***
Mrs. Claxton insisted I use her office to take a quick supper break since the library kitchen was being used for teaching the patrons.
Alone at her desk, I ate a sandwich she’d brought from home while I flipped through the newspaper, searching for any wordon polio or the men’s prison. There was a small article that reported some prisoners in Indiana and Kentucky had been selected for Salk’s trials and would be inoculated. I prayed it was Jackson’s prison. Again, I read through the news, looking to see if there were any new deaths reported but found none. Exhaling, I folded the paper and placed it beside the telephone.
My eyes rested on the black receiver. I reached for it, then curled my fist, pulling away.
It was useless. The inmates at the men’s prison had telephone privileges like the women’s once a week, but only when they had a telephone number to call.
How I wished I could hear his voice, find out if he was safe. Tell him where I was. Worried, I placed half the sandwich back into the sack and tossed it in the trash can.
I drummed my fingers on the desk, then sat back down in Mrs. Claxton’s comfortable chair and boldly reached for the receiver again.
The operator answered. My hands shook, and I jumped up and twisted the long telephone cord, slowly winding it around my body. “Troublesome Creek, ma’am? Doc, please. Doctor Thomas, ma’am.”
She dialed the number, and I stared at the door, listening to the loud vibrating rings. Seconds passed when the operator came back on the line. “There’s no answer, ma’am. Would you like me to try—”
Footsteps fell near the door. The knob turned slowly, and I slammed down the receiver, my breaths sliding into a rattled thud.
“There you are, Miss Cussy,” Lillian said, looking at me curiously and then over to the telephone. “I’m sorry if I interrupted, but Mrs. Claxton asked me to find you. The newspapermen are here looking for you.”
“Newspaper?”
Thirty-Four
The reporters crowded around Mrs. Claxton as I peeked out of her office despite the librarian urging me to join her. The newspaper had been alerted of the success of the evening classes and had come calling. Camera bulbs lit up as they snapped pictures of Mrs. Claxton and some of the students and took notes. After about an hour they packed up their equipment, and I slipped back into classes.
“I wish you would’ve joined us, Cussy,” Mrs. Claxton said.
“I don’t want my photograph in the paper for everyone in Louisville and who knows where else to gawk at my peculiarity. I best get back to our patrons, ma’am.”
Understanding, she nodded.
I stood beside one middle-aged man as he declared, “It’s damn time I escape that shaming mark.” He waved the paper. “Here’s my signature written fully. And I done wrote it on my fence and carved it onto my elm. No, sir, ain’t never gonna have to make a shamed mark again!” His eyes shone.
We all congratulated him.
The students were intoxicated, giddy to learn.
A man who’d said he just turned eighty-six the day before crowed, “I’d give up fifty years of my life if I could just read.”
***
On Friday, I searched the crowd for Lizbeth. It was my last night, and I worried the woman had come to great harm.
When she showed up thirty minutes later, I saw the truths in her blackened eyes. The young mother wore a sling made from a yellow-stained bedsheet on her left arm. The room quieted, and the elders shook their heads, dismayed by her appearance.
Mrs. Claxton and the children’s librarian took charge of her two little ones and swept them off toward the children’s reading room.
“I’m ready to get my freedom now,” Lizbeth announced to me and the class, a fiery determination flickering across her eyes.
Steven brushed past me and hurried to clear a spot for her. The young mother called out and motioned for me. “Miss Cussy, I need to get started on the lessons right away ’fore he wakes up and comes looking for me.”
Mrs. Claxton’s hand landed on my shoulder. “You can get started on Steven and Lizbeth’s lessons, and I’ll work with Ardell and Kipple.”
Thirty minutes later Lizbeth had learned to write her name and her children’s. Within three hours, she was sounding out simple words from the newsprint and copying them down.
As we closed the lessons, Irene came up to me with another letter. “I see you have news from your daughter, Miss Irene. Would you like for me to read it for you?” I held out my hand and saw the seal had been broken on the envelope.
