“More voters, ma’am. Maybe even future congregants for his church,” I said slyly, curious to see what a brothel looked like.
Mrs. Claxton hitched her bulky pocketbook up over her shoulder. “Well, I guess whores should vote too,” she grumbled, crooking her arm around mine as we opened the handsome arched gate and took the wide steps together.
The door creaked open, and a silk-clad matronly woman puffing on a long, gold cigarette holder appeared. She pointed her hand. “Why, Effie Claxton, I don’t recall the circus being in town. Are you bringing me a runaway?” She peered down at me and then tilted her head upward, inhaling another draw of the tobacco. “My customers would sure ’nough be interested in enjoying her pleasures.” Her bronzed cheekbones lifted when she smiled as she whipped back her long, red wig.
A blush warmed my face.
“Johnna, this is Mrs. Lovett, our new librarian!” Mrs. Claxton announced. “We’re here to speak with your girls about our new library program.”
“Ladies, we have visitors,” Johnna called over her shoulder. She opened her double doors wider. We gaped at the young womenfolk who were scantily dressed, looking like paper doll cutouts in the Frederick’s of Hollywood Christmas mail-order catalog I’d received once by mistake.
Jackson had brought our mail home from town only to find out the postmaster in Thousandsticks had included it.
I tried not to stare at Johnna’s working girls, but I’d neverseen such gussied-up women, decked out in sparkles as grand as a starry sky, other than the peeks I’d stole before tossing out the forbidden, naughty catalog before Honey could find it.
Seven dolled-up girls crowded inside the threshold, wearing racy red lipstick and painted nails, their brassiere-covered bosoms pointed to heaven, bodies squeezed inside shimmery-laced lingerie, black fishnet hosiery, and stiletto heels adorned with silky-feathered pom-poms.
One brown girl reached out to touch my hand, and a white one dared to do the same. More hands glided over my arm, and two of the bravest touched my cheek and chin. “She’s gonna steal my johns,” another said, sullen, her pale face rosied with rouge, heavy blue eyeshadow painted atop lids that popped her eyes.
A tall woman reached over and touched my arm, trailing coal-colored fingers across my flesh. “Oh, Johnna, whose room are you putting her in? I’ll take her. I like girls too.”
Mrs. Claxton swatted away their curious hands. “Ladies, this is Cussy Lovett, our new—”
At that, the young women giggled, and a blond licked my name across her tongue. “Cussy.Miss Johnna don’t allow no cussing.” A spark of mischief danced across her eyes.
Inside, a telephone rang, and Johnna excused herself.
Mrs. Claxton scowled. “She’s our new librarian, ladies, and we’re here to invite you to an important program we’re having tomorrow evening that will teach you to read and write.Vote.”
Several of the girls didn’t seem interested and slipped back into the house. Two remained.
“Ain’t heard from my people in years. It sure would be grand to talk with Mama,” a girl piped.
“If I could read, it’d be my ticket out of here,” a young one leaned over and whispered to me and Mrs. Claxton.
“Classes start at six tomorrow night,” I told her.
Johnna came back to the door. “Now, girls, our evening hours are the busiest, and I can’t have you losing me money.”
“Johnna, most of my johns slip away from their offices during the lunch hour,” the one who wanted to get away said.
“I don’t know, Frankie.” The madam mulled it over.
“Please, Miss Johnna. I’ll come straight back after classes and work till the last customer leaves,” Frankie begged.
“Johnna, I want to write my family and read some of them racy books you have on your bedstand,” the other said. “I’ll work double shifts too.”
Miss Johnna laughed, but the old librarian remained stoic in her stance. “Okay, Frankie and Otilia, but if I see my wallet thinning, the classes stop.” The madam nodded to Mrs. Claxton.
Fevered chatter rose among the young women as we told them about the evening classes.
“I hope we meet some cute fellers,” Otilia remarked while turning to leave. Giggles erupted from inside while Mrs. Claxton scowled as the door clicked closed.
We moved on to others who weren’t so keen on welcoming the idea. At some of the homes, we were met with folded arms, the people wary of our invitation. Still, we urged them to at least try a class. “Our fine city needs your vote,” Mrs. Claxton would push.
When we approached a smaller home, Mrs. Claxton leaned over and said quietly, “Mr. Kipple Culbreath. He’s a bachelor and likes tending to his flower garden out back.”
I latched the gate behind us and brushed past a pastel-pink rosebush, the delicate blooms heady and sweet as I passed.
