The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  I’d been foolish. Reached the worse. The drug had not redeemed me. I didn’t belong at this bright, happy gathering with these lively folks and bubbly chatter. I belonged in darker places where darker thoughts kept me put, where sunlight, a cheerful voice, or a warm touch never reached me. Weren’t no pill ever going to change that.

  I threw the cake into a bush and mounted Junia, glancing once more at the crowd. Across the street, Jackson talked to a group of smiling men and women. He lifted his head my way, raised a hand, and called out, “Cussy Mary…”

  I couldn’t bear for him to see my disgrace, see me for who I really was—who I’d become in their eyes. “Ghee!” I kneed the mule hard, and she raced off toward our dead, dark holler.

  Thirty-Three

  Even though the Pack Horse librarians had two days off for the Fourth, I left the celebration and rode to my outpost to be alone, stopping twice to empty my belly, the medicine and nerves wearing me. Determined, I climbed back into the saddle and continued on.

  While I was there, I’d pick up the courier’s new parcels for my Friday route. I couldn’t let down the small community that would be waiting for the new loans tomorrow, and I needed to be in the chapel with my dark thoughts. Soon, those hard feelings dissolved and my belly righted as I delved into the reading materials and escaped to my books.

  On Friday, it took all day to reach my patron through the darkly passes. Toting my heaviest book bags, weighing close to fifty pounds, wore on Junia.

  The mule plowed heavily along rugged passes thick with vines, branches, and briars, crossed trickling creek waters, and twisted around thickets of scrub pine and beyond until we came to a pinhole passage that kept us from going any farther.

  The skies opened, and down came steady rain, pushing up scents of new earth and aging rot. I didn’t mind. It helped numb my thoughts of the sewing bee, of Jackson Lovett, what had been said, and what was best left unsaid, and now what would never come to be. I lifted my face and let the rain wash it, pelt at me.

  I could see the patron ahead. Weather never stopped him, and despite feeling poorly, I wiped my face and waved.

  Soft light he was, and just as welcoming, bathed in his own sunny color, forty-year-old Oren Taft stood grinning in tattered, wet clothes, a bright-green cap atop his long brown hair as he waited beside the small headstones rising from the weeds.

  I returned his smile, feeling the warmth of it on this cloudless day.

  Not far from the tiny graveyard stood his grandparents’ abandoned home propped on leaning sticks, the gray walls sunken, the rotted weather boards gaping, weakened from years of rains and damp woods and the patching of thickening wisteria under a roof buckling to rainy skies. Wild roses climbed up crumbling chimney rock, creeping over a pile of broken stone, their soft, pink blooms tangled with the wild purple wisteria, lifting a slight fragrance into the rain, rising up on the dismal day.

  “Good afternoon, Book Lady, I didn’t much expect you today, it being the Fourth. Thought I would chance it, and I’m mighty glad I did,” he said cheerfully, standing guard over two tow sacks.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Taft. Happy Fourth, sir.”

  The mule stretched out her neck and blew at him.

  Mr. Taft stepped out of Junia’s path over to his grandparents’ home, wisely distancing himself from her temper until I tethered her.

  I tied Junia to a tree next to a broken gravestone and unloaded the books onto a board under a thick arch made from grapevine Mr. Taft had woven into a cover for the books.

  Mr. Taft’s tiny community of eleven families lived over the mountain from where we were standing in a place called Tobacco Top. An impossible pass for even the smallest of beasts. They were holler dwellers, the poorest, and what most mountainfolk looked down on. Without fail, every Friday, he’d meet me at his old family homestead after hiking the eight miles to get the reading, drop off his loans, and tote his new ones back to the isolated families waiting.

  Mr. Taft snuck glances at my face, puzzled by my new color.

  “Are you well today?” he called as he walked toward me. “I hope they ain’t working you too hard.”

  I stacked the reading materials neatly under the arch. “Fit, sir, just spent from the rains.” I pulled my floppy hat down over my white forehead, let the rain trickle off the wide brim and onto my shoes.

  The drug still made me sick every time. And at least once a day, Pa needled me to stop taking the tablets and threatened to throw them out.

  Mr. Taft pulled out a small cloth bag. “This’ll cure any ails. My woman said to give you these and to thank you for the books.”

  I opened the bulging bag, and the scent of strong onion tickled my nose. Inside were fat ramps.

  “There’s a note she tucked in for you,” he said.

  I pulled out the paper and held it under my brim of my hat and out of the rain.

  “It’s mighty good and some of the finest biscuits in these parts,” Mr. Taft assured.

  “It sure looks it.” It was a recipe for ramp biscuits with hog jowl.

  “You just crisp up that jowl, then put ’em and these ramps into your dough.” He patted his slim belly. “Better than my granny’s.”

  “Pa’ll love it, and folks will surely use this fine recipe. Much obliged to your missus. Thank you both.”

  I handed him back the bag, reluctant to take the ramps, and especially after I’d thrown away the cake at the celebration when so many hungered.

  He shook his head. “Oh no, ma’am. My woman will skin my hide if I don’t give ’em all to you.”

  It would fatten a lot of meager meals. Meals I feared I’d be taking from others. Meals I didn’t deserve. I glanced at his rail-thin arms, busted shoes.

  Mr. Taft pushed, “Real good in the eggs, and if you get yourself a fat turkey, well, my woman stuffs it full with ’em.” Again, he rubbed his belly. “Good eats.”

  “She must be a fine cook.”

  “Yes, ma’am, ain’t none better in these mountains. Best biscuits I’ve ever had on this good earth.” He beamed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Taft. It’s a fine gift. I should get your loans into my satchel and your new ones into your bags before it kicks up a real storm.”

  We finished our exchange, and again Mr. Taft thanked me mightily while tying up his bags.

  I mounted Junia and watched him while he secured his books. Like me, he’d never missed a day, nary a one in sleet, snow, or rain. He was a big extension of my borrowing branch, a librarian in his own right. So much so that I called out to him, “Mr. Taft?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “There’s a new posting down at the Center for a Pack Horse librarian. And I thought of you, sir.” I stopped, worried I’d gone too far, been too bold for this humble man. Would he see it as charity, scold me? I glanced again at his shoes, the leathers pocked full of holes and peeling away, then back at him, hoping I hadn’t offended him. Just when I was about to work up an apology, he raised a brow.

  “Librarian?” His face opened up with pleasure and surprise.

  The job was still posted. It’d been hard to find someone to take on Queenie’s route. But if anyone could, it would be him. “Yes, sir, we have us a few men in service now, and you’d make a fine one. The pay’s decent.”

  “Pay?” His eyes widened. “Been a long time since I’ve seen that.”

  The supervisors would hire him, if for nothing else than to have a man around to preen in front of, help with the crates and bulky packages, the heavier jobs.

  I looked over at his family’s old home. With some patching, it would make a good outpost for the carrier to drop off the loans for him.

  “At the Center?” he said.

  “Yes, sir. You can pick up an application at the post office too.”

  “Thank you kindly, Book Lady. It’d be an honor, and a good fortune for me and mine.
God bless you.” He hoisted his book bags higher on his back. “A librarian. Ain’t that something now. Won’t my woman be surprised.” He shook his head, still trying to grasp the notion. Then: “Where’s my manners? I hope you get to feeling pert soon, ma’am. I miss seeing my bonny Picasso.” He grinned.

  I stared at him blankly, and he added, “Picasso’s painting of the pretty blue lady, the Woman with a Helmet of Hair that I’d seen in one of the magazines you brought us? You remind me of her. Your fine color. My woman always said God saved that best color for His home.” He pointed a finger up to a patch of blue sky parting the gray clouds. “Guess He must’ve had Himself a little left over.”

  Astonished, I could feel my face warm. No one, not a soul, ever said my old color was fine. The best.

  Then he was off.

  The mule kept her eyes on the man till she was sure his distance was safe. “Time to go, ol’ girl.” I watched him a moment and then flapped my legs against Junia’s side.

  Mr. Taft hauled the books onto his back like the storybook Santa Claus, whistling into the rainy air, then meandered down the path and disappeared into the foggy, needle-eyed opening at the end.

  Thirty-Four

  The weekend found me fainting again as I stepped off the bottom rung of the loft ladder and spilled into Pa’s arms. When I came to, Pa scolded my vanity and my new color and damned our Blue affliction. “Dammit, Cussy.” He gripped my shoulders. “You’ll not have the pills and your route too. It’s prideful, dangerous, and I forbid it!”

  I escaped his hold and crumpled to the floor. Pa knelt down beside me, his bones stiff, creaky, and took me into his arms and cradled me, rocking. “My daughter, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for giving you this damn curse. Dear God, how I wish I hadn’t. Dear God, forgive me.” A tear sprung from his eyes, splashed onto my arm. Frightened for us, ashamed of my foolish airs, unable to witness the hurt, his sadness, I could only press my face into his chest and sob.

  It was the last morning I took the methylene blue, the last time I missed what I could never have and what was so foolish to miss. My pride, the hardships I placed on Pa and me, came at a bigger cost than I could bear. I couldn’t lose anymore, and I wouldn’t lose my route. The pills had already worn down my spirits, whittled my nerves. I had to get my books to folks, to hell with the color of my skin.

  Jackson’s words back on the path held a hard truth too. There’d been Oren Taft’s words yesterday, and the more I thought about his Picasso Blue Lady, her fine color, the best color, the more I reckoned God wanted me to have it. If it was good enough for Him and the famous artist, it had to be enough for me.

  Blue had to be enough for me, I vowed. The next morning, I looked into the mirror a little afraid. The white had quickly faded and the blue rose on my flesh, deepening, bruising, as I narrowed my eyes and whispered to my reflection, “This must be enough. I am enough.”

  Pa slipped up behind me, silently placed his gnarled blue hands on my shoulders and squeezed lightly.

  Doc didn’t seem to mind. “That’s fine, my dear. We wouldn’t want to add more discomfort to your burdens.” And I caught that by burdens he meant my lot in life—my color.

  “Should you change your mind, Bluet, call on me and I’ll get you more,” Doc had reminded when he’d dropped off a small basket of bread and fruits. He’d been busy minding his own—writing for the medical journals, drafting new letters, he’d said—before doing a quick check of Pa’s lungs and heart and mine too.

  But his visits became short, and far and few between until we rarely saw him at all, and then only in passing when he’d wave and give a cheery greeting.

  * * *

  Late afternoon, I rode into the empty schoolyard. A hot breeze teased the long July day as I plucked lightly at my damp collar and fluffed my sticky skirts. The goat and chickens ignored Junia’s worn call. New diddles poked their feathered heads up from the bottom of the coop, curious of our arrival. A hen flew down from her perch, protective of the baby chicks.

  The school was unusually quiet for a Monday, and I thought they might be having a test. Mountain schools didn’t have much of a schedule, keeping more or less to nature’s calendar. Fewer school days in the harsh winter meant more and longer when it turned mild. On the hottest days, the students would take their lessons outside under a shade tree.

  Winnie appeared in the doorway holding her loans. I nudged Junia over to her. The second I slipped off the mule, she rooted herself, refusing to let me tether her. “Ghee.” I pulled on her reins once, and then again. She wouldn’t budge. I dropped the lead, knowing Junia wasn’t going anywhere and I didn’t have to win every argument.

  “Cussy Mary,” Winnie said, stepping down off the wooden stairs into the dirt yard. “The children will be sorry they missed you again.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Last week, when I was ill, I’d snuck in and left the loans on the stoop, not wanting them to see my new color, or the illness caused by it. “You’ve discharged them early?” We exchanged books.

  “The school’s closed for the day. The superintendent came by for his annual meeting and to look over the children’s studies. I suppose it was about time since he’s missed the last two years.”

  Together we tucked the old loans inside my saddlebags. “Yes, ma’am,” I said and mounted.

  “The superintendent said the WPA is building a new stone school.”

  “A stone school,” I said, astonished. It was something Winnie had dreamed of. Everybody had.

  “I won’t see it.” Winnie fidgeted with her apron and patted the tight knot of hair on the back of her head. “Albert sent word to the superintendent for me. He says I am to join him in Detroit. He’ll pick me up at the train depot on August 8.”

  “He’ll be happy to see you, ma’am. Will a new teacher be sent?” I asked, sorry she would go.

  “It may be a while. I wish I could delay my move till we can find a teacher. I asked, but…” Winnie looked down at her hands, rubbed reddened fingertips over her short nails. “Well, he’s anxious for my arrival.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t stay.”

  “Me too, but you know how that is. It could be six months to a year before they find my replacement.”

  Winnie had taught the longest of any before her, for nearly three years. It was impossible to get a teacher into these hills, and for chicken scratch at that. Most weren’t cut out for it, and they’d pack their bags midyear.

  “I’d like to wait around, just a little longer.” She sighed. “But the superintendent said he wouldn’t give me permission to stay unless my husband granted it.”

  It must be hard on Winnie to leave her students. Still, there was nothing she could do without her husband’s consent.

  Winnie wiped her brow, patted her flushed neck. “Cussy Mary, I need a favor.”

  “Happy to oblige.”

  “Some kind soul had been dropping off a few food sacks, but they only stretched so far, and”—she rubbed watery eyes—“well, it’s Henry. He won’t be back. The boy’s too weak now. His mama has requested a drop-off and read.”

  Gloom seized. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure to add him to my route.”

  “I’ve written out the request for the Center. Godspeed,” Winnie said, passing me the note with a squeeze to my hand, and hurried back into the empty schoolhouse.

  * * *

  The teacher’s request was waiting for me at the Center on Tuesday. The next day, I skipped my fire-tower route and journeyed toward Henry’s with a heavy heart, riding miles until I found the tiny cabin stitched into a mountain, tarred with black pine and stingy sunlight.

  In the yard, two crows drank from mud puddles. Overhead, more cawed before dropping down to scar the yard. Two sick chickens peeked around the corner of the cabin, their combs and wattles festered with the fowl pox. A rawboned dog dozed on the crumbling porch. Junia snorted, and the
pup raised its mangy body and flattened its flea-bitten ears before slinking off.

  This old land had more dead stirring than sleeping, and Henry’s mama, a pale, gaunt spirit, bore witness as she opened the door.

  “Ye is here. I prayed for ye to come, Book Woman,” she said weakly, planting a hand on her chest. “I’m Henra’s mama, Comfort Marshall.”

  Weren’t no solace to be found in a pretty name that the fates had cruelly robbed and left marked.

  “Ain’t long now,” she said. “I thank ye for coming, Book Woman. The Good Lord’ll take away Henra’s pain by the ’morrow an’ carry ma sweet boy to His home.”

  “Victuals, ma’am.” I handed the woman my food sack. Her dead eyes filled with limp surprise. Doc had dropped off a carton yesterday, and I’d stuffed everything into the sack to bring to the family.

  “Thank ye, thank ye. Come in… Ah, let me give ye—” Henry’s mama looked over her shoulder, desperately searching for something, anything to give in return. She dug in her apron pockets, patted her sides, and then thumped her hollow chest. “This.” Reaching under her baggy dress, she pulled up a leather cord that held a metal-blackened crucifix of Jesus on it. “It was my mam’s,” she said, slipping it off her neck and holding it up like it was a sack of gold. “Ye take it now an’ Jesus’ll protect ye.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said gently. “Jesus needs to stay with you.” I crossed the threshold. If ever there was a place He was sorely needed, it was here.

  “God bless ye, good Book Woman.” She kissed the prayer onto dead Jesus’s feet and dropped the cord back over her neck, rubbing the medal with gnarled fingers.

  Inside the quiet shanty, a faint smell of corn lifted. A heap of young’uns piled under coverlets on an old corn-shuck-filled mattress. They poked their heads out as I entered, the stiff stalks crackling beneath their weight, candlelight shivering across their faces.

  The family’s opened cupboard was bare except for a bag of black walnuts that’d spilled out of its mouse-nibbled sack. An iron skillet of morel mushrooms with mustard weed sat atop the stove, the dryland fish and grasses, the family’s only food. Beside it, another pan filled with a soup of wild thistle wafted into the air as it simmered.