Soon, Sam slowed down on East Washington Street. It was dotted with a row of neatly lined, narrow brick homes with striking-green patches of grass protected by wrought-iron fencing. A dozen or so years ago, I’d read about these shotgun houses, their history mirrored to New Orleans. They looked prettier than the photographs that had accompanied the article.
It was said the homes got their name because you could fire a shotgun clean from the front door and it would go clear out the back entry, with nary a lamp or saltshaker disturbed. But it noted some of the shotguns were also built with their front doors purposely hitched and not aligned with the other doors in the house to scare away the bad spirits hankering to slip in.
Sam parked between two black automobiles.
I walked up the small steps with him close on my heels.
The guard reached over my shoulder and knocked loudly on the door.
The older Negro couple who opened the door seemed somewhat surprised by our visit. And I worried what the warden had told them about me.
Sam took a step closer. They stared at me for an uncomfortable moment, until I feared they would shriek, turn me back over to the officer, and slam the door in my face.
They were a handsome couple and still had on their fine church clothes. Mrs. Claxton’s hair was neatly coiffed in short, tight peppered curls flecked with gray, and her husband wore a trimmed beard in white that didn’t match his dark, cropped hair.
I braved what I hoped was a friendly smile.
Finally, the reverend said, “Cussy Lovett, huh?” He raised a brow.
“Yes, sir. Cussy Lovett, Book Woman, at your service.” I hugged the pillow sack of possessions closer to my chest. “I can do just about anything concerning the books, sir, ma’am. Bind, scrapbook, and grow readers.” I shifted the pillow to my hip and tried not to squirm.
The guard cleared his throat. “Well, if there’s anything else you need, just telephone the prison. Warden said she’ll check in with you daily at the library, Mrs. Claxton. I’ll be back next Sunday afternoon about two.”
Reverend Claxton opened the door in a wider welcome and said, “Strange name for a young lady. And it better not be because of a bitter tongue, or I’ll be taking my Effie’s pine-tarsoap to scrub out any devil sass in your mouth.” His face spread into a friendly tease.
Mrs. Claxton laughed and patted his arm. “Don’t scare away the chile, Jed.”
“Her papers are all here.” Sam passed them over my shoulder and bid the couple a good day, eager for his bourbon and supper.
Reverend raised a finger. “Mind ya, my wife’s soap is a lot stronger than any buttermilk lavender. Miss Cussy Lovett, pine tar will strip the hairy demons right off any wicked tongue.”
I nodded, knowing it would do just that from the homemade soaps Mama used to make. Somehow it was comforting. There was a familiarity with these folks, and I was suddenly curious and looking forward to the furlough.
With that, Mrs. Claxton said, “Come in, fellow Book Woman. We’ve been expecting you.”
Grateful for the warm welcome, I stepped inside on worn puncheon floorboards, noting the scattered hook rugs and clutching the small pillowcase of my belongings as I glimpsed the furnishings of my first city home. A Bible sat on the seat of a corner walnut hall tree holding a gentleman’s fedora like the ones I’d seen in magazines. Several umbrellas with carved wooden handles rested in its attached wrought-iron circle. A large bookcase covered one wall brimming with books.
“Have a seat on the Chesterfield,” the reverend said as the couple sat down in matching wingback chairs across from me.
I sank down on a worn, velvety crimson sofa and scooted next to its fat arm, feeling small, waiting for the bark of orders.
Mrs. Claxton lifted the lid off a pretty glass candy dish and offered me a piece of Chicken Bones. Jackson was fond of the little nuggets toasted in coconut and filled with honeycombed peanut butter, always insisting he stop at the general store near the Tennessee and Kentucky state line.
I thanked her and dropped it into my sack for later.
“Where’s home, chile?” Mrs. Claxton inquired.
When I answeredTroublesome Creek,surprise lifted in hereyes. “Reverend and I are from Pike County. Around Fishtrap. Do you know it? We moved to Louisville in 1905. Isn’t that so, Jedidiah?”
That was the familiarity I’d picked up on. “Never been to Fishtrap. But Pike County sure is a place of beauty. Your home’s something else, too, ma’am.” I brushed my palm across the deep-buttoned armrest, felt the soft teeth of velvet tickle my hand.
“A far cry from those Kentucky hills we’re rooted to.” Mrs. Claxton smiled, her eyes kind and friendly.
They were hillfolk, and for the first time since this morn’, I felt my spine ease itself out of the day’s uncertainty, the soft tug of stiff shoulders relaxing.
Then Reverend Claxton lifted a cold pipe from an ashtray, placed the tail in his mouth but never lit it. “We were told you were healthy?”
“Yes, sir.” I willed myself to remain calm. Stop the rise of color that would leave him doubting or, worse, fearful. Their home was lovely, quiet, and I was suddenly grateful for the short respite away from prison walls. It would be good for the baby. Me. “I’m healthy, sir.”
