The door slowly creaked open, and the older colored man squinted his eyes and stared at us curiously.
“Kipple, we’re here to invite you to our free library classes that will teach you to read and write so you can vote,” the librarian announced.
“Read books?” he inquired, rubbing his chin. “Why, Effie Claxton, you know’d I can’t even write my name. How am I supposed to up and do that, and at my age?” He laughed and shook his head.
“Yes, I know you can’t, but your sister was a smart reader.And she used to spend every weekend at our library. She would be proud if you honored her by trying. We need every vote we can get.”
“Sir, Mr. Culbreath, I’m the new librarian. Cussy Lovett.”
“Call me Kip,” he said.
“Sure would be wonderful if you could come tomorrow night. We can teach you.”
“Kip, why don’t you talk with Miss Cussy a minute. I’m going to check out those pretty zinnias in your backyard. Mrs. Lyons told me hers are the prettiest blooms she’s ever grown from the seeds you gave her.”
Kip beamed at that, then lowered himself onto the stoop. I sat down with him and told him about the success of the Moonlight Schools, about the tales of pirates, big-city doings, and small-town secrets he could find in those books. “I think you would really likeThe Great Gatsby, sir,” I said, standing after talking with him for almost thirty minutes.
He reached out his arm to me.
I flinched. First Susan had touched me friendly-like, and now Kip. It was hard getting used to it.
But suddenly I realized Kipple Culbreath weren’t seeing me. An escape from loneliness had just opened wider windows.
“From Louisville, you say, Miss Cussy? Right here in the city.” His brown weathered face opened in surprise. Then Kip extended his arm farther, waiting, and I helped him up, his bones stiff and creaking.
“Yes, sir, the character Daisy Buchanan was a flapper here in your city, sure enough, like Mr. Fitzgerald wrote.”
He scratched his chin. “Sylvia’s gone now, but I ’member her always chattering about the library books like they were friends. She was ’specially fond of one Kentucky author named Irvin Cobb. His books made her laugh, and she loved reading me a few pages from time to time.”
“A fine author. Come tomorrow, so you’ll be able to voteandmeet new friends, sir.”
“Friends.” His eyes lit up. “I always thought I had no business at the library since I can’t read.”
“It’s your library, sir. It belongs to everyone.”
“Fitzgerald, you say? Will the library have a copy?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out for you.”
“Would you like to see my garden? Let me get you a cold cola? I’ll just go inside a minute. Wait here and I’ll open that tin of butter cookies Sylvia sent two years ago. I have a picture of her just inside I want to show ya,” he said, stalling for more time. The gentleman gripped the wrought-iron hand railing and took the steps slow and measured. “Be right back.” He winced as he tried to move faster. “I guess Effie’s still in the back looking at my flowers.”
Kip returned with the photograph of his sister and two soda bottles, passing one Coca-Cola to me. He forgot the cookies and wanted to go back inside, but I declined.
“You have a nice talk with Kipple?” Mrs. Claxton asked as we made our way down the street. “I had a conversation over the fence with his neighbor. Seemed interested in the classes but made no promises.”
“He’s a nice gentleman.” I looked back over my shoulder and saw him watching us, glimpsed a mixture of longing and loneliness in his eyes.
Twenty-Seven
Mrs. Claxton opened the gate at the next house, a small, unkempt clapboard. A windowpane had been cracked and another boarded up. She leaned closer to my ear. “This is Elizabeth Hall’s place.” She frowned. “Her husband is a drunkard.”
A young bone-white woman opened the door, a baby boy hitched to her hip, a toddler hiding slightly behind her skirts. Her skin had been bruised, and her brow bore an ugly scar knitted across it.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I’m librarian Cussy Lovett, and I would like to invite you to the library tomorrow night at six. We’ve started a free program to teach adults to read and write, so they can vote and have other freedoms.”
“A reading and writing program?” she said in disbelief. “I’m long-toothed—nineteen, past the schoolgirl age and getting longer in the teeth every minute.”
“Age don’t matter. Mr. Culbreath plans to attend, and he’s eighty.” I smiled.
