Devil John stepped onto the path as I made my way home from Henry’s. I’d been huddling inside my grief and didn’t see him until Junia warned me.
“Book Woman,” he said, taking off his hat, twisting it in his hands, and pulling on his long beard. “I wanted to let you know the young’uns been working now. My garden is in, an’ the chores is getting done. Martha Hannah has the girls caught up on their sewing, and supper’s been on the table an’ on time.”
“That’s real good, sir,” I said.
All I could think of was Henry, wishing I could cradle him. But I had no right to take a mother’s important last rite away. I’d left the dying boy in his mama’s arms and quietly slipped out to give dignity to the family. Henry would be gone by morning, and probably all of the Marshall family within three months.
Devil John said, “Carson, that’s my oldest, asked if you could bring him some more Boy Scout reads. That boy likes his reading more than anything,” he added more with pride than bother. “Lights through the pages and helps Martha Hannah read to the babies now. Takes a hankering to read to me, and”—he paused to clear his throat—“well, he sees fit to sharpen up my spelling a bit. I have me a list of words I’m working on for the pestering boy.” He reddened, but I could see he wasn’t annoyed, just pleased with himself.
“That’s real nice of Carson, sir.”
“Well, he killed himself a fat boar and brought home a pail of trout. I reckon you bringing the Boy Scout read won’t bother none.”
“I’ll try to bring it next Monday,” I said, eager to pass and be on my way.
“And a better Bible for Martha Hannah too. Her fingers done licked the words off most of the pages.”
“Yes, sir, we get lots of Bibles.” It was true. We handed them out to every patron, and many were donated from Lexington, Louisville, and Cincinnati, so many we never asked for those loans back. It was like folks in the city had thrown away their religion, given up on Jesus.
In this moment of emptiness, of mourning, I wondered if I should too.
I could feel Devil John’s eyes on me. He could see mine, red and swollen. I tried to light a smile his way. “Good day, sir. I’ll fetch the material to you next week.”
“A Bible and the Boy Scouts, and only them,” Devil John said, and studied me some more before pulling out a pint of moonshine from his backside and setting it on the path. “I imagine it’s a bit wearing for a book woman to tote all them books to the folks around here. And I reckon all that hard work wears on a soul.”
He put on his hat and was off.
I slid down off Junia, took the shine, and placed it in my bag.
Two hours later, I made my last stop, handing Timmy Flynn a new read from atop my mule and stashing his other loan inside my bags.
Timmy plopped down by the tree and pushed his nose into the new loan.
I turned to leave and heard someone call for me. “Book Woman, Book Woman, wait.”
It was Mrs. Flynn.
“Hol’ up!” she ordered.
I winced and hoped she wouldn’t fuss today. It’d been bold to leave the scrapbook, but I’d thought she would find something useful in it and dearly wanted to gain Timmy’s whole family as patrons.
Mrs. Flynn splashed across the creek, holding up the scrapbook, her frayed calico hems darkened from the waters, feet teetering carefully across slick rock. Her bonnet slipped off and hung loose down her back.
Breathless, she stopped beside Junia and held up the book. “Book Woman, this! Bring me another one like this.” She shoved it into my hand, then lit off back across the creek toward home.
I stared after her. My tense shoulders slumped some, and a full breath whisked out. After all this time, she’d requested her first loan and would become my patron. The family would be reading together. And despite the hardness of this sad day, a small joy lit my heart.
Timmy glanced up from his book and grinned. “Pa said that was the best sugar pie recipe Ma’d ever made. Auntie too. She made it for the dance and said she done caught herself a big, strapping man.”
* * *
On the path away from the Flynns’, I followed the creek toward home. Minutes later, Junia pulled toward the water and I climbed down and sat on the grass to let her rest, drawing my knees under my chin. A bee panther flew down beside me, landed atop a grasshopper, feasting on its midday meal.
I scooted away from the ugly robber fly. Soon, Junia moseyed back over to me. I pulled out my leather-sheathed bottle from the bags and saw that it was empty. My throat was parched, but I dared not drink from the creek. You never know’d who’d built an outhouse upstream, or what had spilled out from the mines.
I stared at Devil John’s hooch and tried to decide if that would quench my thirst. “Hard work,” Devil John had said. Feeling it, I grabbed the moonshine, took it over to another grassy spot by the bank. Creek waters slid over slick, gray rock, and I rubbed a thumb over the old glass as I inhaled the scent of rushing creek waters.
Far away, someone played a fiddle, tickling the mournful notes, the soft music laddering into tall boughs, carrying across the long day.
A wood thrush whistled overhead and folded its flute song into the strings.
I pulled the stopper out of the bottle, lifted the moonshine, and swallowed a mouthful, coughing back up some of the burn, spitting, wiping the dribble off with my shoulder.
I chanced another swallow, coughed some more. Once more. And then again. The liquor—smooth now—warmed my belly and tamped the trouble inside me.
When it hit my head, I had myself a talk with the Lord, with Henry’s Jesus, railed to the dear Almighty God, shocked and afraid of how angry I was at Him for what he’d done to Henry and his brothers and sisters.
“Lord,” I whispered, “what did little Henry ever do to You to make him suffer Your wrath? What could the boy have done?”
Junia edged closer to me and blew out a powdery neigh.
I thumped the earth with a fist and yelled, “Why, oh why didn’t You love him like I did?” I swigged more corn liquor, then wiped the droplets of panther’s breath off my chin.
“Why couldn’t you let him grow up?” I curled myself into a tight ball on the blood-soaked Kentucky soil, wailing for Henry and all the Henrys in these dark hollows who’d never be a common grown-up. Stuck forever as Peter Pans.