Penniless promises from money-eyed politicians, the wise madam had insisted.
Searching my heart, I moaned.Jackson could very well be dead.I stilled, stricken by the thought, gnashed through the bones of harder ones crowding in.
The path ahead could very well be my undoing.
I clutched the tissue in my fist, watching my hand grieve to a dark azure blue.
Forty-Two
A syringe poked out of Susan’s pocket.
Glancing at the clock, I kicked off the sheet. It would be dawn soon.
“Good morning, chile—” the librarian called out from behind her.
“Turn off the overhead light, Aunt Effie, and stay quiet,” Susan said, setting down a stack of papers on the table next to me. “Cussy, again, if you have any misgivings…”
I looked from one anxious face to another, then shook my head before reaching for the package Mrs. Claxton held.
Inside the large paper bag were clothes, clean necessaries, my Yeats collection from Jackson, a large navy pocketbook, and Honey and Irene’s letters. Underneath it all was Madam Johnna’s red wig.
I held it up to the bedside lamp, inspecting the flexible cap the hairs were sewn into.
“Hurry and get dressed, Cussy. It won’t be long before the doctor starts his morning rounds.” Susan glanced down at her wristwatch, then opened the door to the tiny washroom, waiting.
A tremble took hold of my hands as I clumsily pulled on a pair of wide-legged women’s britches and fumbled with the buttons on the long-sleeved flowery blouse.
I took a deep breath and opened the washroom door. Mrs.Claxton grabbed my tattered clothes and Johnna’s wig and then fastened the hair piece onto my head. Inspecting me, she took her lipstick and dabbed it onto my lips. Satisfied, she gave a solemn nod.
“After I told Johnna you would beleavingus, her girls wanted to give you something for your journey.” Mrs. Claxton reached inside the pocketbook, opened a handsome women’s wallet, and showed me the stuffed bills. “Thirty-nine dollars, to be exact.” From another slotted compartment, she pulled out a card. Then, from the bottom of the purse, a booklet slightly bigger than my hand. “Your papers.”
I looked at it under the lamp, its light dimmed. Running my fingers over the satin cover bound in gold thread, I examined the painted dove and pale-pink roses twined around a white cross.Certificate of Baptismwas stamped at the top in gold letters.
Carefully, I turned the thin page to read the new identity I would take.Angeline Mary Moffit.A christening date for April 10, 1920, had been forged by the librarian.
As I turned to the older woman, I saw the answer in her eyes and know’d she had stolen the blank document from Reverend’s church records. The certificate was considered legal identification, like gold, and would offer me safe passage.
“He’s only been told you’re being sent back, that the prison officials are picking you up from here,” Mrs. Claxton confirmed.
I hugged her neck. “Ma’am, I promise I’ll repay you one day.”
“You already have, chile. In more ways than you’ll ever know.”
I studied Angeline’s false records and realized no one cared about the life she and her husband had been rooted to, much less her sudden death after childbirth. Her grave lost, hidden in the hills of Troublesome Creek. Weren’t but a three-year age difference between us, and I was grateful dear Angeline’s name would live on.
“Here’s your library card, Angeline,” Mrs. Claxton said, smiling.
I pressed it to my chest, appreciative.
Mrs. Claxton noted the names were spelled correctly and the additional legal document would offer even more protection.
Stuffing Yeats and my new identifications into the pocketbook, I pulled out a fresh handkerchief that Mrs. Claxton had folded inside and clutched it to my chest.
Susan put my clothing in a bag and left them on the chair. “Ready?” She pulled the syringe from her pocket.
Forty-Three
Susan held up the sharp needle. “I just want to make sure you understand what I told you last night: Taking the drug is a risk. Methylene blue is not advised for pregnant women, and we don’t know enough about its use in pregnancy.You.How it may affect the child or you. Sometimes not until after the birth…if the child survives.”
