“Just another minute, ma’am.” I pulled it away.
“I checked, chile. There’s no news of the polio in the paper this morning. Let’s enjoy this sunny day off work and forget our worries.” She folded the paper neatly and dropped it on the stack.
My eyes soaked up all the advertisements in the cosmetic aisle. Mrs. Claxton read one and said, “Helena Rubenstein’s will be perfect on you.” She snatched up the black-and-gold tube that was on sale for eighty-five cents.
I’d never heard of this Miss Rubenstein, but the advertisement said Helena promised Bed of Roses was good for “Suntanned or Untanned. An ecstatic new color blooms rosy gold… Honey sweet on your lips.” The glamorous woman rested her head on a bed of orangish-red roses and wore diamond earring hoops while a hummingbird hovered above her.
The librarian said, “My daddy always said his girls should have a few things that make them feel pretty. He’d always work a few extra shifts each month to make sure we did.”
I pulled off the top and twisted the stick up and down, admiring the gift. “It’s sure fancy. Thank you, Mrs. Claxton.” I wondered what Jackson would think of me wearing cosmetics. Questioned just how ecstatic it might make one feel.
We walked down another aisle filled with bandages, antiseptics, cough syrups, and headache powders. She pulled a small bottle of smelling salts off the shelf and held it up to me. “Sure could’ve used this earlier when I met Cab. I didn’t know whether I was going to wet myself or faint.” She chuckled, and I laughed with her, my mood culling the worries.
While Mrs. Claxton paid for her purchases, I studied a ballpoint vending machine that touted pens for ten cents. I itched to feed a coin inside the slot just to watch the display spin around and drop the fancy retractable pen into my hand.
After paying for the purchases, she handed me the lipstick and moved us next door to Davis Brothers’ candy store. At a penny-candy shelf, the librarian selected licorice laces, a package of Mallo Cups, and Teaberry gum.
Then she led us over to the soda fountain. “Let’s take a seat and have us a cool drink and rest after our busy morning.” She signaled to the man behind the counter wearing a papery hat and ordered an icy cold Coke for me and an orange soda for herself. I pulled out a quarter, but she pushed it away and shoved a dime and nickel toward him, paying for our drinks and his tip. While she relaxed on the red stool, Mrs. Claxton dug out her record and Bible. She ran her fingertips over Cab’s inscription, sighing.
“Sure was friendly of the movie star to give you his autograph like that.”
“Wasn’t it ever. I can’t wait to show the girls at the library. They won’t believe it!”
“Do you think you’ll ever get to hear him sing in person?”
“Reverend would never allow it. He feels this type of music tempts young people. I’ll just have to be content listening to him on my old radio.” She shot me a crooked smile.
“Tempts?”
“He thinks music that doesn’t praise or lift up God could cause harm.”
It was odd. “Ma’am, I never thought about God only liking one kind of music. One kind of birdsong.” From the look on Mrs. Claxton’s face, I know’d she hadn’t either.
I fished out the lipstick from my coin purse.
She said, “Do they allow it in prison?”
“It’ll likely be confiscated.” I twisted it and dabbed more onto my lips, savoring how silky it made them feel.
She took out her own and swept it across her mouth.
When we finished our colas, Mrs. Claxton offered me a stick of her gum. I was curious but shook my head. She had been generous enough giving me pay, stamps, lipstick, and now the fountain drink.
We walked past the businesses, stopping occasionally to talk about the window dressings, poke a finger at the latest advertisements and displays.
Inside the crowded Chili Parlor, Mrs. Claxton led us to the serving counter, where we waited in line for someone to help with our chili. A radio played on a shelf. Newsmen talked about the rising price of gasoline, reporting it was a record-high twenty-eight cents, and noted an upcoming church picnic. They went on to talk about Stalin and the Communist Party and a Russian historian denouncing something calledhero worship.
I turned my attention to the diners in the room, soaking it all up.
Hearing her name, I cocked my ear when the radiomen mention Sassyann, telling the listeners her execution was still being debated, and the governor was in talks with his staff. Then they moved on to chat about grain prices and polio, its rise and Salk’s latest efforts for a cure.
Mrs. Claxton turned to me and noted my deepening color. “Chile, you’re looking a little peaked.”
“I’m worried about Jackson.”
She patted my arm. “I’ll try to find out if there’s a list since I’ll be talking with the mayor on Monday.”
Grateful, I thanked her.
