I cocked my good ear, not fully soaking up the words. “Full-time librarian, ma’am?”
“Indeed. We’ll bring some of the less-disturbed women from the Geriatric and Forensic wards down to you. You beginwork at seven a.m. sharp and close nightly at six p.m., Monday through Friday, except for religious holidays. Saturdays, you’ll keep the library open till three p.m., and Sundays will be your day off. You do still want the job, Lovett?”
I nodded, hardly believing what I’d just heard.
“For your work, I’ll continue to compensate you and will raise your state pay to eleven cents a day.”
My debt from Laundry would be paid off soon. I was thrilled that I would be able to afford stamps to write Honey and that I wouldn’t have to borrow from Waldeen again.
I’d seen my daughter once, and only briefly, back when they had me locked up in the infirmary. I had been drugged and could barely recall any of it, except for Honey screaming at the guards.
She’d not been allowed back since.
Warden Sanders said, “You’ll continue your visits to the other wings, Death Row, and also set a schedule for those who need to learn to read and write in the library.Your library, Cussy Lovett.”
My library. Mine.I was overjoyed by the unexpected gift.
It didn’t matter none where the reading materials were housed—whether in a boarded-up woodland chapel that had seen too many rains, a small room in the back of an even-smaller post office, or inside these dank prison walls.
I jumped up, unable to control my excitement, the burst of gratitude. “Much obliged, Warden Sanders.”
She studied me carefully before speaking. “Remember, no excitement books. It just riles the women—and, well, it’d be a temptation. Be mindful to use extra caution on selecting books for Forensics. No books likeMrs. Dalloway, or such that could poison the mind and lead to self-harm. We must not forget the long-agoWerther feverand how it incited the impressionable and less-educated to commit suicide and other tragic deeds.”
I’d heard aboutThe Sorrows of Young Wertherand other similar books folks fussed and gossiped about, but still, I couldn’t hide the disappointment on my face.
Warden knitted her brows. “Why, it would be like putting Sassyann in charge of the kitchen,” she said, her tone wry. “Those type of reads not only poison but can cause more damage to unhealthy minds and morally pollute our fine correctional facility.”
I looked down at the floor.
“Warden Alton had asked if he could borrow you again. At least once a week in exchange for the men’s extra maintenance services that we are desperately in need of. He had hoped you would be willing to train one of his inmates for a librarian position too.”
To have another chance to see my husband would mean everything.
“Ma’am, I’d be happy to help the warden.” I had to clear my throat to add, “Pleased to doyourbidding.”
“I will probably send you back over in late August. Perhaps things will settle down over there. I wouldn’t want to risk anything happening here.”
Settle down?I wondered what she meant but dared not question her.
“Warden Alton was grateful for your visits. He had his men pack up a crate of books for our library.” I followed her gaze to a cumbersome box sitting in the corner on the floor. “Take a look. I think you’ll be pleased. As librarian, you will of course get first dibs.” She picked up her pen and made some notes on the papers.
I knelt to examine the wooden crate and saw it was one that had come off the rails long ago to be delivered to us Pack Horse librarians. After the shipped books were unpacked from trains, many of the crates would be donated to businesses and factories across the state. Others had recirculated when they were rescued from barns and vacant buildings. Once, I spotted several in a large feedstore in Tennessee that had been reused for grain bins, and another as an umbrella stand outside a funeral parlor in Kentucky. Seeing this one brought back fond memories.
The old crate cross-stitched with nicks and cracks had ablack-painted address on its planks made out to thePack Horse Librarians in Knox County, KY. from a library inCleveland, OH. Grinning, I lingered on the lid. Book Women Eddie Black and Jincey Miller would’ve likely unpacked this very one.
I recalled a young woman from up in Winchester. Agnes Griggs had driven a truck to our center one day to donate books. She’d also left us a pretty woven picnic basket filled with homemade treats from her kitchen. I’d unpacked the book crate and inhaled oak, citrus, and ink, marveling over the distance Agnes had ridden to get books to us, thinking of Janlyn Weintraub in Louisville doing the very same.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands over the address, calling up my route and home.
How many crates of used, donated books had I trudged into the Troublesome Creek Center from the train depot and unloaded and cataloged?
I raised the splintered oak lid and caught a strong whiff of apples that must have once been stored inside. It now held a lot of classics and some older reads, along with poetry books and newer novels I’d never heard of.
Looking over my shoulder, I stole a glance at the warden. She had her head bent toward her paperwork as the fan’s breezes tousled the chestnut curls she’d styled into a poodle-cut hairdo like the ones I’d seen movie stars wear in magazines.
I ran a palm down my own dull, unkempt hair and turned back to the crate.
One by one, I pulled out the books. Then I saw it.
