“Don’t use that salutation again,” she snapped. “I’m your maid, you are thema’am.” She turned back to the windshield.
I pushed myself deeper into the back seat, her sudden anger befuddling me.
Mrs. Claxton righted herself with eyes locked statue-straight as we waited.
The sticky heat rolled inside, and I leaned my head toward the window, the sweat beading my brow, the fear crawling around us.
Films of oil and gasoline pooled on the ground. Fumes seeped into our opened windows, blanketing fresh air. My eyes watered, and I sneezed and swallowed back the sickening taste.
The man thumped the hood and peered inside to Mrs. Claxton, then parked his eyes to the backseat. “Fill ’er up, miss?” He stepped over to my window and leaned his head inside. “Miss?”
The librarian shifted uncomfortably, and I straightened. “I’ll take a fill-up, sir.”
I ran fingers across my belly, tapping. My insides didn’t reply with so much as a stingy ripple.
When he was through, he knocked on the hood, peered into the back window. “Can I get your windshield, miss?”
I strained my neck and inspected the dusty, bug-smattered glass, and nodded.
After he’d finished, he poked his head back in and said, “That’ll be two dollars and seventy cents.”
Mrs. Claxton crooked her head slightly toward me.
Flustered, I dug into the pocketbook for my wallet and then twisted sideways so he couldn’t see the contents. I dropped the bills on the floorboard, snatched them up and fumbled, passing him a five-dollar bill.
The attendant left with a mutedthank you, then minutes laterreturned with the change.
Next door, a bell chimed from the diner. “We should grab something to eat while it’s still light, Cussy. I didn’t have time to pack our dinner this morning. Get out of the automobile.”
I climbed out and studied our surroundings as I waited beside her window. The air felt charged, and an uneasiness pushed up from my gut. “Let’s leave. I can eat later.”
“It’ll help with the headaches, and the baby needs nourishment. Now, here’s what you’re going to do, chile.” Mrs. Claxton jabbed a finger at the diner and went over her instructions. “Ask foronefried bologna sandwich,onebag of chips, andoneCoke.” She held up a knobbed finger and then rolled money into my palm. “Don’t talk to a soul. Order, pay, collect the bags, and leave. If you see your color returning, you get out of there quick.”
“You need to eat too.”
“They will not cook their food for a Negro. Go on, be quick.”
“It’s burning up in the automobile. Just step outside and wait,” I protested.
“You would be getting me killed!” She lifted her stubborn jaw and wouldn’t budge.
“Do you at least have a cardboard fan in the glove?” I circled around to the passenger side, flipped open the compartment, and her oldGreen Booktumbled out onto the seat.
I glanced at the introduction page it landed on. The travel guide was published to keep the Negro from running into difficulties or embarrassments—make his trip safer, it read. I dropped the book as if I’d been stung. Mrs. Claxton leaned over and stuffed it back into the box.
Reaching across to the dashboard, I grabbed the odd cap and gave it to her. “Use this to fan yourself.”
“Put that down! It’s Jed’s,” she hissed.
I shrank back and tossed it onto the dash. “I’ll hurry.”
At the diner door, I read the white sign with red printing: ABSOLUTELY NO COLOREDS ALLOWED. I quicklychecked the color of my hands.
When I pulled open the glass door, the bell announced me, and cool breezes greeted my damp face. Curious eyes scrutinized me. Two farmers crowded at the counter, drinking coffee. Nearby, two more shared a small wooden table, while a couple in a booth chatted and lingered over dirty dishes. A jukebox in the corner played a low caterwauling tune.
I crossed to the counter, where an older woman was busy filling saltshakers.
She looked over my shoulder to the parking lot. “We don’t cook for Negroes.”
