The nurse’s eyes were gentle, and I was pulled to her kind face like Mrs. Claxton’s. “It’s called methemoglobinemia, ma’am.”
“Please call me Susan,” she insisted.
Curious, she asked about my doctor’s diagnosis of methemoglobinemia and the drug methylene blue, which makes me turn white.
“We’ve never seen this deep of coloring at the hospital,” she said, wanting to hear more. “In all my twelve years of nursing, it has escaped us here in the city.”
Hesitant, I slowly told her about Pa and my other kinfolk who had it. How my great-grandpa had come over from France to claim a land deed in the early 1880s.
“And you say he was a Blue like you but married a Kentucky woman who was white, and that they had the same genes…andno ailments.” She paused to marvel at the wonder, and I appreciated her thoughtfulness on the matter.
“None. We’re fit. Strong enough when left alone.”
Mrs. Claxton and Susan bobbed their heads in unison.
Susan said, “It’s an interesting disorder to have. Downright fascinating, Cussy. Thank you. I’ve seen the methylene blue drug used for heart patients and for cyanide poisoning and other lung ailments—for those coming in looking slightly blue—but never knew your coloring could also be congenital methemoglobinemia. But again, I’ve never once seen a patient with your coloring.”
“The drug does terrible things to me. Headaches and nausea something fierce.”
“And I’m guessing that’s why you remain blue.” She jumped up. “Oh, Aunt Effie, let me get those serving dishes down from the cupboard for you.”
“Now, chile, you run yourself ragged over there at General Hospital; you just sit and enjoy your Sunday dinner and visit with our guest.” Mrs. Claxton caught my eye. In a flash I saw I was only a guest. Not an inmate and nothing more.
After a meal of catfish, wilted greens, slaw, and blackberry cobbler, I helped the women wash the dishes, then set about to mop her kitchen floor, slipping back into my routine of prison work. As I knelt, Mrs. Claxton took the rag from my hand, pulled me up, and said quietly, “We didn’t bring you here to wear you out.” She placed a hand on my shoulder.
At this, the busy day rubbed at my nerves, and I felt the sting of unshed tears. It had been a long time since I’d received a heartfelt welcome from strangers—an eternity since I’d felt I belonged somewhere. I ached for the hillwomen back home. Ol’ Loretta, my sassy elderly patron, had been such a blessing to me and got me through my toughest times. Mrs. Claxton reminded me of her.
I mumbled an apology for taking over her kitchen.
Susan kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I have a four a.m. shift, Auntie, so I need to get home to bed. Cussy, I hope to see younext week.” She squeezed my arm and left me gawping, unable to voice a proper goodbye. She weren’t scared nor scarred by my color none. Didn’t feel the need to inspect me, poke, or pry.
“That reminds me, Susan, Cussy’s leaving next Sunday, so come a bit earlier for dinner and you can see her off.” Mrs. Claxton walked her to the door and returned to the kitchen, where she chatted about Susan’s hospital duties and busy schedule. By the time we’d stacked the last dish back into the cupboards, it was growing late. Satisfied that everything was in order, she led me to the back of the house. “Since we only have the one bedroom, I try to make the sleeping porch comfortable for guests and my daughter when she visits. Do you have children, Cussy?”
“I have a girl who’s a teen. Her name’s Honey.”
“Sweet name, and if she’s as polite as her mama, I bet she honors it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure proud of her; she’s taken over my old Pack Horse librarian route, delivering books in Troublesome’s hills.”
“A young librarian with an important job,” Mrs. Claxton said admiringly. “We had some hardworking Pack Horse librarians here in Jefferson County near the Jefferson Memorial Forest and other outskirts of our city. But that’s been years now. I do remember two of those librarians who still send Christmas cards—an Arlene Sahraie; the other, Letty Garza. They visited us at Western and made quite the impression on my librarians.”
While she chatted, I followed her into the airy screened-in porch, an overhead fan cooling the room, licking at my skin. She pulled down a rattan shade and jerked it up again. “Use the blinds if you need more privacy or the rain blows; sometimes city summers are unpredictable like that.” A narrow iron bed was tucked to the side closest to the door. Several blouses, dark navy skirts, and black stockings had been draped over the footboard.
On the pillowcase was a carefully folded nightgown and lightrobe. I picked it up, brushed the silky cotton across my cheek, examined the delicate trimmed lace on the arms and neckline. “It’s sure beautiful.”
“That old thing. Why, it should be in my rag bin. Hope it all fits.” She was pleased, and the comforts and care she’d tendered warmed me.
“When I spoke with your warden, I asked about your size. Another of my nieces ran these over yesterday. Comfortable summer skirts. So you can just pack up that dress”—she pointed to me—“and any you brought along. You’re our librarian now, not a prisoner.” The woman held up the linen skirt, pushed it against mine, studying, cocking her head from side to side. The hem rested at mid-calf and had been carefully pressed.
“Looks like it’ll fit right fine, if not a bit snug.” She looked up at me, and for a second I glimpsed something strange, then she washed it away and began humming, studying the skirt again.
Did this wise ol’ woman somehow guess I was carrying?Ol’ Loretta know’d everything, it seemed, and most times before I did. Maybe Mrs. Claxton also had the gift of grannying in her Kentucky bones. “I’ll take good care of the clothing, ma’am.” I took the skirt and blushed, grateful.
“You should be fine here,” she commented, her eyes scanning the porch.
“It’s perfect.” To finally be outside in the fresh air brought a comfort like no other.
An oscillating motor fan rested on a low table beside the bed, swirling the occasional breeze while an electric hand-painted hurricane lamp perched beside it. I admired the fancy pink roses and green leaves painted on the lamp’s glass.
