“Fresh as a flower,” she declared. There was a whispered buzz, a churning energy in her words, and I fidgeted with my skirt and scarf, growing anxious, lifting a palm to my belly.
Leaning our heads together, we looked into the hall tree’s beveled mirror. The fabric livened my white blouse and brought out the color in my eyes. The light-pink lipstick softened my blue face.
She turned to me and pressed her hands over my bow, straightening. “Fancy as any of them big starlets in the magazines. Now, let’s go shopping and have us a nice day out. You’ve earned it.”
My face warmed. She reminded me so much of ol’ Loretta.
“Hear now, don’t you be tearing up on me, chile.”
***
We passed through the city streets, the librarian pointing out stores, businesses, and factories. With each block taken, I could hear the grind of Walnut Street call louder, the drums of the business district lifting. She paused occasionally to remind me of street names.
“Now, no one need know, especially the law. But if you stay, you’ll be running errands occasionally.”
Stay.It gave me more hope. “I’d like that.” I felt a smile bloom on my lips as I tried to imagine it.
“Jed and I are also going to sit down tonight and write the governor,” she proclaimed again. “With a letter from the mayor and us, it will surely persuade him. I need you here.”
We walked on, me dreaming of what a longer visit or a quick pardon would bring.
When we stopped at one of the blue boxes on the corner, I looked up at her.
“Go ahead. Mail your letter here.” She opened the latch and let it drop with a bang, startling me.
“Postmaster Bill at the post office sees to our letters. Could we visit the postmaster here?” I clutched Honey’s bulging envelope close to my chest and looked at the mailbox suspiciously, dared to touch the handle.
Mrs. Claxton pulled the latch open and waited.
When I didn’t move, she snatched the envelope from my hands, slid it into the slot, and dropped it with a bang.
I stepped forward and jerked open the latch, digging my hand inside.
It had disappeared. “Ma’am, please get it back for me. Now,” I pleaded. “I can’t leave Honey’s letter and her money and present in this big ugly box. Why, a squirrel or critter could easily get inside and carry it off! Get it back for me.”
“Chile—”
“No.” I dropped the handle and opened it again, and once more, then lowered my head, searched inside the darkened hole, prying my fingers and hand around again.
Pounding a blue-blackening fist on the box, I slammed the handle up and down several times. When I reached for the pull again, Mrs. Claxton chuckled lightly and snatched me away. “Now I promise you, it’s safe and as good as in your girl’s hands.” She lightly thumped the box. “Old West Walnut Street is the next block over and waiting.”
Thirty-Seven
Mrs. Claxton stopped dead in her tracks on West Walnut Street. Her jaw went slack, and she pointed at two men and a woman standing in front of a building that touted a sign that said Record Shop.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? Let’s rest over there on the bench. You look ill.”
“That’s Cab Calloway,” she squealed. “That one with the trimmed mustache and slicked-back hairdo wearing the fancy cobs. See him next to the short man? Cab’s got the woman on his arm.”
“Who, ma’am? Cobs?”
“Sunglasses, chile. And none other than the famous Hi-De-Ho-Man. The one in the Minnie the Moocher, Betty Boop cartoon.Will wonders never cease.The movie-star singer, and right here on Old Walnut Street in the living flesh!”
Mrs. Claxton latched on to my arm and started pulling me. “Hurry, Cussy, I’ve been dying to meet him for decades, but Jed would never allow it. Oh, how I loved ‘The Honeydripper’ and ‘The Jumpin’ Jive.’ He can scat like nobody’s business. His music sure is somethin’ else. He’s an author, too, you know? Vesta sent me his book for my birthday.Cab Calloway’s Hepster’s Dictionary.Language of jive!”
It was the first time I’d seen a hint of her bygone youth, and I rushed to keep up with her, the two Bibles plastered against my chest as we weaved in and out of foot traffic.
Once, I stopped to gawk at a group of passing women who wore fine clothing. Many sported dresses with tight bodices, cinched waists, and full skirts of cheerful colors and designs. “All these ladies look like colorful butterflies flitting about, Mrs. Claxton. Butterflies sippin’ sweet, exotic nectar,” I remarked.
