“Wrong way?”
He cupped a hand over his brow and pointed back in the direction from where I’d come. “Cross over here. You’ll see it there on Sixth.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But Hamilton closes his shops at five thirty sharp, darlin’. Better hurry.”
“Obliged.” I turned and stepped off the curb, hurrying past the wide tail of a parked automobile.
A horn blasted, and tires raged against scorching concrete a split second before I felt the sickening thud against my flesh. The stink of rubber climbed into the heat.
A woman screamed, and the panic-stricken shouts laddered into the blinding sunshine before darkness descended upon me.
***
I awoke to the man with the dog kneeling over me, worry flashing across his face. “Darlin’, just stay still. I’ll go call for a policeman.”
My eyelids shuttered against the bright sun. “No.” I tried toraise an arm. “What happened…”
“You’ve been hit by a vehicle.”
“Miss Cussy? Miss Cussy.” Someone shook my arm, and I could barely make out the face until I heard her voice call to me again. It was Frankie.
I tried to answer, the words a scratchy mewl.
“She’s the librarian. Help me get her up and over to Johnna’s,” she cried to the crowd of onlookers.
“Is she a librarian or a whore?” someone else shouted.
“She’s been working at the Western Branch while visiting Reverend Claxton!” Otilia rushed to my side.
“She was headed toward Hamilton’s,” the man with the dog said, his voice quaking. “In a big hurry, she was.”
Another man dropped to his knees, his weak blue eyes glued to mine, the smell of whiskey and sweet pipe tobacco souring his breaths, gagging me. Then he stood and yelled to the crowd, “She just stepped righ’ in front of my automobile. Without warning!” He flailed his arms. “None at t’all.”
I pressed my elbows against the pitted asphalt, fighting to rise.
“I’m real sorry, miss,” he said, frightened. “I didn’t see you.” He looked out to the crowd and declared again, “I didn’t see her.”
“The girl looks like she’d be from Johnna’s house,” a woman mused.
“She sure does,” one man clipped.
“She’s a librarian, you dimwits. A real Book Woman!” Otilia shouted at them, her face heated and hovering over mine.
Someone else hollered, “Call the police. She took a bad tumble!”
Otilia hissed, “I ain’t calling no coppers.”
“No police.” I struggled to move. “No.” It crossed my mind that the Claxtons might’ve telephoned the law and I could be listed as a fugitive.
“Miss Cussy, don’t worry,” Frankie said. “Johnna will take you to the hospital.”
“Not to Johnna’s.” The words scratched over my dry throat. My mind muddled. Reverend would be furious if he found out. “I—I’m fine. Just help me up.”
She raised my head. A slaw mix of sour lemons and sugar tickled my throat, then a flash of white-hot pain roiled across my eyes. I turned over and spewed my innards onto the concrete, my throat hot like crackles of glass had slid over it.
“Here, let me help. The name’s Melvin.” The man with the dog pressed a clean handkerchief into my hands, and I nodded my thanks.
“Let’s get her to the hospital quick, Frankie. She lost her shoe, grab it,” Otilia ordered.
I tried to sit but collapsed, the dizziness and headache colliding, eating across my head. “Where’s my book? Odette’s poems?” I scratched out.
