Thirty-Three
As we were getting ready for work the next morning, Susan stopped by after her hospital shift, excited to share news.
“Hello, Uncle, Aunt Effie. I can’t stay but wanted to see Cussy before I went to bed.” Her white uniform bore the blood-specked stains and creases of a long night shift.
Mrs. Claxton jumped up. “You’ve got a tear on the pocket of your uniform again, chile. Let me sew that up for you real quick.”
“It’s fine, Auntie. I have the one you repaired last month.” She pecked her aunt’s cheek.
Susan looked to me. “Cussy, I had a chance to study more about your diagnosis. We had a forty-eight-year-old male patient admitted Tuesday who was the same color as you.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Like me?”
“Exactly your color and having the methemoglobinemia. But unlike you, his disorder was caused by drinking well water that held too much nitrates. So his was acquired and not congenital like yours.”
“Chile, I don’t understand a word of this medical gobbledygook. Speakourlanguage,” Mrs. Claxton said.
I wrinkled my brow, trying to get the gist of it all.
“He’s a farmer on the outskirts of town, and we tested his blood. And because of you, I was able to treat him. We gave him oxygen and a blood transfusion, but when he didn’t showimprovement and his color had not returned to normal, I urged the doctor to try an IV of your methylene blue. He healed quickly. We discharged the patient the next morning!”
Susan was so pleased with herself she suddenly grabbed me in a hug.
I blushed. “You cured him,” I said, awed by this smart nurse.
“Yes, chile,” Mrs. Claxton told her. “Fine work. That is some good news, Cussy. She wouldn’t have saved him if you hadn’t come to Louisville.”
“It’s true, Cussy,” Susan said, smiling. “Medicine is changing quickly, and every day we learn more.”
“Can I get you some breakfast, chile?” Mrs. Claxton asked her niece.
“Love to stay, Auntie, but I’ve got to get some rest before my next shift.” She grabbed a biscuit and a sausage patty off the top of the stove. “This week has already been a month-of-Mondays-long.”
I couldn’t understand about the nitrates in his well water and why his blue was only temporary and could be cured completely, or why the methylene blue had made me sick but healed him. I started to ask when Susan squeezed my shoulder. “Got to run. See you Sunday, Cussy.”
While Mrs. Claxton and I walked to the library, I studied more on why there was no permanent fix for my woes.
Inside the librarian’s office, I wrung my blazed-blue hands as she answered another of Warden’s daily telephone calls.
Sunday was coming quick, her prying calls a reminder.
***
That evening, when a hundred more patrons showed up, Mrs. Claxton telephoned school principals and pleaded with them to call teachers in to volunteer. Within the hour, they arrived, eager to donate their evenings to the cause.
Barking orders, the ol’ librarian passed out name tags, fussed over seating, and finally quieted the crowd. I wandered between the students and hallways and other rooms, stopping to check their practice papers and offer help.
Later, when I walked into the ladies’ facilities and saw a group huddled on the floor with a young teacher instructing them, I warmed, knowing they’d sure enough be standing in voter lines come Election Day.
Still, I searched new faces, hoping to see Lizbeth.
The patrons came in droves—from dark alleyways, busy streets, quiet neighborhoods, businesses, and more. We welcomed couples carrying babes, others toting canes, and two in wheelchairs who had to be carried up the Carnegie Library’s steps.
We seated grandparents, factory men, street cleaners, policemen, and other girls from houses like Miss Johnna’s. Lillian’s eyes nearly popped when she welcomed an ol’ white Baptist minister and he seated himself next to a woman from a brothel.
The minister confided in Mrs. Claxton. “Jedidiah phoned and suggested I stop in. For years I’ve had to rely on someone else to read the Bible to me before I practiced my sermons. I was awfully humiliated when I told my congregation that for years Peter was a fine fisherman andPaul was anoyster man. Found out after the sermon Paul was indeedaustereand not an oyster man.”
Like the Moonlight lady back home, Mrs. Claxton turned no one away.
