons.

  I could see Constance Poole and the others sharing amusing stories as their busy fingers lit across the quilt, expertly stitching and knotting. One lady urged Constance to go over and say hello to someone, exchange a proper festive greeting, she poked, sure would be a fine one to court. The others chimed in agreeing, whispering, and then I heard his name. Constance glanced over her shoulder, right at Jackson. Her cheeks rosied as the girls’ voices chorused into giggles and gossip about Troublesome’s latest eligible man.

  Their lively talk covered a few other men, tales of courtship, but twice I caught Constance sneaking glimpses back at Jackson. I could tell she was sweet on him. They would make a handsome couple, her with the lovely ivory face and him with the strong, handsome one. They could be one of the dashing couples I’d seen in the magazines. A Cinderella and the Prince.

  My old color crept into mind, doubt pricked, and I looked away, feeling dimmed by her beauty, knowing my new looks were just temporary—that I could turn back into a pumpkin just as quick. Checking my hands, I was relieved to see they didn’t betray my jealousy.

  A group of young’uns chased each other past the table, their screams jarring my thoughts. Clutching the cake, I smoothed down my skirts with my free hand and patted my ruffled collar, anxious fingers traveling upward, worrying my new hairdo.

  The cake suddenly felt heavy in my other hand, the heat just as heavy and pressing. A dull headache throbbed at the base of my head, crawled up behind the ears, and I blinked and slightly rolled my shoulders to dismiss it. Silently, I counted the steps that would take me safely back to Junia, each number niggling, telling me to turn back to her now. The table of ladies exploded with laughter at something that I didn’t hear. I searched their pink faces, glanced at my arms. I’m white, white, I pounded the declaration into my brain, chasing off misgivings. Taking a breath, then another, I stepped up to Constance.

  “Miss Poole, ladies, happy Fourth.” I held out the cake and shot them my best smile. “Uh, ma’am, I made a Scripture cake and thought the sewing ladies might enjoy a slice. It was my mama’s favorite…an old family recipe passed down from her grandma.”

  Constance’s eyes bugged, and a gasping hush locked the other women’s wagging tongues.

  “Why, Widow Frazier, you’ve turned white. Are you unwell?” She snatched a hankie from the folds of her skirts, patted a shiny forehead and pinched mouth. The other women scooted together, clattering their chairs against each other’s legs, their six faces pinned to mine and snaking over the length of me.

  “Fine, ma’am. I added an extra dollop of long sweetnin’ to the recipe.” I thrust the cake out, tried to give it to her. But she flinched, fell back against her chair.

  “I just… Well, I wanted to stop by and see if I could join you, maybe lend a hand on the quilt. I’ve got a tight running stitch, and my mama always said it’s one of the best she’d seen and—” I slipped a finger under my dampening collar, tugged l
ightly, and searched their faces. And then because it might be friendlier, safer, I added, “Sure don’t remember a Fourth as hot as this one.”

  Uneasy silence batted around the group, shivering the hot, steamy air. Nearby a firecracker went off, making us all jump and leaving the ladies bleating nervously.

  Constance balled her hand over a working patch on the quilt.

  “I’ve got a decent chain stitch too, and my blind stitch is…” I hesitated, desperation sneaking into my wavering voice.

  The woman looked to her companions, a silent question passing over each one. A fretful answer in their narrow eyes. I darted a shy smile around the group, hoping. Constance cleared her throat. “Widow Frazier, we have seven in our sewing bee, and we’d like to keep it at a comfortable seven.”

  She turned her head back to the women’s approving glances, tossed a grim, satisfied smile to her group, picked up a needle, and dipped in and out of the quilt, picking up speed. A heavy moment passed, hard whispery voices buzzed, before the ladies lifted their prattle back to sewing and the affairs of the celebration, dismissing me.

  “Have you ever. A heathen making a Bible cake,” one spat out low.

  “Disgraceful. Spectacle,” an older woman hissed while her seatmate snuck a pitying glance my way. A younger girl with dimples and cold, blue eyes looked at me like I had the nuisance of a small bother. Another shot a look of triumph, and still another’s eyes burned with anger.

  Disgraceful. Spectacle. Heathen. I tucked my head. The hurtled words battered me like stones. The air felt like I was wearing it and had caught fire, trapping me.

  Another firecracker went off and broke my prison, sending me scurrying back to Junia with the cake clasped in my hands. I chanced a peek back to the table of tittering ladies, then pinched my wrist and watched the white skin pucker and sink back into the flesh, into my shame and sadness. Again I pinched harder, dug in, the punishment not near enough for my grave transgression.