For the rest of May leading up to the Pie Bake Dance, there was talk about Vester Frazier’s disappearance, and a few suspicions on his whereabouts, everything from him running off with a floozy to him falling prey to a hungry bear or pack of mean dogs. Folks around here had heard about my short union with Charlie Frazier, but they didn’t know spit about his kin accosting me.
The talk didn’t bother me much. Folks know’d the Blues were unchurched and didn’t associate with the preacher. But I couldn’t help fearing he’d be discovered, worry on what Devil John might’ve seen, worrying more that Doc would let something slip, or someone’s hunting dog would come along and dig him up. Lately, I’d been peeking behind Junia’s stall, scattering leaves atop the preacher’s grave, piling on more sticks, rock, then dragging logs from the woodpile onto it. Made sure he stayed good ’n’ put, couldn’t push his devil-rotted, fire-wagging fingers up from the black earth and grab himself another sinner.
Pa’d fussed at me and ordered me to stop, saying I was making it worse by stacking a big marker like that. But I couldn’t stop fretting over Frazier’s grave, stop piling on more debris. The last week of May rolled in, and Pa made sure I wouldn’t fuss the matter again. I awoke and found the site cleared, the hole empty, and Pa’s conversation just as vacant.
Folks’ talk drifted from the missing preacher to the union fighting for more pay and better working conditions for the miners and the young boys picking slate down in the hole and making pleas for better living quarters in the mine camp on the other side of town. The Company came back with a vengeance against the union; there was more violence, threats of shutting down the mines, and coal miners’ strange disappearances.
Beginning with Pa’s.
Two days earlier, I had come home from my route and found him gone, thinking he was off to one of his meetings. But the next morning, when he still hadn’t returned, I was beside myself. I’d paced the cabin spitting out prayers, wearing the old floorboards until the rhythm of the creaks and groans skint my nerves and drove me outside. I ran over to Junia’s stall and cried out, “We’ve got to go find him.”
We trailed Pa’s route to work, searching for any clues of an animal attack, anything that might lead me to him, until we saw the mine in the distance, and I pulled the reins and brought Junia to a halt. I was frantic for news, but I didn’t dare go closer and I couldn’t ask openly in town. Hoping to get word of Pa’s whereabouts, I’d penned a letter yesterday when he still hadn’t returned. I addressed it to Mr. Moore, a coal miner I’d heard Pa speak kindly of, and then boldly rode over to Queenie’s house and asked her grandma Willow to give it to her. It’d taken half the morning, and I spent the rest of the day riding the mule hard to make up the lost time taken from my book route.
Pa’d been gone three days now, and I hadn’t three seconds of peace worrying it all.
And when the couriers had left notes at the librarians’ outpost requesting we come into the Center a week early to help with the large delivery the railroad had left, I was more than eager, hoping Queenie would bring news of Pa, or I’d see him in town.
Inside the Center, I sorted the mail and reading material at my table, keeping an eye on the Company store across the street and on the lookout for Pa. If I heard noises outside, I’d rush over to the window to see if it was Queenie, hoping Willow remembered to give her my letter.
Several times I dropped things, the nerves whittling me down. When Harriett slammed a stack of catalog cards onto my table, I jumped, knocking books onto the floor.
“What’s wrong with you?” she snapped, looking at me suspiciously, slapping down more cards. “You sick or something?” She took a step away from me. “You’ve been clumsy all morning.”
“No, ma’am. Sorry,” I mumbled, and picked up the books and began sorting the cards into the makeshift filing cabinets we’d made from cheese boxes the Company store had set out for trash, while Eula and Harriett gossiped about the upcoming dance this Friday.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Doc outside, and he raised a friendly hand in passing. He still hadn’t dropped off the promised basket of food, and I wished I could ask him about it. Doc had mentioned the last time we drove from Lexington that he’d pick me up the third Saturday in June, so I reckoned I’d have to wait till then to talk to him.
I looked over at Eula and Harriett talking about the Pie Bake Dance, tempted to slip out and speak with him, but I quickly lost my courage when he disappeared into the Company store. I’d make sure to ask him for the food on the way to the city. It was a relief knowing Winnie would have it for her schoolchildren, and for a few minutes I let myself imagine the students stuffed and happy, looking like the fattened children in my storybooks.
Eula changed the conversation and chatted about the Penny Fund that Lena Nofcier was starting, and I perked at the mention. Miss Nofcier was the chairman of the librarian service for the Kentucky PTA and pushed each member to donate a penny to purchase new books.
It sure would be something to have a room full of new books—satchels brimming with ’em—and to see the looks on the hillfolks’ faces. It would be thrilling to hand out stacks of the latest newspapers, and brightly colored magazines, and books with their perfect new covers, fresh ink, and crisp pages.
I kept an eye on the street and filed the catalog cards, picking up pieces of Eula and Harriett’s other tattles, one about a partial cave-in at the mine, the Company shutting down coal production and pulling out, somebody’s lost hunting dog, and the recent births of several babies.
I’d heard about the cave-in weeks ago when Pa told me about the two small boys who had to be dug out.
Both of the women dropped their voices to a near whisper, looked around in all directions, and right past me. They didn’t care if I heard. My presence was of no more matter than a spent moth on a sill. Still, I’d kept an ear bent, listening for the hard and hurtful things others might say about me and mine. Seems I had learned to hear a lot of talk that other folks didn’t think I could.
Harriett prattled while binding a book. “Mrs. Vance had her babe seven months after she wed, though she’s claiming a sudden fever brought it early.”
“It had fingernails on it like an old woman’s,” Eula said. “Nine months of nail growing if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Nine months after he first came a’courtin’,” Harriett snorted.
“Oh, did you see Mable Moss’s new baby?” Eula’s eyes rounded. “It was born with an ugly red stain across its long tongue that ran out onto its lip that ain’t lifted.”
“Uh-huh. And Mable’s done insisted the baby got it by falling off the birthing bed,” Harriett said. “I pity poor Mr. Moss having wed the homely girl only for her to give him a long- tongued liar.”
“It is surely the mark of a liar,” Eula agreed gravely.
I moved up by the women to stack books onto the old loft ladders we’d hung across the walls for the books. Stepping behind their tables, I kept an eye on them and an ear cocked to their words, hoping for any news of the missing miners, of Pa.
They whispered about other folks’ latest ailings, Harriett’s newest, and the Lysol douche she was using to cure it. I stretched my ear to listen to Harriett’s shocking illness.
“It’s—” Harriett stood and leaned over her table toward Eula, grabbing the edge. In an elaborately hushed voice, she said, “Well, I’d had this horrible itch.” Harriett pointed to Eula’s privates, then jerked her flushed face up when Eula’s gaze fell below Harriett’s belly. “I couldn’t go to the physician. It wouldn’t be proper.” She paused, snatched glances all around again for anyone who might’ve slipped into the Center, her face coloring ripe red.
Eula bobbed her head in sympathy, though there weren’t none in her rounding eyes.
“Well…” Harriett dipped her voice lower and caused me to strain. “Then I spied an advertisement in Movie Mirror. Mind you, I was only checking it for any filthiness that might offend our God-fearing patrons when I saw a picture of the brown bottle of Lysol, touting the inner rinse that would clean and kill germs.”
I had also seen the feminine hygiene advertisements in magazines and newspapers. The pictures of the weeping lady with a dainty hankie to her eyes showed she’d been a good mother, good housekeeper, good hostess, good cook, all those things, until 6:00 p.m.
The feminine wash advertisement scolded the sad lady, insisted the perfect homemaker did one disgraceful thing her husband couldn’t forgive by forgetting her smelly lady parts. It warned womenfolk about the dangers of neglecting intimate personal hygiene and reminded them to use the feminine wash to keep from wrecking a marriage. A powerful germicide, the product promised, and one that removes all kinds of powerful things and even stranger things I’d never heard of like “organic matter”… It will keep your man happy and is a surety for a happy marriage.
I squeezed another book onto the shelf and glanced outside, gave a prayer for Pa’s safety.
Harriett continued, “I had my cousin over in Virginny send me the Lysol right away. But when Postmaster Bill handed me my package, it was busted open. That simpleton gave me the bottle right in front of God and everyone.” Harriett pressed a hand to her chest.
“Oh my!” Eula knocked a fist against her own.
“The postmaster blubbered something about ‘spring cleaning,’ and I snatched it from his hands and took it home, and fast. Lawd, that Lysol fixed me good and proper,” Harriett said, proud of her new cure. “Just in time. Oh, Cory Lincoln’s coming to the dance on Friday,” she added and this time louder.
Cory Lincoln was Harriett’s cousin she was sweet on. He got hired on at the coal mine after being released from the penitentiary last month. And by just in time she meant it was the upcoming annual dance and pie auction time.
“I finished my dress,” Harriett told Eula and raised a sly brow.
“Oh,” Eula exclaimed. “Did you use the lace on the hem or—?”
“You’ll see,” Harriett singsonged, her eyes mischievous, holding a secret.
They talked excitedly about which man might win their company for the dance night, speculated on who they hoped would, and side-talked about the other girls, handpicking dull suitors for them, bursts of cackling punctuating each insult.
I pushed books into the ladder rung and moved to the next section, then heard Junia fuss outside and went over to the window. She pawed and strained from her tethered post.
Jackson Lovett stood in front of her, dressed in high-waisted stylish pants held up by suspenders like I’d seen in the magazines. He had a bouquet of blue flowers tied together with a ribbon. It looked like he was trying to get past her, maybe come inside the Center, or more likely pick something up in the post office. But the old mule blocked him.
I watched, knowing who’d win the argument. I wanted to raise the window and caution him, but the thought of doing so in front of the supervisors stopped me.
Junia blew at him, her loud snorts filling the quiet, sunny morning.
Peeking over my shoulder to the supervisors and back to Jackson, I lifted the window, careful not to disturb the already frayed rope cords that held the lead weights. I was determined to warn him again about the old mule’s temper.
I glanced back once more to Eula and Harriett, tucked tight as fatted ticks in their gossip.
I stuck my head out just as Junia pricked her ears forward, hovered over the flowers and sweetly raised her nose over the bouquet, then snatched them, gnashing them in her teeth, chewing them like they were her special gift from him, gobbling them in one bite. She flopped her ears at him, pleased.
Jackson struck a mild curse and pulled the ribbon loose from her jaw. A flower fell along with it, both fluttering to the ground.
Junia showed her teeth as if thanking him, brushing his hand with her soft mouth.
“You like flowers too, old girl?” Jackson softly chuckled, scratched Junia’s ear, and patted her neck—and she let him, the first man I’d ever seen her allow that privilege.
I pressed my hand to my mouth and choked back a giggle, surprised at the quickly eaten flowers, at my astonishment for how the two got along, at my wishing.
“Those were for a pretty lady,” he said to Junia, not giving any hint that he’d seen me gawking out the window.
I wondered who Jackson might be courting, what old woman he was visiting.
Jackson looked up and around and then directly at me. He called out, “I imagine Junia’s like all the ladies, liking herself some pretty flowers now and then.”
I took a small step back from the window and bumped into Harriett, who’d snuck up behind me. She screeched and knocked me aside with her hip.
Harriett’s eyes pulled to Jackson, then back to me and once more at Jackson.
“See you soon, Cussy Mary,” Jackson said.
Smiling the whole time, he picked up a single bloom from the dirt, tucked it into his shirt pocket, tipped his hat, and strolled away.
“You’ve been staring out there daydreaming all day. Get back to work.” Harriett slammed the window shut, rattling the heavy glass and snapping the old window pulley rope on one side, the weight clattering down inside the frame. “Keep it shut! It reeks enough in here without letting in your filthy mule’s stinky droppings too.”
Harriett raised her chin, pinched her nose, thudded back over to her table, and plopped heavily into her seat, scattering papers. “Stinkin’ inbred,” she huffed.
Eula pretended to read her mail.
Harriett clucked to Eula, “Jackson’s a fine one to greet our Blueberry. A charitable man to pity her, waste greetings on her kind.”
I turned away, kept my eyes on Junia outside, a tear weighting my cheek. I know’d Harriett’s mama had married kin, that her kind had relations with close relatives. It just didn’t show up in her pasty-white flesh, only in the small eyes hugging her sky-saluting nose. Her clan was the same as most kinfolk in these parts. Courting was hard, and a horse and mule could only travel so far, making it difficult to meet and marry outside these hills. Still, my great-grandpa’d done just that, all the way from France. And here Harriett was the one who pined after her cousin.
I turned partway to Harriett. She had her head bent over a box of catalog cards. Stinkin’, she’d called me. Tilting my head, I rolled my shoulder into it and sniffed under my arm. I smelled the same as everyone else, better than some.
“I said, get back to work,” Harriett squawked.
I snuck one more glance out the window for Pa, worrying where he could be, before slinking quietly over to the shelf.
Another librarian walked out of the post office into our room, and a hush fell over the room. Eighteen-year-old Birdie, the youngest Pack Horse librarian, walked past me. Her route was along the rocky creek beds and across the river into the neighboring community of Silver Shale. Birdie would tie her horse to a tree on the banks, take a small boat to haul her books across, then hike her route the rest of the way.
She was a thin, tall girl who Harriett poked fun at and called Bird Nest, always taunting her by asking if she was hiding one way up there, each time with a cackle at her own sorry, worn poke.
“Howdy, Bluet.” Birdie shot me a bright smile. “I had a devil of a time rounding up Ol’ Paul. That lazy horse didn’t want to get moving and wouldn’t come out of his stall. Me neither.” She winked. I smiled back. Birdie grabbed a box of outdated textbooks and pulled the carton atop an empty table, yawning. “And the baby fussed most of the night.”
Birdie’s husband had moved out of Troublesome for factory work in the city, leaving her alone with the babe till he could fetch her.
“Morn’—” I whispered.
“Morning, Bird Nest,” Harriett snipped into my return greeting.
Birdie said, “And a good morning to you too,” and mumbled an added “Miss Bird Brain” behind Harriett’s back.
Constance Poole walked into the Center, bigger than two singing Sundays in her pretty dress, snappy and stylish, as she breezed right past me. “I’ve got some new sewing patterns for your help,” she told Eula, the last word dripping airish. Constance was the head of the sewing bee club, and she would donate quilt and dress patterns to the Center from time to time for the mountain scrapbooks. She always enjoyed stopping by to tell stories about her monthly sewing club: the young talented ladies who always had so much fun trading fabric, threads, and cheerful conversations.
Eula and Harriett huddled around her and bent heads to the matters of the Pie Bake Dance, sharing giggles and fast whispers.
After a few minutes, Constance told the supervisors she was off to shop for thread and pie ingredients. “Just three days to the big dance, ladies, and I still haven’t decided on my pie,” she told the supervisors. Constance stepped far around me, snipping off a short greeting of “Widow Frazier” as she swept past.
Queenie came in through the back door and dropped her pannier onto a table, then rummaged in her sack.
Harriett switched on the radio.
I fixed my eyes on Queenie, trying to see if they held a secret for me, that she’d gotten my note, word from Pa, but Queenie was flitting about.
“Morning, Queenie,” me and Birdie called out, while Eula and Harriett swallowed any regards as if she weren’t there.
Queenie murmured hello and busied herself, rooted inside her bags.
“Start on the crates the railroad left,” Harriett ordered Queenie.
“Not today,” Queenie snipped back.
Every six weeks or so, crates of books came in from library centers around Kentucky. We’d exchange books and send them back, packing the wooden boxes with about fifty books each, to be hauled over to the railroad depot. The L&N Railroad donated the shipping costs, carrying the books to other Kentucky libraries and dropping new ones off to us, free of charge.
Unpacking the new books, loading the crates back up, and then setting them out to be picked up could be backbreaking work. Harriett always put it off on Queenie first, saying it would silence her sassing mouth, and if she wasn’t around, she’d push it on me.
Queenie pulled out an envelope and wagged it at Harriett. “I got the job. Assistant librarian for the big Free Library of Philadelphia. I’m here to shelve my books and then off to the post office to send my acceptance. Pack them yourself.” Queenie walked over and slapped the envelope onto Harriett’s desk.
Harriett leaned back, and her hands flew up. She wouldn’t touch the envelope. Eula rushed over to her assistant’s desk and opened the letter.
Eula glanced at the note and then back to Queenie. She finally folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. “Post a job opening, Harriett,” Eula said, wiping her hands with a hankie. “Let everyone know.”
“Gladly,” Harriett chirped and snapped up a long sheet of paper and began to write the advertisement.
“Spread the word, librarians,” Eula said to me and Birdie. “We can’t lose this route.”
It would be hard to get someone to apply for the tough route, and the patrons would suffer, dearly miss their books. I ticked through all my patrons, my daily routes, and stopped at one of my male patrons.
“Yes, ma’am. Congratulations, Queenie,” Birdie sang out, interrupting my thoughts.
Queenie beamed.
“Congratulations,” I said, but worriedly searched her shining eyes, looking for any hint of news of my pa.
“That sure is a wonderful promotion,” Birdie said.
“Sure is, Miss Birdie, thank you,” Queenie said. “And $4.85 of extra wonderful a month.”
Harriett made a hissing sound. “That’s a crime to pay a darkie more. Why, we only get 95 cents more a month, Eula. Eula?”
“Indeed,” Eula barely breathed, her hard eyes pounding on Queenie’s backside.
“Eula, you need to write a letter immediately and ask for more,” Harriett griped. “I’m going to send in a complaint to the Philadelphia library and tell them it is shameful to waste top dollar on the likes of them.” Harriett nailed a scowl onto Queenie and cut a bigger one at me.
I know’d my job was about to get harder with Queenie leaving, and with me being the only colored, I’d suffer twice as much. But even Harriett couldn’t steal my grin. I was so proud of Queenie. Admired her courage and envied it at the same time. Philadelphia. Assistant librarian.
I joined her side. Queenie held out her hands, and I took them eagerly and squeezed.
“What grand news,” I said, meaning it. “It’ll be a fine place for you and your family.” I held onto her a bit longer, searching her face for news. “Pa.” I dropped the word in a whisper. But Queenie’s eyes were jeweled with tears, and she didn’t see anything but her future out of here. She said, “Oh, honey, they have a great collection of Charles Dickens letters and, oh, the manuscripts and—”
“You’ll get to see it all, touch them,” I said, knowing how fond she was of the old author.
“They’re training Negro librarians now at the Hampton Institute.” She wiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand.
“You’d sure make a good one.” I pulled out my clean hankie, handed it to her, letting my hand linger on hers. I leaned in closer and barely whispered again, “Did you get—”
“Back to work!” Harriett ordered. And to Eula, “Lawd, these lazy coloreds’ll use any excuse not to work.”
Queenie sassed her with her eyes.
A few minutes later, Queenie sidled up alongside me, shelved a book over my shoulder, and gently bumped me.
She pushed a note into my hand and whispered, “From your papa. I’ll come by before I leave.” She slipped back over to her worktable to get the rest of her books.
My heart pounded so hard I feared it would rip the buttons off my dress and knock itself out. Quickly, I stuffed the letter into my pocket and hurried to shelve the last books in my pile, dropping nearly half of them onto the floor along the way. Harriett mumbled something rude, and I rushed to finish. Done, I grabbed my bag and one newspaper out of a handmade broom-handle rack beside Harriett’s table and was out the door, the screen clapping into the supervisors’ fury.
“Widow Frazier—” Eula cried out.
“Bluet! Bluet, you need my permission for newsprint,” Harriett yelled. “Get back here, or I’ll see you down on them bloody-blue knees scrubbing my ladies’ latrine and polishing the floors. Eula, make her—”
For once, I didn’t care what Harriett thought or what punishment she’d dish out to me. I had myself a newspaper for my patron, Queenie was going to be the assistant librarian in a big city, and, the very best, Pa was safe.