A short time later, the clouds parted as I rode into the schoolyard, scattering a brood of chickens and a cluster of loud, chasing boys.
Winnie rushed out of the schoolhouse, shooing the hens and students out of her way.
“I didn’t think you’d make it this Monday, Cussy Mary,” she said. “So glad you did.”
I stayed atop Junia. “Sorry, I’m running behind today. I’ll fetch your books,” I said, feeling guilty because I’d tarried too long at the Moffits and Jackson Lovett’s.
Winnie sent Clementine back inside for the loans.
The children, all hankering for a peek at the new material, circled around their teacher. I called over Nessie and handed her the recipes for her sister to bake for the big dance, and she spun around and curtsied, then waved the paper. “I’ll have to learn her, ’cause she can’t read. Thank you, Book Woman.” The other girls gathered around her as she read the recipes to them.
I scanned the student’s faces searching for Henry. He stood in the back of the group, a weakness in his eyes.
In a minute, Clementine flew back out of the building, stumbled, and dropped the books, kicking up a kaleidoscope of swallowtails.
Henry dashed over to her and scowled, picked up the books and dusted the jackets off on his pant legs and sleeves, scolding her as he ran up to me.
“Here you are, ma’am,” he said, and blew on the books, again swiping the covers with his arms.
Henry’s face was more hollowed, his bones again poked out of ragged clothes that had been passed down too many times and were tight and ill-fitting.
“Thank you, Henry.” I bent over and caught the red, glossy necklace circling his neck, the thick scaly rash on his palms. He had the pellagra and was starving to death. And right before my eyes.
With a steady hand, I took the books from him and slipped them into my bags, stretched around to my other satchel, pulling out my saved dinner. I held up the apple.
“Everyone inside.” Winnie clapped loudly, hurrying over to me, and gave a sharp startling clap once more, sending Henry and her pupils skittering back into their classroom and Junia toe-hopping nervously. “Inside. To your desks. Now,” she warned, and clapped once more. Dampness blotted under the armpits of her dress, spreading to her chest.
When they were all inside, Winnie said firmly, “You can’t feed one, Cussy Mary, without feeding them all. They all have the hunger, just some of their bodies are able to hide the sickness better than the others.”
She was right, and it wouldn’t be fair. Ashamed, I lowered the fruit to my side.
Winnie clasped her hands. “If only we could get more outreach programs up here. If only they could send a block of cheese with every book, a loaf of bread.” She tilted her head to the sky as if telling it all to God.
I wished it too. Their hunger for books could teach them of a better life free of the hunger, but without food they’d never live long enough or have the strength to find it.
“Just one damn block of cheese,” Winnie scratched out in a whisper.
I thought about the cheese Doc promised. If I could bargain with him for more food, I could give it to the schoolchildren.
Winnie sighed, stroked Junia’s neck, then gently took the apple from my hand, slipped it into her dress pocket. “Henry’s new baby didn’t make it,” she said quietly.
Saddened, I turned to the schoolhouse and saw a blush of boys peeking out the window. One was Henry.
“I’ll make sure I give this to him.” Winnie patted her pocket. “Ride safe and give my best to Martha Hannah and the children.” She turned, her long skirts bristling as she hurried back to her charges.
From inside, Henry pressed his head to the pane, watching me. I tossed him a smile and vowed silently to get him food. The boy broke into a sluggish grin, struggled to raise the window—once, then again—but was too weak. He coughed, pressed his rash-reddened hand to the glass, and mouthed, Goodbye, Book Woman. Then he was gone, his handprint a milk-ghosted blur disappearing into glass, a shiver left needling my spine.