The man rested the ladder against a wall, then opened boxes of light bulbs and set them carefully on the table. Occasionally, I’d glance over my shoulder while arranging books on the shelves.
After a bit, he said, “As quiet as you are, I take it you didn’t come by your name honestly.” Buttermilk stole a peek while I snuck a last one of my own. He picked up a bulb, examining it.
“No, sir. I’m named after my great-grandpa’s village over in Cussy, France. Originally sounded likeCoo see.But somewhere along the way to the ol’ Kaintuck mountains, the translation got lost and becameCusswith ay. Though I remember Pa saying more than once I’d earned the name and driven him to nothing but with my willful mind.”
He chortled, his friendly eyes teasing. “I come by mine honestly, and the prison treats me to a glass every night. Cussy, France, is close to where I was shot and ended up with this dead leg.” He pointed down to his foot. A metal rod ran up his work boot, disappearing under his britches. “Not far from Normandy, where I fought during the war in the airborne division at Utah Beach.”
I stared at him with admiration, wondering what transgression had landed this brave soldier in prison.
“Met a nice chap over there, and we shared a hearty supper at a pub on several evenings. Smart man. Looked like you,” he said casually.
“I wonder if he’s related to my kin who claimed a land grant in Kaintuck in the 1800s.”
“Never said.” Buttermilk gestured to the table. “Let’s get those bulbs changed out.Jolie bleue Mademoiselle Coosee,la fille de la montagne.”
I looked at him, slowly picking through his words, trying to remember the childhood French lessons Mama had taught me.Stumped, I mangled the language, and he laughed.
“Pretty blue Miss Coosee, the mountain girl,” he said and then repeated it slower in French.
“Pretty blue mountain girl. Jolie bleue fille de la montagne,” I parroted several times. It had been a long time since I’d heard my name connected to such, and a smile budded as I couldn’t help being grateful for his kind words and friendly manner.
“Warden Sanders says to let me know if you need anything else.” He pulled the ladder from the wall and placed it under a busted bulb. I kept a strong hold on the rail, worrying about the wobbly ladder and his bad leg as he slowly inched up the rungs.
Beside books and bookshelves, there weren’t really nothing more that I needed. I studied his ladder, remembering how the Pack Horse librarians had fastened the old wooden ones onto the Center’s walls for extra shelves.
When he finished, I asked, “Would you have any old ladders the prison no longer uses? When I was a Pack Horse librarian back home, we used them for shelving.”
The man rubbed his chin, thinking.
“If I could get a few, I could hang them on the walls.”
“Let me see what we have over in the carpentry building. Might be able to round something up.”
“I’ll put them to good use.”
“You’ll want to wait a bit; Warden Alton has promised your warden that he’ll loan some of his men to paint your library as soon as we get more volunteers.”
I studied him, trying to decide whether I should ask him something else. When he looked at me questioningly, I dared. “I wonder if you might know my husband housed over there with you?”
“Who might that be, Mademoiselle Coosee?”
“Jackson Lovett.”
He turned away to pack up his toolbox, rearranging the tools just so.
I prayed I hadn’t overstepped.
Then: “I’ve met the young man. He’s doing fine. I’ll give him your regards and let him know his jolie woman is safe. Landed herself a fitting job. Gotta go, Coosee. Transport will be waiting. I’ll be back tomorrow to install the busted wall outlet if it comes in from the hardware store. Get your ladders to you as soon as I can. Good evening,jolie bleue Coosee, la fille de la montagne.” He hobbled out the door.
“Pretty blue mountain girl,” I said and repeated it in French, remembering librarian Mr. Taft from home once telling me,God saved the best color for His home.Then he’d pointed to the blue sky and back to me and said, “He must’ve had Himself a little left over.”
For the first time since my arrival at the prison, I felt joy. I closed the door and pressed my back against it, grateful for Buttercup’s news on my husband.Jackson was okay and would find out I was too.Finally, there would be a way to get word to him, and I wondered if I could be bold enough to ask Buttermilk to pass a note to Jackson. Somehow I’d have to try.
I typed five more letters full of pleas for books and addressed envelopes to leave with a guard. After I dusted the shelves and organized the material, I stood behind the desk, waiting for my first patron.
Waited and waited while the second hand on the institutional clock kicked into the steady, impatient taps of my feet.
Five
