The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  I pulled out my great-grandpa’s timepiece from under my coat, the silver watch dangling from a leather string hanging around my neck—a gift from my mama and one that’d been handed down to her from her grandpa in France.

  Pressing down on its pumpkin crown, I released the latch, and the small, bubbled filigree pair case opened. I peeked inside the inner case and noted the black hands on the porcelain dial, then snapped it shut and stuffed it back down into my coat.

  I left the school and rode into Bear Branch most of the way, walking Junia along the slippery tree-twisted route near the end, eager to drop off the Time weekly magazine at Mr. Prine’s homestead and always keeping my eyes and ears sharpened for Frazier.

  Though the newsmagazine weren’t weekly by the time I got the copy, and was three months old or more, Mr. Prine, a widower who’d fought in the Great War, would accept only the Time for his loans.

  I picked his old copy off the stoop and studied the newer one, the picture of someone with a mouthful of name—an older lady, Abby Greene Aldrich Rockefeller—on the cover. The magazine touted that she has a nose for new talent, and I reckoned she might in her fancy hat, stylish dark dress, and pearls.

  I rolled up the January edition like Mr. Prine had asked me long ago and left the magazine stuck between his doorjamb and latch.

  Close to three thirty, so I’d have to hurry now.

  A few miles into my next drop, Junia stopped, and I realized we’d reached Saw Briar Trace. My old rented mounts used to do the same. Junia didn’t mind and had took it easily the last three times, barreled through it even. But today she weren’t too keen on taking the trail.

  “Don’t be scared none,” I said, skittering down. Carefully, I led the mule along the brair’d path, smacking away branches with a high crooked elbow, my head tucked down to escape the thorny bushes.

  I hated that Junia might get scratched some, but there weren’t an easier way to reach our next drop. Tonight, I’d inspect her coat and put salve on any wounds. I needed to remember to ask Pa to clear the growth before it thickened in the summer. In the past, Pa’d insisted on renting Mr. Murphy’s horse a few times to comb over my trails for any trouble, saying that if I was bound and determined to tote foolish books, he needed to make sure I’d do it safely.

  Junia stepped lightly, zigzagging and dithering in her pace. I wetted my tongue with a ticking to hurry her on.

  A smattering of orange pine needles and rabbit scat dotted the mud trail. Ahead, I spotted a deadfall with a cottontail’s leg poking out. My belly rumbled. A family would have themselves a fine meal of rabbit meat, gravy, and biscuits tonight. I liked the tender part of the back the most, and for a minute I could almost taste the delicious meat.

  I’d eaten the apple and bread I’d brought from home hours ago, sharing pinches with Junia.

  Light-headed, I dug into my pocket for Henry’s gift. “I’m a’might hungry,” I said out loud, stopping.

  Junia snuffled.

  I unwrapped the paper and found a tiny Life Saver candy inside. Winnie had shared a nickel roll with me when she’d visited. She was fond of the sweet treats and would reward a good student with a piece.

  I licked it. Pineapple.

  The thought of Henry giving me his prize, this treasured bite, sat knotted in my throat. It was a grand thing. The little boy had lost one of his brothers to starvation last year, his pa had run off, and his mama was expecting. How long had the child held on to it for me, waiting to give it to me? How many times had the hunger pangs tempted him? Set his belly afire for the wanting? Yet, his love for words and books was stronger.

  I covered the Life Saver with the paper and slipped it back into my pocket to save in my tin box where I kept my fine keepsakes: Mama’s silver thimble and three brass buttons with the pretty scroll border, her tiny leather Bible, a letter written by my great-grandpa, and Pa’s brown-bone-handled penknife he’d favored as a boy.

  “Let’s ghee, ol’ girl.” I climbed atop Junia and plucked a song from my mind, singing for the distraction, quieting my hunger.

  At the Smith cabin, I rode Junia past the clothesline, a burst of soap and clean cottons swirling around us. The light of fading afternoon canted across grass folding into the darkening ground. I nudged Junia up to the window.

  Martha Hannah and her young’uns crammed the warped frame, leaned their heads out, lit with a big cheer from seeing me.

  The young mama stood peeling an onion. She swatted some of the children away, ordering them back to their chores.

  “Sorry I’m late, ma’am,” I said, feeling bad I’d interrupted her dinner chores. My mouth watered as I peeked past, smelling the skillet of chopped greens frying in grease. A girl poured corn kernels into a heavy pot of boiling water to make hominy, while her sister skinned a rabbit beside her.

  “No bother a’tall, Book Woman. Have any of them newspapers in your bags today?” she asked, hoping.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, wishing I’d snuck out the one Eula grabbed. The city newspapers went fast and were rarely returned. Most folks used the print to paper their cabin walls, keeping out drafts, holding in the warmth and fancying up drab rooms. The little ones made paper dolls out of them. “I’ll be sure and try and save you one next time I’m at the Center,” I said.

  “Would you have any Woman’s Home Companion?” She shifted, and I could see she was in the family way again.

  The Companion was a popular request. Mountain women were snatching up new cures and remedies from the magazine, abandoning their old ways of healing.

  “Sorry, ma’am, not today. I’ll look for one at the Center first thing back,” I said.

  “Be obliged to git one. Nester Rylie’s been reading it, and she told me in passing last year, she ain’t rubbed groundhog brains on her babies’ sore teeth or needed to use the hen innards on the gums of her teething ones since. And after she’d read about a good paste recipe that cured thrush, Nester said, none of her nine young’uns ain’t ever had to drink water from a stranger’s shoe again to get the healing.”

  From behind her I heard the rattle of a copper dipper in a water bucket. One of Martha Hannah’s daughters passed it to her mama.

  “For your ride, Book Woman,” the girl said.

  I handed her my worn leather-wrapped bottle Pa’d made, and she poured the sweet spring water into the container and passed it back.

  We exchanged books, and Martha Hannah and the young’uns thanked me. The children snuck a touch to Junia’s furry head, poked at the tufts of her spiky mane sticking up between her ears.

  Junia edged closer to the sill, leaned into the frame, enjoying the curious hands, nosing around for any victuals. Startled, the smaller young’uns stepped back and screamed and laughed, while the two older ones squealed and boldly stroked her muzzle.

  “Read us a story, Book Woman,” one boy rang out.

  “I wanna read White Fang,” another said.

  “No, The Call of the Wild,” a bigger boy insisted.

  “Shush, young’uns. Where’s your manners?” Martha Hannah said. “Book Woman’s had herself a long ride and even a longer one to go.”

  I wished I had time to chat and read, but Martha Hannah understood she was my second-to-last stop on Mondays, and I had little daylight left. We’d make up for it in the summer hours, I promised her.

  Her husband, Devil John, a moonshiner, walked into the yard right past me, stone-faced, without a greeting.

  Martha Hannah spotted him over my shoulder and snapped, “Git to your chores, young’uns. I need to git supper on the table quick. Finishing hulling them beans, Junior, and bring in the laundry, Lettie and Colleen.” Her voice turned edgy and shrill. “Carson!” She leaned her head out the window and peered across the yard. “Lawsy, you still ain’t hoed the garden? Git to it!”

  Weren’t two miles past the Smiths’ place when I spied Vester Frazie
r. Not really him, but his sneaky shadows: a dirty boot and the hem of his long topcoat poking out from behind a thick Kentucky coffee tree. I heard a soft nickering from his nearby horse.

  I sucked in a breath, feeling raw and exposed. That he’d been trailing me still left a sinking knot in my belly that rose in my throat like bile.

  Junia must’ve seen Frazier too because she cried out and broke into a wild gallop. I held tight, letting her run off the path.

  Ahead, I saw a woman and child collecting berries. Grateful to see hillfolk, I pulled Junia over and waited for them to pass. The boy stopped and pointed. “Look yonder, Mam.” When they drew close, I lifted a friendly hand, hoping to tell them about the library services. But the small young’un dropped the berry basket he’d been toting and cried out, “Oh, Mam, look, it’s har. It’s Blue Ghost ya done tol’ me about.”

  My greeting froze in midair.

  She yanked the little one’s arm so hard he stumbled and yelped. “Don’t look at har, William,” she warned, plucking up the basket and dragging him past me. The child’s whimpers lifted into the natters of chasing swallows.

  Junia shifted toward the lost berries, and I squeezed my legs against her sides and tugged the reins. “Halt,” I ordered the mule.

  The boy glanced back, and the woman tightened her hold and pulled him farther down the path, but not before I saw the wide-eyed fright in his eyes, the blame of childhood nightmares.

  I lowered my head, grieved that I was his.

  An hour later, I tethered the mule to a rotted porch rail and knocked on the door of my last patron. The seventy-five-year-old woman hollered, “Iffin’ that’s Bluet, get on in here, child.”

  Relieved, I looked once over my shoulder and stepped inside. Loretta Adams sat at her small table that had a worm-eaten wobbly leg. In front of her, two empty cups waited on the delicate walnut-stained doily she’d tried to center. Squares of fabric were piled neatly on the edge. A stack of sewing cloths lay on a tick-covered ottoman nearby.

  Tallow candles cast warm light across the whitewashed walls and the homespun curtains, the scent of animal fats wafting from candle wax. Loretta held an Old Testament book in her aproned lap.

  “Miss Loretta,” I said softly, “it’s me, Book Woman.”

  “I know’d who it is, child. Poor-sighted I am, not deaf.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I grinned and set down a book. Miss Loretta was nearly blind, a spinster who lived alone with only a nephew to check on her well-being. And then, only when he weren’t out on a tear for a month or more.

  Loretta still read some and had fine penmanship, but it wore on her eyes and she could only make out shadows at times, she claimed. Her hearing was good as most, her mind keen and full of sharp wit.

  She boasted how she could still whip the tightest stitch of anyone in Kaintuck, sew the prettiest counterpane, or fanciest church dress—a fine seamstress in her day, and occasionally I’d pass on a letter to her from folks writing to ask her to sew a christening, wedding, mourning, or church dress for them.

  Loretta’s cabin was neat and tidy, though there weren’t much to clean in the cramped area. The walls were darkened and baked from the woodstove, like all hill homes. But her bed was made, and she’d folded her quilt neatly across it, and I could tell she’d swept the floorboards and dusted some. A teakettle sat atop her lit wood stovetop, sweating from steam. A skillet of molasses bread rested beside it, sweetening the musty air, and another pot of water beside that.

  Under the stove, two skinny cats, Myrtle and Milkweed, raised their furry white heads and yawned before returning to their nap.

  Loretta swished a clumsy hand across the table and grasped for the china cups she’d put there. She found them and pushed them toward me.

  “You’re late today. Get the book, then get us some tea, child,” she said.

  I pulled out a wedge of pine snugged beneath the table leg, took my library book from the rickety table and propped it under the leg, steadying the rattling cups and placing the old table on solid standing.

  I gathered the cups and walked over to the stove to pour our teas and then turned and took a hearty gulp from mine before giving Loretta hers, grateful she couldn’t see my greedy thirst. I wiped my mouth with a sleeve, eyes locked on the bread.

  “Help yourself to the bread an’ bring the kettle over here and have yourself some more,” she said. “There’s plenty for seconds, child, thirds if you’re hankering. We have us enough sassafras root and spring water in this ol’ mountain to quench the whole country, an’ plenty of sweet bread today.”

  Feeling my face warm, I muttered, “Yes, ma’am.” Even though she couldn’t see well, I felt Loretta could see other, bigger things that most eagle-eyed folks missed. Still, I wouldn’t take her bread. It might be all she had to see her through the week.

  I pulled out one of the old split-bottom chairs beside the table and sank into the woven seat Loretta had made with bark strip.

  Loretta handed me her Bible, and I opened it to the Book of Ruth where’d we left off and read until she tapped my leg with her walking stick some twenty minutes later. “Get on home, child. Darkness is near.”

  I rubbed my eyes. Mountain shadows had seeped into the cabin, marbling the walls in black splashes.

  I stooped over, pulled the library book cautiously out from the leg, and replaced it with the pine wedge while my other hand gripped the table lip to keep the stuff from sliding off.

  I held the library book a moment and then said, “Miss Loretta, this is a Doctor Dolittle book, and I think you might like it some—”

  Loretta held up a shushing hand and shook her head.

  “It’s clean, Miss Loretta, and it’s a good one about a nice doctor who talks to animals and—”

  “Nonsense, child. And what I done told you before: I ain’t letting you read me them government books.”

  “But—”

  “Them’s books about rubbish and devilish deeds. Foolishness. Take it on back.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, wishing she’d let me read her one from the library once in a while instead of her Bible.

  Every time I brought one I thought she might take a liking to, she’d sour and rile on. “Them city books ain’t fitting for my kind—ain’t got a lick of sense in them pages for us hillfolk. Nothing but foolish babble an’ prattle.”

  “No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” I’d murmur agreeably.

  Loretta said, “It was 1857 when my papa toted this fine Bible and four of his mama’s teacups all the ways from Texas where he’d preached, settling in these ol’ Kentucky hills a good four years ’fore me and Sister was born. These all that’s left of the teacup set.” She jabbed a finger at the two delicate white cups with a gold trim around the lips and on the fancy ribboned handles. “And this”—Loretta tapped the Bible—“was how he found his way. He had only one Book and wanted me to know it too.”

  “Yes’um, it’s a good one,” I said.

  “Now, I know you have to bring ’em, child”—she puffed up and smacked her long, frumpled skirts—“but I still like mine best. And I ain’t no cheat for it.”

  Someone had told Loretta I only made stops to deliver books, though I’d told her it weren’t true. When she brought it up, I said there were folks on my route I’d only read to, just not from their own book. Still, Loretta got it in her mind if we used the library loan as a table leg prop, and she made me take it when I left, she didn’t feel like she was stealing from the government.

  “No, ma’am, you ain’t a cheat,” I said. “You’re a fine hillwoman, Miss Loretta.”

  Loretta raised a proud head and bobbed it, her white bun unraveling, loosening a strand over her old, ailing eyes.

  “You rest now, and I’ll be back soon to read more,” I told her.

  Loretta pointed to the basket on the floor beside the door. “Get ya some root fo
r you and your papa, child.” She patted her hair in place and rose from the chair.

  “Thank you, ma’am, much obliged.”

  I helped her hobble over to the narrow iron bed and took off her heavy shoes, tucked them under the bed frame beside her old Colt revolver. She fussed with her quilt and hung it over the bottom bed rail.

  Loretta pointed to the bulging covers at the foot of her bed. “Oh, my bed pig needs filling,” she said, standing back up.

  “Let me get it for you, Miss Loretta.”

  “Bless you, child.”

  I pulled out the pig-shaped pottery from under the counterpane, took it outside and unscrewed the lid atop its fat back and emptied the cold water out in the yard.

  In a minute, I’d filled the bed warmer with the hot water on the stove and tucked it back under Loretta’s cover at the foot of the bed to give her heat that’d warm her for the night.

  “My eyes are burning,” Loretta said. “I’m a tad tired. Can you spare another minute to help me with my eye wash, child?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I picked up a rag beside her basin on a tiny stand near the stove, dipped the cloth into the washbowl full of tincture, and wrung it. The tang of the old herb clung to my hand.

  “Here, ma’am.” I dropped the wet rag into her open palm, trying not to offend her with my touch.

  Loretta moved clumsily, and the cloth fell to the floor, and our hands met.

  A tiny gasp slipped past my teeth.

  Before I could give the rag back, she groped for my hand, latched on, and said quietly in her old voice, “See all my fabric, child?”

  “Sure is a lot.”

  “Well, them cloths are a lot like folks. Ain’t much difference at all. Some of us is more spiffed up than others, some stiffer, and still, some softer. There’s the colorful and dull, ugly and pretty, old, new ’uns. But in the end we’s all fabric, cut from His cloth. Fabric, and just that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

  “Now I know you’re a Blue, but these old eyes don’t care, nor feels the colors none. It feels the heart, child. And it’s a fine one, and you’re a fine hillwoman.”