We rode into Troublesome under a star-dusted sky, the cold March air nipping at our backs. Junia knew the way, and if it hadn’t been so blustery, I might’ve dozed off in the saddle.
When we reached my grandparents’ cabin, Pearl lit the stove and stacked a few logs in the fireplace, while I hung quilts over the drafty windows. In a few minutes, I went down into the root cellar to get victuals for supper. Below, I placed the lantern on a table and the room lit up.
The cellar brimmed with food, and I marveled over the canning jars of every size, stacked on shelves that climbed to the ceiling. There were peas, butter beans, roasting ears, mustard greens, sweet potatoes, turnips, jams, and more. Papa had brought in sacks of flour, crocks of smoked apples, and barrels of kraut. Dried berries and persimmon, and strings of pumpkin; leather britches hung beside large hams, pork, sausage, and venison. All smoked and salted, the meats would easily last through this year and the next.
Hungry, I grabbed a peach leather strip and chewed on the sweet candy treat. Mama made the best. I’d help her prepare and cook the peaches with brown sugar or honey, and then we’d spread the thick peach sauce outside on large, clean cutting boards and leave them in the sun a few days. Once it was good ’n’ leathered, Mama would cut them into strips and hang them up inside. I wondered what her supper would be tonight.
I plucked up a large basket off the cold dirt floor and placed a quart jar of stew inside. I scanned the preserves and selected apple butter and a smaller bag of flour. Tomorrow morning, I would fry up thick slices of ham with redeye gravy and biscuits, along with baked smoked apples.
I finished off the peach leather, snatched another strip for Pearl, and hurried upstairs.
Setting the basket on the table, I said, “You got yourself a good fire going.”
Pearl only stared at the flames with a sadness puddling at her feet. I wondered if she was homesick like me, or if it was something more.
Not wanting to pry, I told her, “I’ve got us good victuals and something extra for you.” I handed her the peach leather. “You must be starved.”
“What is it?”
“Candy treat.”
“Before supper?” She raised a sly brow.
“I reckon it won’t bother us having dessert first.” I laughed and then stopped, mindful of what Mama would say. It wouldn’t be allowed, and I drew a sharp breath, missing her love and my parents’ protection. I thought about Bob Morgan, hoping he’d get my guardianship before the state caught up with me.
After we ate, Pearl helped with the dishes. Then I put clean linens on the iron bed that was tucked into the corner while she checked on our mounts.
It was late, and I was eager for bed, so I could get an early start to Retta’s. Climbing the loft, I called down, “I’m heading out early.” I was anxious to see Retta, to finally feel safe. “I’ll try to get back in a few days. And I’m going to stop by the library. Want me to check out some books for you?” I knew a book would carry her away from any gloom.
“Oh, a good book would be perfect. If there’s any newspapers, I’d take those too.”
“Good night, Pearl.” I climbed the last rung, comforted because I’d found someone else to talk to about books and maybe in time lots of other things, relieved because I’d soon have a guardian who would keep me out of the children’s prison.
***
On the way to Retta’s, I stopped in town at the Troublesome Creek Library branch.
Inside, I studied the bulletin board. Someone had penned an advertisement about a new litter of pointer hunting dogs available for a fair price at Timothy Garvey’s place. Another posted: Get a dozen eggs for only 65 cents. Someone else was looking for a mechanic’s helper or gas attendant over at the filling station, and there was a post about missing eyeglasses. Another board had a posting for an assistant librarian, and I studied it.
March 2, 1953
WANTED, ASSISTANT OUTREACH LIBRARIAN
We have an opening for a respectable, steady, young female rider to deliver books and reading material in Knott County. Weekends off. Pay $98 per month. Reply to Eula Foster.
I thought about Mama. She would’ve loved doing it again, and I was surprised to see the pay was raised from $28 to almost $100 now. Sure was a lot of money, and I envied the person who got it. I was tempted to apply, but I knew I had to get Retta’s guardianship before I did anything.
A man stepped up behind me, and I moved aside as he left a new advertisement on the board. March 7, 1953, 1 room for rent over the Company store. Kitchen and bath privileges. See Mr. Edgar Franklin.
Browsing the new books section, I spent a half hour trying to guess Pearl’s favorite reads, once in a while looking up to peek out the tall windows, making sure the sheriff and social worker over in Leslie County hadn’t decided to come snooping around over here in Knott County.
From behind, someone said, “Ray Bradbury’s The Golden Apples of the Sun is a real grabber filled with twenty-two stories.”
I spun around. It was Eula Foster, the director of the library and the woman who Mama had worked for long ago. They’d started out on the wrong foot, but Mama won her over in the end. Mama claimed it was the books that changed Miss Foster. She always said the printed word could soften the hardest of hardened hearts.
She was not so lucky with another librarian, Harriett Hardin. After Eula Foster found out the horrid things Harriett did to my folk, the director called Harriett a seed spreader, a cultivator of ill will, and eventually got rid of the disgraceful librarian by transferring her over to Marion County.
“Hello, Miss Foster.”
“Honey, it’s good to see you. You’re back early this year. How are you and your mama doing?” she asked warmly.
“Ma’am, we’re doing just fine,” I lied. “Mama sent me ahead to visit with Retta. I wanted to take some books back with me. I’ll likely be here a while.” Then because it felt safer, I picked up Bradbury’s book and changed the subject. “Hmm. A real grabber, you say?”
“Oh, my, I enjoyed it,” Miss Foster gushed. “We were lucky to get an early copy from the big library in Lexington. I think ‘The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl’ may be my favorite.” She tapped a finger to her lips, thinking. “But I so loved ‘The Pedestrian’ too. And there was the wonderful short story called ‘The Golden Apples of the Sun.’ The anthology collection is some of his finest work!”
“I’ll take it. Much obliged, Miss Foster,” I said.
She nodded, pleased. “Well, good day, Honey. I need to get back to work.” I watched her slip into her small office behind the checkout counter.
I added Robert Hichens’s novel Strange Lady and a novel by Barbara Pym, Excellent Women, that sounded humorous.
I moved over to a table and found a recent combined Sunday edition of the Lexington Herald and the Lexington Leader, along with an older edition of the Louisville Times.
In the magazine section, I picked up Hit Parader and admired a picture of a woman named Betty Grable. I flicked through the magazine and set it back down. The cover of a smudged, tattered Life magazine caught my eye. The pretty woman named Janet Leigh was scantily clad in a ruffled lace dress exposing a large part of her breasts. I scanned the library to make sure no one was looking.
It looked to be what Mama and the older librarians always called an excitement read. I was surprised that the magazine had been shelved and thought for sure it would’ve been banned by the elders in the community. Yet, here it was in my gloved hands, with the bold, nearly bare-chested, beautiful woman staring right back at me. The title down to the left read: “Janet Leigh: A Marriage and A New Career.”
Again, I darted my eyes around the library, making sure no one was watching. I had to read this excitement read about this pretty lady. Mama always said, You grow readers, expand minds, if you let them choose, but you go banning a read, you stunt the whole community.
Quickly, I hid the Life magazine in my pile of reading material and hurried to check everything out.
Librarian Mrs. Martin came over to the counter, and I handed her my library card. “Get you some good reads today, Honey?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, itching to leave.
Miss Foster came up behind her and said, “I’ll check Honey out, Mrs. Martin, if you’ll go help Mr. Wilson. He’s looking for a good detective novel for himself and a nice read for Elizabeth. Maybe show him the latest by Rex Stout.” Miss Foster picked up my reading material and straightened it. “Let’s see what treasures you’ve found today, Honey. I can remember Cussy bringing you in, and you couldn’t even reach the counter. The years have flown and you grow taller each time I see you. You must be, what, sixteen, seventeen, by now? Not too much younger than your mama when she first came to work for us,” she chatted on.
I could feel my face warm as she separated the reads. What would she say about the magazine? But when she came across the Life, the librarian didn’t say a word. Instead, she continued stamping the checkout cards for me. When she was done, she neatly set the material to the side and handed me back my card. Suddenly, Miss Foster wrinkled her brow. “Oh my, I almost forgot.” She inspected my reading material and placed a palm over the stack. “Please step into my office a minute so I might have a word with you, Honey?”
My face burned with embarrassment. Would she scold me for wanting the excitement read or, worse, ban me from the library?
“It’ll only take a minute.” She stepped over to her office door and held it open, waiting.
I looked around, searching for a distraction, anyone to help me. A few elders browsed books. Another was seated at the table while Mrs. Martin helped Mr. Wilson select his books.
“Promise it’ll only take a few minutes,” Miss Foster said.
I walked around the counter to her office, my heart thumping so hard I feared it could be heard.
Once inside the cramped room, Miss Foster shut the door and seated herself behind the desk. “Have a seat, Honey.” She pointed to the chair across from her, shuffling papers and moving a stack of books to the side.
Turning behind to a narrow table, she picked up two books. “I ordered these for you after you mentioned how much you loved the poetry books last fall. And I recall Cussy telling me you write some fine poetry. You must because you have excellent taste in reading material. Most excellent. Just like Cussy.”
Grateful, I took the books from her, studying the cover of The Poetry of Ezra Pound. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take good care of these.” I smiled, relieved she didn’t scold me.
“Let’s finish checking you out,” she said, pleased with her selection.
Outside, I packed the reads inside the pannier and patted Junia’s shoulder. Devil John called from across the road in front of the farrier’s building. He walked over to me. “My horse threw a shoe coming down the trail, and I’m waiting for a new one from the blacksmith. Glad I caught you when I did. You’ve saved me a trip.”
“What is it? Have you heard news from—”
He raised a hand. “Everything’s fine, Honey. Your father had a visit with his lawyer, Evan Faust, and also Bob Morgan. They had him fill out a form and sign a letter saying he gave custody to Loretta Adams. Next, Bob’ll file the application for guardianship with a judge here. He wants ya to meet him on the steps of the courthouse, March 12 at twelve thirty. Get this mess fixed so you’ll be safe.”
“Thank you, Devil John.” I threw my arms around him and kissed his cheek. The ol’ moonshiner blushed.
“Hope you’ll understand that I can’t be with ya in the courtroom that day. My questionable standing in the community might harm your chances of getting a favorable result.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, knowing moonshining would not be looked favorably upon by the law.
“But I’ll be waiting for ya outside on the steps. You keep yourself on the lookout for any trouble.” He pulled a card out of his long leather coat. “Here’s Bob Morgan’s telephone number. He said call him anytime.”
I slipped it into my coat pocket.
“You can use the telephone booth inside the Company store.” He pointed across the street. “Be at the courthouse next week and on time.” He tipped his hat and was off back to the farrier.
“Let’s hurry, ol’ girl.” I mounted Junia and rode her out of town, down rutted, black-stained paths left from the big wheels of coal trucks. I couldn’t wait to see Retta.