Carole shuffled slowly down the sidewalk with two stuffed pillowcases clutched in front of her.
“Carole,” he hollered, “what’s took you so long? You should’ve been home almost two hours ago, girl. I need to deliver these papers before I lose my job.” Steven grabbed a sack and opened it, digging inside. “The clothes are wet. You done went and spent the laundry coins for the dryer on candyagain? Dammit, Carole.”
The little girl’s big brown eyes watered. “I was hungry, Steven—”
“Ain’t my fault you wouldn’t eat the Cream of Wheat I fixed you this morning,” he shouted.
“Mommy always made it with milk.” She stuck out her lip. “I can’t stand it with water.”
Steven swatted her on the bottom. “We can’t afford milk, girl. And we sure as hell can’t afford sweets. Git on inside, and hang them wet clothes up ’fore I take a belt to you.”
Squalling for her mama, Carole dropped the other sack of laundry and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Mrs. Claxton sighed. “Steven, we’re holding classes tomorrow evening at six to teach adults to read and write. We need more young voters. It would be good if you could come, chile.”
“It’s useless.” He waved his arm toward the house, then picked up the bags of laundry.
“I can send one of the volunteer ladies from the church to help out this week,” Mrs. Claxton offered.
I stepped forward. “Steven, I’m Cussy Lovett, a librarian too. If you can get better pay, youcouldhire that help to come in to tend to your ailing folks.”
“Too damn saddled with bigger troubles.” He bounded up the steps.
Mrs. Claxton called out, “I’ll send someone by just in case you change your mind.”
Twenty-Eight
By the time we arrived back at the Claxton home that evening, we were both spent.
After baths, Mrs. Claxton fried ham steaks while I set the table.
When Reverend finished his meal, he leaned back in his chair and stared at his wife a long time, something stirring under his clenching jawbone.
“Can I get you more meat, sir?” I half rose from my chair. But his stern brow pulled me back into my seat.
“Effie, Gregory Davis said he saw you over on Ninth?”
Mrs. Claxton swallowed the food and slowly wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Just visiting our neighbors to invite them to a special program that Cussy is leading.” She glanced at me. “Ain’t that right?”
“Yes, Reverend. We’re holding night classes to teach adults to read and write. Grow readers so they can vote.”
“Does this night schooling include harlots?” Reverend snipped.
She dropped her napkin. “Jedidiah Claxton, we need everyone’s vote!”
“I won’t have my woman associating with the likes of floozies.”
I pushed away from the table and began clearing the dishes.
“Cussy, I’ll see to ’em. Why don’t you take some food toDaisy and retire to the sleeping porch. We have a big day tomorrow.” Mrs. Claxton stood abruptly and scraped ham, gravy, and bread onto a saucer and passed it to me.
“Yes, ma’am. Good evening, Reverend.”
In the backyard, I fed Daisy, then found a stick and played fetch with her, trying to stay out of earshot from the open windows and harsh climbing whispers.
Hussy.
Bible.
