Mrs. Claxton fanned herself. “It’s going to be another hot week. I fear we’re going to be wearing the weather.” She wiped the tiny droplets above her mouth, and I did the same, the air draping us like wet wool.
We walked past businesses until she came to a block of homes. “Let’s start here,” she said.
Some were doubtful when the librarian told them they could learn to read and write, and vote come next election. She pushed hard and said to one suspicious woman, “Now, Patty, we’re growing voters, and your own sons can read and write just fine. But until they come of age, we need you and all the parents to vote for them. For us. Our people. Our rights.”
Patty’s eyes disappeared into her big, airish face as she wagged her head.
“Come to the class tomorrow, Patty,” Mrs. Claxton wheedled. “We have ourselves the first library in the nation operated fully by Negroes and built just for us. We need to honor this gift by learning to read and write. And once you can do that, you can vote. Wouldn’t you like a say on who your next mayor is? Our president?”
“What about her? That disfigurement she’s got—it could be catching or sumthin’.” She pointed at me.
The embarrassment lifted and heated my ears.
“No,” Mrs. Claxton huffed. “She’sdifferent,and not too unlike us or the thousands out there who are not like those who rule us.Law, Patty, just come to the class. For the children.” she softened her voice, touched the woman’s sleeve. “Our community.”
“Yes, ma’am, stop by,” I chimed. “Please tell everyone to come tomorrow evening.”
Patty glared at me, the anger cinched in her brow.
“Reckon there’s a lot who have disfigurements, Miss Patty. Some that don’t have a name or color,” I said, lifting a stubborn chin.
Mrs. Claxton tugged on my sleeve, and I stepped back from the woman’s chilly gaze.
“Hmph, don’t need any negative Nellys. We need voters!” she declared a few minutes later on the sidewalk, hooking her arm in mine.
Overhead, a crow squawked her truth from a utility pole and took flight, rolling out its bickering caws.
Twenty-Six
I knocked on the door of a cream-colored clapboard, the home neat and tidy. When no one answered, I rolled the flier and stuffed it between the doorjamb and knob.
Mrs. Claxton had me leave several inside the cast-iron mailboxes on porches. “A neighbor or schoolchild can read it to them,” she said.
We stopped on the sidewalk at another house. It was a two-story, a lot bigger than most, and the curtains were drawn. But when I reached for the latch on the ornate gate, Mrs. Claxton grabbed my arm.
“Ma’am, is something wrong? Are you all right, Mrs. Claxton?”
The woman stepped closer to me and whispered, “I’m not sure we should stop here.”
Puzzled, I glanced up at the home.
Her voice dropped lower, and I had to press my good ear closer to her mouth.
“Miss Johnna’s brothel,” she barely whispered. “A house of ill repute.”
I wondered what Mrs. Claxton would think about Waldeen.
“We had us one in Troublesome,” I remarked. “Stitched high in the hills. There was a young librarian who started working with the Pack Horse project right before I left. The girl weren’t but fifteen. The brothel was in her assigned territory, but the supervisor ordered her not to put the occupants on her route.”
“What happened?”
“The child did the opposite.”
Mrs. Claxton cackled, and I laughed with her.
“Those women up in the cathouse ended up being the library’s biggest donors—funding lots of reading programs around Troublesome and the new library. Downright generous folks.” I glanced up at the bright-red double doors.
“I’m not sure the reverend would approve.” She pursed her lips.
