“Well, look’a there.” She patted his shoulder. “I just grow’d myself another voter. Congratulations, chile!”
“Aim to be first in that line, ma’am.” He grabbed his sister’s hand and said goodbye.
Mrs. Claxton said, “Looks like we got us enough volunteers to make this a yearly summer program. The teachers have pledged to donate their time. Come on, Cussy. You’ve done enough. The girls can finish up here and close. It’s our day off tomorrow, and I’ve got a special treat for you. A surprise.” Her face lit up.
My last hours of freedom. Still, I would not treat her gracious spirit callously, spoil the surprise by brooding. The least I could do was return it.
I was determined that she would see my gratitude, watch me enjoy every minute of freedom I had left.
Thirty-Five
Friday night I sat cross-legged on the bed with Daisy in my lap, stringing a necklace for Honey with the coffee tree seeds. Beyond the door, I could hear the couple rustling around in the kitchen as the radio station rolled out the big band tunes, the mix of horn instruments muffled, trying to wiggle and escape through cracks.
One of them turned up the volume. The announcer said it was by a lady named Ella Fitzgerald longing to visit the city again—a dreamy song called “Louisville, K-Y.”
I paused to listen, the melodies reminding me of Pa playing his worn fiddle on hot summer nights while Mama sang along on the porch.
A few minutes earlier, Mrs. Claxton had given me some of Reverend’s fishing line, then held up a finger. “How old will Honey be on her birthday?”
“Seventeen, ma’am.”
“You don’t say,seventeen. Such a trying age. Hmm. Might have something special to add to it, if you don’t mind.”
She came back with a tiny crystal dish of loose pearls. “I’ve never gotten around to having these restrung.” Her smile splintered and disappeared as she eased herself down on the bed. “When Mother gave me the necklace at seventeen, she said,Seventeen’s the age of sorrow for a passing childhood tethered to the chaos and joyous uncertainty of a dawning adulthood.”
She placed a pearl in my hand.
I lingered on her mama’s words. “It’s lovely wisdom for a young’un. I’ll pass it on to my daughter.”
“Mother wanted to be a poet like Effie Waller back home. I’ll leave you a stamped envelope on the hall tree. Sleep well.” Her bones creaked as she walked toward the door.
“Obliged, ma’am. Honey will cherish this.”
I strung the seeds with the pearl in the middle, then kissed it and placed it gently onto the nightstand atop the Yeats collection Jackson had signed.
When we’d left for work this morning, Mrs. Claxton had stacked the week’s newspapers on the sleeping porch and asked if I’d like to read them before she tossed them out. It had been such a hectic week with late nights, I was eager to catch up on the news, read the latest about the polio outbreak.
Picking up Wednesday’s newspaper, I combed through the pages again like I did at the library, and noted the story headings, mindful that Jackson always proclaimed the real gems were at the end. Pausing at a small article in the back, I read the governor was now reconsidering a new death warrant for Sassyann.
I flicked to the next page, scanning until the end. No articles on the men’s prison.
When I picked up the following day’s paper, I saw another piece about Sassyann. The governor was hedging on his decision, suggesting a new death warrant might be handed down in September despite her vegetative state. I prayed that the man’s superstition would prevail. But his earlier argument where he feared Sassyann’s spirit would rise up against him was weakening.
I stuffed the newspaper down into the small trash can beside my bed, pulled up the quilt, and cuddled closer to a sighing Daisy.
Fluffing the feather pillow, I froze when I felt a small lump inside, the memory of finding my crown coming forth again. Then the fright jolted my senses, and I grabbed the pillow and stuffed it under the cushion on the wicker chair farthest from my bed.
In the murkiest hour before dawn, I awoke to another nightmare as a storm blew past the city, the lightning skittering down the Ohio River. This time, Pa fought off prison doctors who were strapping me onto the Claxtons’ kitchen table. I bolted upward with a scream locked in my throat.
Fumbling for the lamp, I found the switch. Daisy burrowed beside me, a string of rippled snores escaping. Out in the yard, crickets serenaded their mates.
I pulled on Mrs. Claxton’s robe and stood by the screen door and looked out, the glow of streetlamps haloing the sleeping homes. Stepping out into the yard, I felt the wet grass cool my feet and a soft breeze lick at my hair.
In just one night, I would be sleeping on a prison cot, and I shuddered from the sickening realization that my time had come.
Looking to the porch, I spied my clothes inside and drew my eyes back to the rooftops.
I could feel Louisville slipping off its dizzying drunk-lit hours, stretching itself into a moment of restive slumber before it roared to life once more to grind harder.
