Your loving daughter,
Honey Mary-Angeline Lovett
I closed my eyes, grateful she was safe and happy but a lil saddened too. Then I lingered over the news of Junia, struck with the memory of when I first got her. She’d been my meager inheritance from my first marriage in ’36. That, and a few dollars, loose change, and a blackened spittoon from the devil bastard who’d tried to kill me on my marriage bed.
The mule’s coat had been sticky with blood and matted, her flesh riddled with open wounds. But despite Pa balking at the notion of me keeping her, I wouldn’t leave her to die tied to Frazier’s tree. I’d stood out in the snowy yard, shivering, bruised, and bloodied. I had taken one look at the broken beast and saw she had the will to live, like me. Had some fight still left in her. And there was something in her big brown eyes that said we could do it together.
It had taken a month to nurse the critter back to health. Another stretch to keep her from kicking and biting me. And not Pa, nor any man, could get close, lest the ol’ girl sneak out a leg and side-kick, or stretch her long neck to nip their flesh. But despite her ill temper and distrust with the menfolk, Junia was surprisingly gentle and agreeable with the young’uns and women on our book route.
I worried a finger over my mouth, hoping the mule’s arthritis had eased so she could enjoy her retirement.
Then I reread the last paragraphs about Honey’s beau, poring over the feelings I couldn’t rightly explain. Junia’s grief was troubling enough. But the news of going steady was a surprise.
Honey would be seventeen this month. Just a mere ten years older than age seven. I worried the next letter would bring news of an engagement.
Sam, my transport guard, poked his head inside the library. “Let’s git to Louisville. Sooner I git there, the quicker I can be back.”
Book Two
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.
—T. S. Eliot
Twenty-Three
I stepped out into the sunshine and steadied my nerves, closing my eyes to feel the heat on my face, the scents of lavender and lemongrass and surrounding farmlands inviting.
Sam nudged me to the back of the automobile. Behind the steering wheel, he rattled keys, then reached for the ignition. “The drive to the city shouldn’t take long. If I hurry, I’ll be back in time for my slippers, a sip of Old Crow, and my missus’s fine Sunday supper,” he said, talking to fill the silence between us, and more to himself.
I inhaled the stingy breezes coming from his window on the hot July day and studied on what lay ahead.
Sam’s prattle drifted and soon dissolved as I let my thoughts wander.
We rode along the bumpy road until it opened wider into a smoother two-lane, the thrum of the big tires soothing. I turned to stare out at the farmlands and painted clapboards guarding rows of corn. Horses and cows grazed in pastures bordered by white fencing for miles.
Weren’t long before I could see the big city in the far distance, the tops of buildings budding in the sky as we got closer.
Soon, the streets became fatter and crawled with automobiles, trucks, and buses.
There were so many rose-brick buildings pinched in, it was hard to see where one began or ended.
Sam turned on the radio, and the announcer reported the latest news about the polio deaths, prices of grain, before moving on to the weather. The station played several songs. Minutes later, the newsman broke in to confirm Sassyann’s upcoming execution, telling the listeners, “The Black Widow’s execution is scheduled July seventh at 6:01 a.m.”
Just two days from now.
Excited, he went on to say it would be the first execution of a woman in Kentucky in more than one hundred years. Sam mumbled a curse and switched off the radio, leaving me grateful for the silence.
Saddened, I leaned my head against the window, hoping our lessons had been a respite.
The Sunday city flagged its welcome, the rumbling of distant horn blasts and tired pumping factories preparing for the next week ahead. A slumbering buzz crawled across the waiting pavements.
I reckoned even cities got the Lord’s Day off.
Sam mumbled something about missing a street sign, cursed the city streets, then turned us around and headed in a different direction, taking a sharp right onto a side street, followed by more confusing turns and grumblings.
A small headache grabbed hold, and I stretched my neck toward the front windshield, taking in glimpses of the big town, bustling folks, and passing automobiles.
At a stoplight, I stared out at a church. Fancy cityfolk wearing hats and store-bought dresses and suits idled on church steps, their smiles and nods whispering gossipy news and invites.
