“I’ll be fine,” I insisted.
“Now, be mindful, I’m not supposed to leave you unescorted, but I know you’ll respect my dilemma, not disappoint, and come straight home. We have important business to attend. Straight home, chile.”
It sounded hopeful, and I could see the fight brewing in hereyes that said she’d put up a good one against the warden.
The extra two hours of being free were welcomed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had even a minute alone after living under the watchful eyes of guards and tattling prisoners.
I’d lived so long feeling dead. To have this time to feel alive awakened my spirit, sent a burst of life tunneling through my bones. A joy lifted, and hope warmed my heart.
I was grateful. The ladies’ earlier conversation had cheered me.
Mrs. Claxton would write the governor and find out more about the men’s prison. Surely there would be a cure coming any day from Salk, and Jackson would be safe.
Maybe the following week, word would come from the governor granting my pardon. When the mayor read the article, he might assist Mrs. Claxton and contact him too. I perked. I had freedom for today and decided to use it to telephone Doc again.
Inside a drugstore, a clerk pointed to the back when I asked to use their telephone booth, still amazed the contraption could be found in every store and outside on most city blocks. The operator asked for the name, and I dug inside the change purse and dropped a coin into the slot.
Doc’s telephone rang on the other end, and I sat down on the small wooden seat, hoping for news, anxious to share the pregnancy.
After several rings, the operator interrupted, “Miss, there’s no answer. Would you like to try your party later?”
Later.That I could even try brought more hope. I’d telephone him again before I collected the suit. I pocketed the returned coin. Stepping out of the store, I smiled as the sun beat down on me, the freedom healing my burdensome troubles.
Giddy, I looked down the sidewalk and felt the heartbeat of this business district. It was alive.
To wander these streets among lively folks woke a happiness, stirring a soft flutter, awakening my growing babe.
Thirty-Eight
Inside a clothing store, I studied the pink box of necessaries that said DAYS OF THE WEEK PANTIES, admiring the cardboard that had been cleverly fashioned to look like a miniature chest of drawers. Gingerly, I opened each titled day’s slot, searching inside.
I could hardly believe cityfolk clamored for such things.Did they really need to be reminded to change into fresh necessaries every day?I dared to touch the colorful nylon fabric, surprised by Saturday’s devilish black pair. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I quieted a giggle.
Woman’s necessaries back home were home-spun, made from flour, sugar, and nut feed sacks. All bleached, sunbaked, washed, and stitched out buttery soft, sewn by generations of women’s gnarled hands. These drawers were embroidered in fancy cursive and marked for each day of the week.
A woman reached over my arm and picked up a box. “For my niece; she’s been dying for a set.”
If I bought Honey these, I know’d she would feel scolded, insulted. She’d been changing into fresh drawers daily since she was old enough to pull on socks. I moved on to a rack of hanging undergarments and scanned the racy lingerie, the sheer colorful fabrics.
A man sidled up beside me. “I’m needing a gift for my gal. It’s our fifth anniversary. Which one do you favor, miss?” I stepped back.
A man right here in public asking about a woman’s necessaries.
I stepped away, feeling my face warm, nearly tripping over a dolled-up mannequin as I made my way out the door. I passed Davis Brothers candy shop, the scents of taffy and fudge pulling in customers. EVERY DAY IS DERBY DAY, an advertising sign in the window proclaimed.
Inside another corner drugstore, I looked over all the goods, pausing at a bin full of children’s books. Looking through the pile, I spied an old copy ofPoems of Childhoodby Eugene Field for twenty-five cents. I studied the cover of the giant sitting on a big stone and the small boy with the sword looking up and grabbed it, thinking of Odette in Forensics.
The girl loved the poetry I’d read to her, and Warden said her seizures had all but disappeared.
I would somehow mail it to her, hoping it would help keep the affliction away. Maybe Mrs. Claxton could take me back to the big letter box again. Though the thought made me wince to trust such a risky contraption.
At the cash register, I paid for the book with the money I’d earned. It had been years since my last paycheck from riding my library route with Junia, and I felt proud.
It was 4:12 when I spotted the big clock inside the ice cream and soda shop. I plunked down a nickel for a cold lemonade and took it outside to the bench, enjoying the stream of cheerful passersby.
Frankie and Otilia paused to wish me a good day as they toted brown sacks, their chattering tongues spinning the air. “It’s good seeing you, Miss Cussy,” Otilia said. “We’re just picking up Miss Johnna’s liquor for our Saturday-night guests.” She wriggled mischievous brows.
Frankie exclaimed she’d written her very first letter to her mama. “I’m praying she’ll write back, ma’am, and send me a bus ticket home.”
