“It was Mother’s favorite,” Mrs. Claxton noted. “She loved to sit by it and write her poetry. She always yearned to be published one day.”
“My Honey loves the poetry, too, ma’am.”
Two wicker chairs were arranged on the opposite side with a small table holding a six-welled glass ashtray between them. Shesmoothed down the soft feed-sack quilt on the bed. “Mother made this for me when I got married.”
I bent over and admired the tight stitching. “It’s a fine quilt.” It reminded me of the sugar-sack quilts Loretta sewed back home.
“You should sleep comfortable enough. I just pulled the linens from the clothesline after church services.” She looked around and pressed down the bodice on her pale-violet dress, as if trying to remember everything. “If you can’t sleep, you can help yourself to a book in the parlor.”
“I’d like that.”
Turning toward the yard, I peered out, soaking up the summer breeze. My newfound freedom. It was as electrifying as the city lights buzzing under the streetlamps around me. I itched to toss off my clunky shoes and drab prison garb and run circles around her yard in my assigned prison slip.
But I didn’t dare.
The grass was neatly trimmed, and a blond-and-white pup lounged under a tree. Geraniums, fist-size zinnias, and showy pink ladies circled a concrete birdbath, while several blue snowball bushes and climbing roses hugged the iron fence around the yard. A long clothesline ran along one side, an empty basket at the bottom of one pole forgotten.
“That’s Daisy under the Kentucky coffee tree.”
“I’ve never seen a dog like her.”
“She’s what they call a Welsh Corgi. Nine years ago, Vesta gave me the pup for Christmas. Now, when we first moved here, I planted the tree in memory of my great-grandmother Eliza, who was part Shawnee. A reminder to keep the dead who breathed life into us living.” The librarian called for her dog, and it stretched and ambled to the door, its stubby legs lightly making their way. “I don’t like her barking after dark and disturbing the neighbors. The old girl sleeps over in the corner. You won’t know she’s there.” Mrs. Claxton pointed to Daisy’s rug.
I looked out at the cluster of homes surrounding the Claxtons’.Heard the rumbles of automobile engines and horns. The laddering voices of nearby folks and children at play.Weren’t no way Daisy could possibly be louder than that. Back home, you could hear a leaf fall, and I worried if this city would let a person sleep.
“Thank you for the delicious supper and fine furnishings, Mrs. Claxton.”
“I’ll let Reverend know. The men caught the fish in the Ohio River early this morn’ before church services.” I could see she was itching to talk more. Then: “If you’re up to it, I’d like to have a few more words with you about your library duties before you retire for the evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We can sit over here.” She moved to the wicker chairs. “You’ll be working in the children’s room with me. Most attend the nearby school and read well.”
For the next few minutes, we talked about favorite children’s books, the conversation peeling off the day’s nerves. And I could see it righted hers also.
“One of my biggest concerns is getting the parents to read. We need more of my kind who can read and write. If we can just get them to learn, they could contribute more to the community. Vote.”
“Maybe I can help, ma’am.” An idea latched hold, and I turned it over in my mind.
“Now, wouldn’t that be something of a miracle.” She stood. “You’ll be compensated forty-five cents a day. I’m afraid it’s all the library has in the budget currently.”
“Ma’am, a few stamps to write my daughter would be payment enough if you can spare them.” I dared not write to Jackson after what had happened, and what awaited me back in the prison.
“We can do both. Get some rest.”
When she left, I slipped out into the yard under the coffee tree. Lifted my face to the sprays of leaflets heavy with leathery reddish pods, inhaling the earthy scent of the yard.
Freedom.
Unlike the prison’s countryside, the city was soaked with a mixture of haze, smoke-belching engines, busy life, and the spent energies of a busier day. The sun was setting, and around me I could see the glow of towering streetlamps.
I trailed my fingers over a pod and looked below. The thick grass was covered in coffee tree seeds, and I plucked one up.
Tearing apart a leathery shell, I jiggled a couple of the brown seeds in my hand. Maybe Mrs. Claxton would let me borrow a needle and thread so I could make Honey a necklace for her birthday.
I stood still, wrapped in the city rhythm, watching soft, golden lamps come to life behind shade-pulled windows, the hawkish cries and clatters of the city falling and fading like a mewling babe fussing against sleep.
Back inside, I washed up, then returned to the sleeping porch. Content, I peeled off my heavy shoes and slipped into Mrs. Claxton’s gown, eased down onto the bed, and closed my eyes, cocooned in safe shelter for the moment.
