Millard had sent us a letter to tell us how things were back in Red River. “Still dry. Still dusty,” he’d written. He wrote how a man had come to town wanting five hundred dollars to make it rain. Said he had a whole truck of dynamite he’d blow up that would bust open the clouds. Millard wrote that Pastor’d hollered in church, trying to get folks to dig into their pockets for the cash.
“I stood up right in church and told him I’d be surprised if we had five dollars between us there in Red River,” Millard wrote. “I said if God wanted us to have rain so bad He’d just do the work Himself. Y’all should have seen Pastor’s face.”
He told us how he missed us something awful and how he was keeping an eye on the house just in case we ever found ourselves on the road back to Oklahoma.
I must have read that letter six times the day we got it and a couple more times after that. The paper was soft and had a little grit on it that came along in the mail. I rubbed that flour-soft Oklahoma dust between finger and thumb and wondered how much a sin it was that in a land so green and alive I desired nothing more than to go home to the dry and dead Red River.
It had taken some doing, but Mama found out that Miss Moon lived all by herself in an apartment above the newspaper. She’d been in town just over a year doing odd jobs here and there to make her way. Other than that, nobody knew anything else about her.
In her bold way, Mama climbed the steps to Miss Moon’s apartment and asked if she wanted a job working at our house on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
The girl, Opal Moon, started that very afternoon.
Opal Moon took on the jobs of laundry and dusting and wiping down windows. She’d sweep the whole house from top to bottom and even help Mama bake bread. Some of the mornings when she’d knock on the back door I didn’t know how Mama would manage to find anything for her to do. As far as I could see the house was already spotless.
With Opal doing so many things around the house, Mama fretted to Daddy that she wasn’t needed so much anymore. She’d been used to the dust of Red River, how she was never done fighting it. But in Bliss our house stayed clean a good long time.
“How about you teach Ray to read,” Daddy told her. “He’ll need to go to school in the fall. Maybe you can help him out a little.”
So Mama made up her mind that Ray would be able to read and write, at least a little, before the end of the summer. And when Mama got something in her mind she saw it through until the very end.
Each Tuesday and Thursday morning after she gave Opal a list of tasks, Mama set up the dining-room table with papers and pencils. She’d sit Ray down and have him copy out his letters.
During the first couple lessons I stood in the doorway and watched, amazed by how patient she was with him. How she corrected his mistakes with a kindness that went deeper than her heart, maybe right down to her soul, even. And he didn’t get angry. He didn’t let his frustration force him to quit. He’d stick his tongue out, just a little, focus his eyes, and try again.
It took courage, learning something so big as reading and writing. It took a brave person to sit in that straight-backed dining-room chair with a pencil resting against fingers and mind focused on A-B-C and so on.
I wondered if Ray knew he was changing his life, right there at the table with Mama looking on.
Ray Jones was real brave. That was sure.
A week or so into their work, Mama made me scoot out of the house. She told me I was distracting. I told her I’d stay out of the way, that she wouldn’t even know I was there. She answered back that she didn’t need me staring at Ray while he was working so hard.
“Go find some friends,” she told me.
So I went to the library.
The library in Bliss was a grand old building all the way on the end of Main Street. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought it was a castle for a king and queen. It had a tower and pointed peaks. The doors had been carved with pictures of knights on the backs of horses with fairies hovering over the tops of trees and creatures of the woods stalking between tree trunks.
I imagined living there in that library, looking out at those below from my palace window, waving whenever one of the common folk caught my eye. They’d bow to me and I’d laugh and shake my head and wave my hand so they knew they didn’t have to do such a thing for little old me.
If ever I was queen—or princess, even—I’d be a kind one and humble. Probably the humblest ever to exist.
Folks would say, “My, isn’t she humble?” and I’d blush and tell them they were embarrassing me.
That was how humble I’d be.
I’d been inside the library all of three times and yet, on that fourth visit, I still felt a sense of awe about the place. I entered with reverence and careful, quiet steps just like I would’ve if it had been a church.
Mrs. Trask was the librarian. Had been since the library opened forty years before, at least that was what she’d told me. I was inclined to believe her. She had silver hair and a well-wrinkled face. And she stooped more than anybody I’d ever seen. If I’d had to guess her age I’d have put her at seventy-five. Maybe even seventy-six. I didn’t ask if I was right though. Mama’d told me many times it wasn’t nice to ask a lady her age.
She was real kind, Mrs. Trask was. Not once had I seen her scold somebody for returning a book late or make a nasty face when a book fell hard against the floor. She wasn’t one to shush, either. Instead she offered gentle reminders of, “Do keep in mind you’re in the library, my friend.”
Mrs. Trask was nice.
Problem was, she didn’t trust children to choose books for themselves and told me as much each time I stood at her desk. She insisted on having the final say on what I, or any child for that matter, checked out from the library.
“The world is full of dangerous books with dangerous ideas,” she’d told me, pointing her fingers at her own head. “They have power. Words can be weapons and they can warp young minds. You wouldn’t want your young mind warped, would you?”
I’d told her each time that I wanted no such thing. All I wanted was a book about adventure or exploration. Every time, though, I ended up with whichever book she thought to find for a girl my age.
Mostly what she picked for me were stories about fine ladies in hoop-skirts, mending socks and waiting for their men to get back from some kind of war or from prospecting gold or from hunting grizzly bears.
The women in the books Mrs. Trask gave me to read stayed home while the men went off to have the adventures.
I sure did hate every single one of those books.
What I wanted were stories about Indians with tomahawks who went around and scalped the white man in revenge for settling on their land. Or a story about explorers tramping through unknown territory, seeing creatures nobody had so much as dreamed of before. I would have been happy to read a story of war or pirates or anything other than swishy skirts and elbow-length gloves.
I would’ve even been glad to read something about a nurse cleaning up after sick people all day long. At least she wouldn’t be waiting around for adventures to happen for everybody else.
That day, my fourth visit to the library, I made my way to Mrs. Trask’s desk, determined to get a book that might make my heart thump with delight. Even one that didn’t make me nod off to sleep while I was in the middle of it would’ve been nice. I swallowed and put a real sweet and sincere smile on my face.
“Miss Spence, what a delight to see you yet again,” she said in her just-above-a-whisper voice. “Are you interested in another book?”
“Yes, Mrs. Trask, ma’am,” I said, trying to match the volume of my voice to hers. “I wondered if I might, please, be able to read a book about the Revolutionary War, ma’am, what with Independence Day coming up next month and all.”
She sat still a moment and pressed a finger against her lips like she was trying to make sense of what I’d just said. Then she got up from her desk and walked quick as she was able toward the row of shelves she’d called “suitable for girls.”
I knew right then I was doomed.
Using her bent-knuckled finger, she pointed at the spines of the books on a certain shelf until she found what she’d set out for. Pulling it down, she handed it to me.
When I saw the cover my heart about dropped.
It was a book about Betsy Ross making the American flag.
I made sure to thank Mrs. Trask and tried not to let on how sore I was.
Along one wall of the library were windows that let in good morning light. Each had a seat built into it and I chose the middle one that day. Leaning my back against the wide window frame, I pulled my legs up, stretching them out in front of me and opening the book across my thighs.
After reading that book for just five minutes I knew there wouldn’t be anything more exciting in it than Betsy Ross poking her own finger with a sewing needle.
If I’d had a chance to write the story I would’ve made it so Miss Ross used dye laced with poison on the fabric so she might use it to kill off at least a couple of the red coats. Why they’d have their hands on the American flag, I didn’t know. That was something I’d have to work out later.
And she’d have that old flag draped over her lap, rocking in her chair as she sewed the stars into the blue. What nobody would’ve known, though, was that she had her pistol under that flag, cradled in her lap, and she wasn’t scared to use it if any of the British came charging into her house.
That sure would surprise them, I thought.
Then I imagined she had an Indian maid that carried a sharp knife in her belt. Her name would be Little Owl and she’d be just as brave as Betsy Ross. Maybe even more so because she’d seen battles all her life and was chomping at the bit to be right in the middle of one.
Because those two proved such brave and fierce warriors, I figured George Washington himself would reward them. He’d give Little Owl her freedom, of course, and promise not to disturb her tribal land since she’d proved what loyal friends the Indians could be.
As for Betsy Ross, he’d give her a medal of honor and a place in history right beside the men who fought in the Revolution. And, as a special reward, he’d make a law, too, that all girls in the good old U.S. of A. could forevermore read whatever books they darn well pleased.
I thought Betsy Ross herself would have preferred my story of her life over the one in the book I held on my lap. She’d have been upset by what a silly little girl that writer had made her out to be.
Maybe Betsy Ross and I could’ve made good friends.
“Oh, Carrie Seegert,” I heard Mrs. Trask say. “What a nice surprise.”
The old librarian rose from her desk, and from behind I could see she had a hump curving out from her back and I wondered if it gave her pain. If it did, she didn’t treat folks ugly on account of it.
“Hello, Hannah,” Aunt Carrie said, taking the librarian’s hands in her own.
“How are you?” Mrs. Trask asked. “It seems I haven’t seen you in years.”
Aunt Carrie stood in front of her, smiling down into her face.
“Don’t you remember?” she asked. “I was here just the other day.”
“Of course you were.” Mrs. Trask shook her head. “Silly me. I seem to forget things these days.”
“It’s no bother, Hannah. I understand.”
“Seems to be the scourge of the old. Losing memory.” She patted Aunt Carrie’s arm a couple times before letting it rest there the way Meemaw did when she’d comfort somebody. “At least I can remember names still.”
“That’s very good.”
“Now, I know you didn’t come here to worry over an old woman.” She clapped her hands together, but lightly, without making any sound. “You came for a book and I just got one in that I think you might enjoy.”
Mrs. Trask picked a book from the stack on her desk and handed it to Aunt Carrie, reciting words that sounded more like a song than anything. When she was done, she breathed in through her nose like she was smelling something nice like flowers or baking bread.
Aunt Carrie thanked her and told her she’d like to borrow the book if she might. She wished Mrs. Trask a good day before coming my way. She sat beside me and we both said what a fine day it was turning out to be.
“What do you have there?” she asked, angling her head so she could see the cover of the book. “Betsy Ross, huh?”
I nodded, pulling my finger out from between the pages. I didn’t care to keep my place anyway.
“I would have thought you were more of the kind to read about Davy Crockett or Lewis and Clark.”
“Mrs. Trask only lets me read girl books,” I told her.
“May I?” she asked, putting out her hand for the book.
I gave it to her and watched as she flipped it over like she was searching for something.
“Hm.” She rifled through the pages and closed it again. “Funny. I guess I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a girl book.”
“If you ask Mrs. Trask she’ll show you a whole bookcase full of them.” I nodded in the direction of the shelf I meant.
She squinted up her eyes and said she knew exactly what I was saying.
“Ah, yes.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “Tell me, Pearl, do you like fairy tales?”
“I used to.”
“Used to?” she asked. “You don’t believe in them anymore?”
“Ah. I suppose that happens to all of us at one point or another.”
“It does?” I asked.
She nodded and told me it was indeed a common occurrence.
“One day you might start believing them again,” she said. “Someday when you find that you need them.”
“When will that happen?”
“Ah, but that’s not for me to tell.” She pointed a finger at me. “But you’ll know when that day comes.”
I hoped she was right. I sure did.
“Well, Miss Pearl, follow me. I believe I have just the book for you.” She put the Betsy Ross book under her arm along with the one Mrs. Trask had given her. “Right this way.”
I followed her and we ended up standing at a shelf in a part of the library I’d not been to before. She walked her fingertips across the shelf like two feet on a nice stroll. Her skin left marks in the gray dust like footprints. When she found the one she wanted she took it and rubbed her hand over the cover, smiling like she was looking face-to-face at a good friend.
“I think this might be the book for you,” she said, handing it to me. “Instead of fairy tales, this is a wonder story.”
Touching the cover, I read the title out loud. “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?”
“You’ll see.” She held up the Betsy Ross book. “You’ll enjoy it much better than this one, I promise.”
I ran my fingers over the yellow and green and red cover. “I bet I will,” I whispered.
“I’ll be sure to ask Mrs. Trask to allow you to read whatever books catch your fancy from now on.” She leaned in close and whispered. “She means well, truly. She just fears that some stories might damage young minds.”
“She told me that.”
“That’s just because she knows the power of stories.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll be sure I’m careful with your young mind.”
“My pleasure.” She nodded at the book in my hand. “Let me know what you think of that story, will you?”
I told her I would.
After she left, I stayed, reading the titles of the books that my aunt had decided were suitable for me. A hundred worlds written on paper occupied the shelves, waiting for when I’d be ready for them. I did plan to read every one of those stories.
Mrs. Trask peeked her head around the shelf, letting me know that the library would close in fifteen minutes for lunch. I wondered how long I’d stood there, dreaming about all the books in front of me.
I rushed to Mrs. Trask’s desk to check out the Oz book. She didn’t say a sideways word about me taking that one.
The good Carrie Seegert had kept her word.
I could hardly wait to read that book.