Clips of strained conversation rose and fell in the back of the courtroom. Turning partway, I was surprised to see Eula Foster speaking with Mr. Morgan. If she saw my shock, the librarian didn’t show it because she barely glanced my way and went right on talking to the lawyer. But the damning was there, and we all knew I’d committed an unforgivable wrong. Several times, Miss Foster shook her head, looking back at me unfavorably.
I was sure I’d be handed my walking papers as they dragged me off to the House of Reform. After all, I was morally indecent, godless, an It, and now a criminal in the state’s eyes. And soon the town, the whole state of Kentucky even, would declare it true. My eyes landed on the other faces of townsfolk who had slipped in and now filled half the benches. Alonzo’s eyes were full of so much pity that I tore my gaze away, saddened to glimpse the sorrow and worriment swallowed in his weathered face.
I turned back to the librarian. Beside Eula stood Amara Ballard. She talked excitedly to Mr. Morgan, her hands flying fast. Pearl and R.C. flanked Mr. Morgan’s other side. Once in a while Pearl’s troubled eyes fell on mine.
Mr. Morgan came back to the table just as the bailiff said, “All rise.”
The judge entered and took the bench. “Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I would like to present real witness testimony on behalf of Miss Lovett.”
“How many witnesses and how long do you expect to take, Counselor?”
“Three, Your Honor. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes for each.”
Judge Norton rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw and mused on the lawyer’s request. “Proceed,” he said with a short sigh.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to call frontier nurse Amara Ballard up to the witness stand.”
The judge swore her in, and Mr. Morgan said, “Please tell the court the relationship you have with Miss Lovett.”
Amara nodded. “Honey, uh, Miss Lovett hired me to tend to a gravely ill Loretta Adams. I did everything I could medically for Miss Adams, then left her in Honey’s good care.”
“And did Miss Lovett care for her adequately?” Mr. Morgan asked.
“Not only did she care for her, but she also saw that Miss Adams received a proper burial. And I was told by Mr. Geary that Honey paid for it and the marker with her own earnings.”
“Objection, hearsay and irrelevant.” Mr. Vessels stood.
“Overruled,” the judge said.
“Do you receive books from Honey’s outreach program?” Mr. Morgan asked.
“Honey delivers the books to me every Friday.” She looked appreciatively at me.
“Can you tell us what you knew about your neighbors, the Gillis family?”
“Objection!” Mr. Vessels called out.
I glanced over and saw the sheriff’s eyes flicker as he looked at Mr. Vessels.
“What’s the relevance, Mr. Morgan? And is this witness competent on the character of Mr. Gillis?” Judge Norton asked.
“Yes, Your Honor. I plan to show Miss Lovett’s true moral character and dispute the fabricated indecent one the state and sheriff have wrongly presented.”
“Overruled. You may continue, Miss Ballard.” The judge jabbed his chin her way.
“I treated their son, Johnnie, after he fell down their family well and caught pneumonia. Then I nursed Mrs. Gillis after her husband attacked her in my home. Honey was there and helped with the nursing too. Before Mrs. Gillis left, she told me that Honey climbed down in the well and rescued Johnnie. She saved his life, and her little boy told me this too. Honey also led the state police to Mrs. Gillis. And because of that, her murderer was arrested and the poor soul has now received a proper burial—”
“Objection! Your Honor—” Mr. Vessels called out, incensed.
“Overruled. As it happens, I have the signed statement from the state police in my file,” Judge Norton replied. “Please continue your questioning, Counselor.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.” Mr. Morgan sat down.
“You may cross-examine, Mr. Vessels.”
Mr. Vessels stood. “Miss Ballard, you’re a frontier nurse who cares for the sick. What type of books did Miss Lovett drop off to you?”
“Fun and entertaining ones that enlighten and educate. There are a lot of people around here who like to read and will read anything. But sadly, there are a few small-minded people in dire need of her service and who would greatly benefit from it. I commend Miss Lovett on her efforts to spread literacy.”
I heard a few smothered chuckles behind me.
“So you support and recommend feminism and immoral indecency?” Mr. Vessels said curtly. “These sex—”
“Objection.” Mr. Morgan rose.
“Sustained,” the judge answered. “Mr. Vessels, please refrain from injecting your manful interpretations onto the lady’s reflections.”
“Withdrawn. No further questions, Your Honor.” Mr. Vessels reddened.
“You may step down, Miss Ballard,” the judge said. “Call your next witness, Counselor.”
“Forest Ranger R.C. Cole,” Mr. Morgan said. After R.C. was seated and sworn in, Mr. Morgan asked if he was acquainted with me. Then he told him to describe what happened the morning of the fire.
“The young ladies were Sunday sober straight. They both tried to explain about the fire, and Honey’s suspicions regarding Mrs. Gillis’s disappearance to the sheriff. But Sheriff Buckner wouldn’t listen. Instead, he shouted and threatened to lock them up on false charges—”
“Objection and irrelevant!” Mr. Vessels shot out an arm to R.C.
“Overruled. Please continue, Mr. Cole.” The judge motioned to him with his palm.
“Miss Grant had several property accidents we believed were caused by Mr. Gillis and his relative in the past, but unfortunately we were unable to prove it or get the sheriff’s official help on the matter. I learned just yesterday the state police has opened an official investigation into the sheriff’s dereliction of duty and—”
“Objection, this hearing isn’t about Sheriff Buckner,” Mr. Vessels said.
“Sustained,” the judge ruled.
R.C. glanced disgustedly over at the lawman.
The sheriff looked away. Mr. Vessels leaned close to the sheriff and whispered. The lawman shook his head.
I exhaled, knowing the sheriff would be under the watchful eye of the state police for some time if not longer. I dared to peek back at Pearl, and she shot me a small, satisfied smile, knowing it too.
“Can you speak of Honey Lovett’s character, Mr. Cole?” Mr. Morgan asked.
“Know’d her all her life, as well her family. Honorable and decent folks.”
After Mr. Morgan concluded, Mr. Vessels looked like he might question R.C. but for some reason didn’t.
“Your Honor, I would like to call my last witness, Miss Eula Foster, the director at the Troublesome Creek Library,” Mr. Morgan said.
She was sworn in and quickly took her seat.
“Miss Foster, you hired Miss Lovett to deliver reading material on her mule to extend your outreach program, much like your library had with the Pack Horse initiative in the ’30s and ’40s, is that correct?”
“It is correct,” Miss Foster said quietly, not meeting my eyes.
“Is Miss Lovett a good employee?”
“Her work seems satisfactory enough, but”—she glanced over at the other table—“if her character and morals were in question, then unfortunately we’d have to let her go.”
I heard the jangling and a hiss behind me and knew it came from Pearl. I chanced a glance and saw the misery puddled on her face.
“But her work performance is satisfactory, and she currently has a good record in your employment?” Mr. Morgan pressed.
“Yes, so far.” Miss Foster darted her eyes to me and then cast them meekly to her lap.
“Your witness,” Mr. Morgan told Mr. Vessels.
“Miss Foster, does your library carry Chopin’s The Awakening?” Mr. Vessels asked.
“I… Well, I didn’t know it was still in circulation anywhere.”
“Is it banned?”
“I’m unaware of its current status.”
“So your library carries and supports and willingly condones sex-fiction books—”
“Objection.” Mr. Morgan scowled.
“Overruled,” Judge Norton said briskly.
Mr. Vessels pressed his fingertips together as he walked in front of his table. “Miss Foster, as you are probably aware, The Awakening was written by a woman with a diseased mind and blackened soul. So I’m asking you, do you carry The Awakening, or any other such damnable written works?” He paused and turned to me. “Did you hire librarian Honey Mary-Angeline Lovett to carry dirty books up those rocks?” Mr. Vessels pushed.
Eula pinched her lips together tightly and screwed up her pale face, her taut cheeks blotting red. “No, sir, I most certainly did not! The Troublesome Creek Public Library doesn’t carry books that would offend the Kentucky man or ones that would go against the Godly morals and practicing Christian beliefs of decent, God-fearing folks!”
“You are the director, Miss Foster, and if you don’t have it, would it be safe to say it was in Miss Lovett’s personal collection and that she alone carried those dirty books—”
My teeth began to clatter, and terrified, I pressed a palm over my mouth.
“Objection! Leading the witness and hearsay,” Mr. Morgan said harshly.
“Mr. Morgan.” I tugged on his sleeve, but he wrote something down on his pad and wouldn’t look at me.
“No more questions.” Mr. Vessels smiled thinly.
The judge looked down at us and then said, “Mr. Vessels, would you care to call any other witness, briefly, to counter any of this new evidence presented by Mr. Morgan?”
“Just one moment and thank you, Your Honor.” Mr. Vessels leaned over to the sheriff, and they whispered together, then, “No, Your Honor. We rest.”
“Mr. Morgan?” said the judge.
“No, Your Honor. Applicant rests.”
“If you are both through, I would like to conclude this hearing by ruling on the matter today and later I will write a formal letter. Now, I would like to say…” Judge Norton paused and directed his next words to Mr. Vessels. “Mr. Vessels had the opportunity to call Sheriff Buckner as a witness to refute the claim and did not, so I presume there is some truth to it.”
Mr. Vessels half stood, plopped back into his seat, then rose again, sputtering, “But, Your Honor, Your—”
“Take your seat, Counselor,” the judge said.
A few grumbles came from Mr. Vessels’s table.
“Before I rule, I’d like to ask Miss Lovett one last question. Miss Lovett?”
I uttered a yessir.
“Stand,” Mr. Morgan instructed me.
I rose slowly.
“Miss Lovett,” the judge said, “do you have anything you wish to say?”
I was surprised again that he asked my thoughts, the same as in the last hearing. I was hesitant, recalling how Papa whispered to Mama to never go searching for freedom at the feet of others who could strip it away.
But I had to try even if it meant on bended knee. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said, my response hoarse, the words raked across a burning throat. “I–I… Well, sir, I had a marriage proposal recently.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr. Vessels, Mrs. Wallace, and the sheriff leaning over, gawking, stretching their necks, three sets of curious eyes falling to my belly. Mrs. Wallace whispered something to the lawyer and he nodded.
From the public benches, I heard folk squirm in their seats, knowing some were lengthening backsides to get a glimpse.
“Your Honor,” I continued, trying to ignore them, “I know many girls around here are allowed to wed young. The law—”
The judge looked up, perplexed, and made me stop talking. “Miss Lovett, how might you know that law? Are you in other trouble…in the family way?”
I pressed my lips together, tasting the stale, waxy Pastel Pink lipstick from the Avon sample that Pearl had given me the night of the party.
“Miss Lovett?” He waited.
Laughter and a few snickers punched from the rear, but I kept my eyes glued to the judge. “No, sir. Mr. Morgan told me that’s the law in this state. And he said Kentucky would legally honor such a union between a man and a child bride.” I paused, suddenly remembering my mama, Angeline Moffit, and the marriage certificate that I’d found in one of our trunks long ago. She was barely thirteen when she married my papa, Willie.
A touch of kindness spread across the judge’s face. “There’d be no need for any of us to be here today if you were soon to have a husband. Would there?”
“No, sir, Your Honor. But I haven’t even had a chance to go on my first date because the way things are in my life. Have myself a proper kiss even,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself, and the laughter grew louder.
“Order,” the bailiff called out.
“I live alone, Your Honor.”
“And where is that?”
“At the Carter homestead alongside Troublesome Creek. Anyone”—I lifted an unsteady gloved hand over to the sheriff and social worker—“can visit me anytime.”
Again, from behind came guffaws, but I couldn’t help myself. “I keep it nice and clean, and feed and care for my critters. Junia. She was my mama’s mule.”
Judge Norton’s eyes grew distant like he was remembering something or someone from long ago.
“But Junia’s mine now. The ol’ girl delivered thousands of books on hundreds of porches for the Pack Horse Library Project years ago. And she’s doing it again with me. I take care of her and Miss Retta’s cat. I take care of myself.” I reached inside my dress pocket, pulled out the folded paycheck stubs and held them out in front of me, up high. “My pay stubs, Your Honor.”
The judge leaned toward me and looked over his glasses, quietly studying me.
An utterance of disbelief arose from Mrs. Wallace. I placed the stubs on the table and glanced down at the empty chair where Retta had sat beside me, suddenly feeling an ache for her presence, her pride and strength.
The sheriff stared at me, bored, like I was no more than the bother of a housefly, and I saw Gillis’s cruel face in his. My mind pulled to Guyla Belle’s suffering, the horrors Gillis had burdened little Wrenna, me, and the other women with, and a surge of blinding fury and power sent quakes to my being. Steadying my sweaty gloved hands on the table, I took a deep breath and tamped down the anger, trying to think smart.
“Your Honor, if I don’t want to marry, and instead I want to keep house alone, Kentucky will punish me by sending me to the children’s prison and lock me in weighted leg chains to work hard labor until I have reached the age of twenty-one. I will soon be seventeen, and I have a home and a respectable government job and the means to support myself. I deliver books and important reading material into these hills, and my patrons need me and the materials. If the law says I’m of marriageable age, old enough to get hitched at twelve or thirteen or sixteen, why can’t it declare me an adult when I’ve been making it on my own the same as fourteen-year-old Byrne McDaniel? Why should I be forced to marry a man to have my freedom, to do what I’m already doing and doing well?”
Attorney Vessels popped up fast and noisily, stopping me. “Objection. Totally irrelevant.”
“Overruled. Miss Lovett, are you seeking permission to marry?” The judge looked at me, puzzled.
“No, Your Honor. No, sir. I’m seeking the freedom not to!” I sat down, scooted closer to the table and clasped my trembling hands.
The court clerk lifted the pen off her page and glanced at me, a mixture of pity, shock, and admiration fleeting across her eyes before she dropped her gaze back to the task at hand. I looked back to the judge, gleaning an unsettling rising while the clock ticked loudly into Mr. Morgan’s fast-shuffling papers.
Judge Norton stared down at me from his perch.
Purring whispers crawled around the warm, oppressive room as I smoothed down my skirts, tasting the heavy, standing air coating my throat.
Mr. Morgan leaned over and uttered something, but I couldn’t hear anything except the heartbeats of terror pounding in my ears.
The judge finally pulled his gaze away. “Why, indeed, Miss Lovett,” he said quietly, then announced louder, “Application for the emancipation of Honey Mary-Angeline Lovett is hereby granted. Please approach the bench with your client, Counselor.”
“Scandalous—” Mrs. Wallace admonished, and Judge Norton banged his gavel twice into her protest.
Gasps and cheers erupted from behind.
At the bench, the judge leaned over to speak with me. “Miss Lovett, it was Napoleon who supposedly said, ‘Show me a family of readers, and I will show you the people who move the world.’ Not long ago, I was moving down a different path, straight to the House of Reform. Yanking on little girls’ braids, fighting in the schoolyard, and sneaking liquor and raising Cain. But your mother changed all that with the books. From the first”—he raised a finger—“very first moment I saw her and that old, cranky mule ride into the schoolyard,” he mused. “She once said, ‘Books are the cornerstone to greater minds.’ And I will never forget what a difference the books made after she gave me a few of the Hardy Boys mysteries. They inspired me to pursue a career in law. Books’ll change you like that.”
He tapped the words onto his table and stepped down off the bench, then turned slowly around. “Hmm,” he grunted, knitting his brows. “There’s a problem.”
“Your Honor?” I said, the apprehension climbing back into my gut.
“I haven’t picked up their latest. Do you have it in yet, Miss Lovett?”
Free. I was still free. But the longer I stared at him, the more I glimpsed the mischievous little boy Mama had seen in the schoolyard years ago.
Checking his wristwatch, Mr. Morgan gently cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir, Your Honor. I came across The Crisscross Shadow just the other week. I’ll make sure to reserve it for you,” I said, relieved.
Amara, Pearl, Alonzo, and R.C. flocked to my side, congratulating me, hugging and pecking my flushed cheeks.
Pearl nudged my arm. “Look who’s here.” My eyes searched the small crowd in the back of the courtroom, and I caught Francis staring at me, a question in his eyes.
He pointed at me and then back to his chest and mouthed, Go out with me?
Though free, I had been pressed into early womanhood by the court and Kentucky law and would likely marry and bear children years from now, but for today, this moment, I wanted to be just a girl getting her first date. Yes, I mouthed back, bobbing my head, excited to do just that.
Pearl exclaimed, “Oh, Honey, we have to celebrate your freedom. We’ll have a party the likes this town has never seen!”
“First, I’m going on a picnic with that boy and eating me a tub of his mama’s prized banana pudding.” I looked beyond at a grinning Francis.
Miss Foster approached me slowly, hesitant in her steps. I searched her eyes, wondering if she would dismiss me from my job.
“Honey,” she said, digging inside her pocketbook, “Mr. Taft asked me to give you this for your personal collection when he heard I was coming today.”
“Ma’am.” She handed me The Golden Book of Tagore.
“Oren said it’s a 1931 signed first edition, and there’s only 1,500 in the world.” Miss Foster lightly tapped her approval on the book with a nail.
Speechless, I marveled over the cover bound in pale-yellow silk, tracing a finger around the embossed red and gold floral design. “It’s a treasure,” I murmured, studying the spine, noting the raised ticketed leather title.
She folded her hands. “Honey, I need to apologize. Tell you I’m sorry I listened to the lies of the sheriff and that wretched woman. Forgive me, I was an old fool. I didn’t realize your steadfast dedication, the vital services you have provided to your patrons. For poor Mrs. Gillis, her son, and others. I’d be honored if you would continue your mother’s important legacy with the outreach program. Honey, there’s always the thirst. And you and those books are sorely needed and will surely save a lot of people. If you stay.”
I glanced up at the judge’s empty bench. “Ma’am, I’ll need to reserve a book today. Mama grow’d readers out there, Miss Foster. I want to do that too,” I said quietly, thinking about her and the patrons.
The librarian squeezed my shoulder. “You truly are the Book Woman’s daughter.” She released me and walked briskly over to the courtroom door, turning once to nod approvingly before slipping out.
Bonnie peeked inside, holding her tin lunch bucket and wearing dirty bibs and a miner’s helmet. Annoyed by her disheveled appearance, the bailiff held up an arm and loudly said, “Only proper attire is allowed, miss.” He blocked her from entering. Undaunted, Bonnie glared at him and elbowed his arm away.
Sullen, the bailiff stepped aside.
Hitching a fallen strap up over her shoulder, Bonnie called out to me, “I heard, sweet pea! You be sure an’ bring me some more good books come Friday.” She tapped her chest where a read jutted out from the large bib pocket. “Just finished your latest loan on my dinner break today.”
Leaving the courtroom, Mrs. Wallace paused beside the miner, and a hand flew up to her collar. The social worker gaped at Lady Chatterley’s Lover poking out from Bonnie’s blackened overalls, then turned slowly to me, surprised, silently working her mouth, the disgust and hatred ripening on her pinched face. “Heathen,” she spat out.
Bold, I lifted a defiant chin and met her burning eyes with triumphant ones.
Mrs. Wallace bumped Bonnie aside with her large pocketbook and stomped out of the courtroom.
Clutching The Golden Book of Tagore, I opened it and saw Mr. Taft had left an inscription.
June ’53
Honey,
“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.” As long as you have the books, you’ll always have that light.
—Oren Taft
Suddenly, I was there beside her again, riding in the ol’ blue hills of Kaintuck, our pannier full, and I felt the sting of tears as I reread what Mama had quoted to her patron long ago—knowing that the books had not only saved me, her, and others, but had given us something even bigger and more precious: Freedom.