Chapter Twenty-One

THE NEXT AFTERNOON CELIA SWEPT the porch and stone walk at Garden’s Gate. She wanted everything to look pristine and orderly for the library’s first afternoon of business. She’d hated being sent to weed the widow’s garden, knowing she’d miss the first library customers—or patrons, as Miss Grace, or Miss Lilliana Grace or whoever she was, had called them. But her mama had insisted and then insisted she and Chester each spend an hour at home reading before going to Garden’s Gate. As if she couldn’t learn more spending the day among the stacks of Miz Hyacinth’s books and soaking up all the learning in the world. Still, summer was long and she could be at the library part of every day now.

And another thing. Her mama had explained, after talking things over with Miss Grace and Miz Hyacinth, that Grace was Miss Grace’s middle name and that from now on they should all call her Miss Lilliana, although she was really Mrs. Swope. The married part ranked a scandal in the general store and post office; Ida Mae whispered that Lilliana Swope had run clean away from a perfectly good husband and come here pretending to be somebody she wasn’t, and shook her head that poor Reverend Willard was an innocent around conniving women.

After seeing the way Miss Lilliana had cried and the way the man had near crushed her arms the morning before, not to mention the bruises that sprang up afterward, Celia wasn’t sure Gerald Swope was a “perfectly good husband,” but the Lilliana part pleased her. Lilliana was closer to a flower name, more befitting the Belvidere ladies. What did Celia care about Ida Mae and her rattling of “skeleton husbands in the closet”? Why should anybody care? But Celia knew they did, especially about Reverend Willard, just as they whispered about her daddy in jail and her mama being the wife of a jailbird and what did she do all those long and lonesome nights without a man? It didn’t seem to matter that half the county men ran moonshine—married or not—leaving their wives alone for nights on end; her daddy’d been caught. Being caught was the sin.

Celia’s mama made it clear that Celia and Chester weren’t to ask Miss Lilliana a single question about her husband or the name change or any of it, nor were they to mention it to another living soul. But Celia figured a person could still think on it.

Celia tucked the broom away and sat on the front step with her chin in her hand. An hour passed and no one came. Finally Ruby Lynne Wishon stopped by.

Celia was glad for company. “Care to pass the time of day? Want a book? I can check you out a book. That’s my regular job here.”

Ruby Lynne shook her head. “No thanks, not today. I’m here to see Miss Grace.”

She was dressed fit to impress and looked happier than Celia had seen her in a month of Sundays.

“Miss Lilliana—that’s what she goes by now, though sometimes I call her Miss Lill—is pretty busy, what with the library and all. Maybe I can help you,” Celia offered, eager to stay in the middle of things, even though the part about calling her Miss Lill was a lie. Still, it seemed like a good name.

“She’s expecting me. Could you tell her I’m here, or should I just go on in?”

“Oh, all right. Follow me. I’ll find her.” It was the perfect excuse to learn what Miss Lill would give Ruby Lynne to do. Celia’d been looking forward to checking out books to folks ever since they’d dusted and rearranged the first bookcase. She hoped Miss Lill wouldn’t give Ruby Lynne that job.

What Celia never expected was to find Miss Lilliana and Marshall Raymond sitting in the kitchen, their heads hunched together over a newspaper. The moment Celia and Ruby Lynne walked in, Marshall jerked his head up and jumped to his feet as if he’d been snakebit.

“Ruby Lynne!” Miss Lilliana looked surprised and undone at once. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“I know I’m a mite early, Miss Grace—I mean, Miss Lilliana, but I was able to come and I’m so eager to get started. Do you have any students for me?”

Now Miss Lilliana stood. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do. It’s why Marshall is here. He’d like to learn to read . . . better.”

Marshall kept his eyes on his feet. Ruby Lynne’s eyes went as wide as Celia’s. You could have heard ants crawl. Celia swallowed, knowing this was trouble. Talking about teaching colored little bitties is one thing, but doing it in living daylight with a boy taller than her—near a man growed—is another.

“I’m working with Marshall now to see where he is in his reading and writing. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat and join us.”

Ruby Lynne stood stock-still as if her feet were tarred to the floor. The silence went on so long that Marshall raised his eyes and looked at Ruby Lynne, then at Celia. Celia slipped her hand in Ruby Lynne’s and guided her to the table. “Can I help, too, Miss Lill? It’d be fun to do it all together. I could learn how to teach, too—by watchin’.”

Miss Lilliana smiled, a mite nervous, but Celia knew she’d done right to offer.

“Yes.” Ruby Lynne pulled out a chair and sat down, decided. But Celia knew that she was playing with fire—not fire from Marshall, but from her daddy if he ever found out she was helping a teenage colored boy, that she was even spending time in the same room.

Why Miss Lilliana didn’t seem to catch on or care about that was a further mystery to Celia. Or maybe she did, and maybe she was just determined to help Marshall, or maybe she meant to stir things up in No Creek so they’d never be the same, now that she’d gone and made news by leaving her husband. Change could be good; that’s what her mama said President Roosevelt intended for the good of all, what Mrs. Roosevelt advocated. Celia liked that word, advocate. She only hoped Miss Lill’s advocated changes would make things better, not turn deadly.

•••

Celia wasn’t afraid of much, but she knew the noises outside their three-room cabin that night didn’t come from coons or possums. They were human feet, unsteady and jerking through the underbrush. Drunk. She’d heard her daddy’s footsteps sound just like that on a Saturday night before Mama’d open the door and drag him in to bed. But Daddy was in jail, and there ought be nobody else roaming outside their door that time of night.

“Gladys! Gladys Percy!” the drunken voice called. “You come on out here and talk to me, little darlin’!”

Celia peered over the side of her bunk and could see the pale cast to Chester’s face in the moonlight that streamed through the window. He pulled the feed-sack sheet up to his eyes and peeked out as if that might protect him. She didn’t want to see Chester scared. She was scared enough for both of them. “It’s just old Troy Wishon, drunk as a skunk. Don’t you mind him, Chester.”

“I wanna talk to you, Gladys!” The call came again, this time closer to the house.

Celia’s heart beat faster when she heard his boot thump on the front porch. “Mama, don’t open the door!” she whimpered.

“You children stay there and go back to sleep. There’s safety in numbers.” Mama kept her voice steady but firm and shut the bedroom door.

Celia slipped from her bunk and climbed in beside Chester, wrapping his fingers tight in her own. “There’s safety in numbers,” she whispered.

A pounding came on the front door.

“Troy Wishon, you go on home. You’re drunk and I won’t have you scaring my children. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Celia loved the authority in her mama’s voice, but she also caught the quaver.

“Your girl ought to be scared, Gladys. I heard what she did over to Miz Hyacinth’s new lendin’ library. What I want to know is just what you ladies are lendin’ out!” He laughed till he near choked over his own foul joke. “You teachin’ your girl to let anybody and everybody in? I just come by to see.” Celia heard the solid door rattle, but Mama had pulled the latch in and set the bar.

“I’ll tell you once more, Troy, go home!”

“Or what? You got no man in there to show me different. Fillmore’s been gone a long while, little darlin’. You gettin’ lonesome? I could help you out there.”

“You’re a boy, Troy, and a drunk one. Go home!”

The door thundered with the pound of Troy’s fist and his boot. Chester cried out and Celia screamed.

“I’ll show you what kind of man I am! If you think I’m a wet-nose boy, maybe I should show that sassy-mouthed girl of yours. She’s not much, but she’s growin’.”

Mama didn’t say another word to Troy, but she opened the bedroom door and slipped inside. She pushed a cane-back chair against the door and up into the knob, pulled down the window, and closed the curtains. Then she took up vigil by the side of the window, a cast-iron skillet in one hand and a hammer in the other.

•••

Celia and Chester walked to the widow Cramer’s for chores the next day. Their mama walked with them as far as Garden’s Gate. None of them had gotten much sleep.

“You and Chester keep close coming and going. You know what I told you.”

“There’s safety in numbers, Mama,” Chester piped up. “Do you think he’ll come back?” It broke Celia’s heart to see the worry in Chester’s eyes.

“No, I don’t.” Their mama was emphatic and that bolstered Celia’s courage. “Troy was drunk and on a rampage last night. We just happened to be in his path. He’ll sober up and likely not even remember he was there. Don’t give it another thought.”

But it was all Celia could think about until the widow gave them each a nickel to spend at the general store, and then there wasn’t room for the two thoughts.

Later, pockets filled with candy, they began their walk home. If only we didn’t live down such a lonesome stretch. Celia kept watch along the sides of the road for Troy. Chester kept his slingshot at the ready.

By the time Celia and Chester reached home, it was nearly four o’clock. Their mama was not there, and that raised Celia’s worrywart, bringing all her thoughts back to home.

“She’s probably up to Garden’s Gate,” Chester moaned, hungry for more than candy. “Mama’s always up there anymore. We might as well go live there.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had in a while. Let’s go tell her.”

“Wait, Celia—I just want Mama home, that’s all.”

But Celia was already out the door and on her way. She knew Chester would follow and that seemed a far sight better than sitting in the empty cabin all alone, wondering if Mama was all right, skittish that Troy might return.

Besides, Chester’s idea was a grand one—a solver of all their immediate problems. The joyful notion of living at Garden’s Gate with Miz Hyacinth and Miss Lill and their library full of wonderful books grew as Celia pounded the red dirt road.

Mama will appreciate saving the rent and all those steps between houses. She can cook one dinner every day instead of two. When she makes cookies for Miz Hyacinth and Miss Lill’s afternoon tea, she can tuck one or two away for me and Chester—like Janice Richards’s mother bakes for her kids. We’d be a bigger family—and we’d be safe from the likes of Troy Wishon till Daddy gets home, if he ever comes home.

Celia had it all worked out, so she wasn’t prepared for her mother’s reaction when she explained her bright idea.

“Have you lost your mind, Celia Percy? You’ve certainly lost your manners. We have our own home. This is Miz Hyacinth’s home and Miss Lilliana’s.”

“But they’re all alone. Don’t you think they’re wanting for company?”

“They’re company for one another—and family.”

“But you’re always here anymore, Mama. We have to come find you. If we lived here, that Troy Wishon wouldn’t be comin’ around, botherin’ you. He wouldn’t dare come to Miz Hyacinth’s house. There’s safety in numbers—that’s what you tell us. And besides, Miss Lill’s always inviting Chester and me for cookies and milk. I help out in the library and I could help—”

“Hush, Celia. They’ll hear you. You’re shaming me.”

A bell tinkled from the parlor.

“Can I go?” Celia begged.

“Reverend Willard is in talking with Miz Hyacinth. Run see what Miz Hyacinth wants—ask if they want tea, but don’t you dare say—”

“I won’t, Mama; I promise!” Celia tore from the room as much to avoid her mother’s chastising as to answer the bell.

She stopped just before entering the parlor. Reverend Willard’s back was to the door, but Miz Hyacinth sat in her chair by the window, as usual. Miz Hyacinth’s silver-white hair was brushed and curled, her dress neat and clean and pressed, her shoes polished to a spit shine. All that Celia noted in a moment and appreciated the change Miss Lill had brought to Miz Hyacinth. But the ashen cast to the older lady’s face wasn’t at all usual. Celia’d never seen anyone look that way, only ever read the phrase “bore the pallor of death,” but she was certain Miz Hyacinth did. And it caught her short.

“Celia? I can tell it’s you by your footsteps, dear. I’m glad you’re here. Come in. Reverend Willard and I were just talking about you. Come here, child.” Miz Hyacinth’s voice was weaker but still authoritative.

“Yes, ma’am.” Celia walked up to her chair and placed a hand on Miz Hyacinth’s arm. Miz Hyacinth covered Celia’s hand with her own. She nodded to Reverend Willard. He smiled, but the worry lines on his face were evident to Celia. She figured that worry was for Miz Hyacinth.

“I want you to tell me something, and I want you to tell me truly. Will you do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m asking you because I believe you will tell me the truth and not try to hide anything because you think you need to protect me. And I am going to tell you the truth because I believe you can accept it and act wisely upon it. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Celia glanced nervously at Reverend Willard, certain now she was wading into dangerous waters.

“Reverend Pierce told Reverend Willard that he and several members of his congregation found crosses burning in their yards Monday night. I want to know, was there a cross set on fire in your yard?”

Celia felt her eyes go wide. She’d never seen a cross burning, but she’d heard plenty—when grown-ups thought she wasn’t listening—about the Klan setting crosses alight. She’d even seen Klansmen holding torches and marching down by the railroad platform once. “No, ma’am,” she answered truthfully. “Why would anybody do that?” But Celia knew why, even as she asked the question, and she knew, deep in her soul, that she might have been the cause.

“To scare some people away from using the library, I presume. To keep the library for themselves, perhaps, or more likely just to frighten folks because they believe they can.”

Celia thought that through. “You think they’ll set a cross burning in our yard because I invited Reverend Pierce and his church here?” She swallowed what felt like hot coals. Could the Klan have found out about Miss Lill and Ruby Lynne helping Marshall read? “Did they hurt anybody?”

“Only their spirits for now, but Reverend Willard and Reverend Pierce and I are concerned they might not stop there.”

“Reverend Pierce is very concerned for his people,” Reverend Willard spoke up. “You’re sure nothing bad happened at your house? No one has threatened you in any way?”

Celia swallowed. She’d thought of little else since Troy Wishon’s midnight visit. But her mother had made her promise not to say anything—about anything—to Miz Hyacinth. She knew who could, though. “Maybe you’d best talk to Chester.”

“Chester? Reverend Willard and I are talking to you, Celia.”

“I’m not supposed to talk about who came or what happened or anything at all.”

Miz Hyacinth breathed deeply. “I see. Mama’s orders?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And what else did Mama order?”

“I’m to ask if you and Reverend Willard want tea.”

Miz Hyacinth smiled. “We do, and some of that delicious shortbread your mama baked this morning, thank you. And please say that I want Chester to bring us the shortbread. Tell him we’ll share.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Celia scooted through the door, sure she’d dodged bullets but not sure she wouldn’t get in trouble anyway.

Chester delivered the shortbread, Mama brought the teapot, and Celia carried the tray with sugar and cream.

“I need to get back to the kitchen and finish up, Miz Hyacinth. Are you and Reverend Willard certain these children aren’t bothering you?”

Celia looked down innocently and humbly, certain if she raised brown orbs to her mother, they’d give her away.

“We’ll enjoy them, Gladys, and we have shortbread to share.”

Celia’s mother didn’t look convinced, but she dried her already-dry hands on her apron, gave Celia and Chester a warning glance Celia caught from the corner of her eye, and turned to the kitchen.

Miz Hyacinth plied Chester with thistle-imprinted shortbread—Celia’s favorite because of the pretty design—before Reverend Willard asked his questions, smiling all the while.

“Chester, I understand you had visitors to your house last night.”

Chester looked like he’d swallowed cardboard. He looked desperately to Celia for direction, but she looked away.

“Is that right, Chester?” Miz Hyacinth asked. “Did you have visitors?”

He nodded, but Celia knew Miz Hyacinth couldn’t see that. “He nodded yes, Miz Hyacinth.”

“Is that so? How many?”

Chester frowned and held up one finger.

“Can you speak up, Chester? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Just one.”

“One?” Reverend Willard set his teacup down. “And who was that?”

Chester looked so miserable Celia felt sorry for him. “Mama didn’t say you couldn’t say. She just said I couldn’t say.”

That seemed to relieve Chester a little. “Troy Wishon.” He leaned forward and whispered, “He was dead drunk and scary.”

“Troy Wishon,” Miz Hyacinth mused. “He and that brother of his are both—both drinkers.”

But drinkers was not what she’d been about to say, Celia was certain.

“Did Troy Wishon say anything, Chester?” Reverend Willard laid his hand on Chester’s shoulder.

Chester set his shortbread down and for the first time Celia saw his crumb-sprinkled chin quiver in rage. “He scared Mama and Celia and said he’d come back if . . .”

“If what?”

“I’m not sure. He kept saying things to Mama about Daddy bein’ gone and about Celia bein’ a nearly growed girl and how they must be lonesome with Daddy gone. I didn’t like it.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. That should never have happened, Chester. You were right to tell us.” Reverend Willard looked more worried than ever.

“Mama doesn’t want us talkin’ about it.”

“Your mama’s very brave.”

“She don’t have a gun, but she has a frying pan and a hammer. She sat up by us all night, one in each hand.”

“You’ve a good, good mama.” Miz Hyacinth looked paler yet.

“I do. Mama says there’s safety in numbers.”

“Your mama’s right. You and Celia and your mama stick together, and if ever any of you need help, come and get me.” Reverend Willard leaned down to look in Chester’s eyes. “I’ll come right away, day or night—anytime.”

Chester nodded. Celia knew he believed Reverend Willard, and she knew Reverend Willard meant what he’d said. But some things, she knew, even Reverend Willard couldn’t stop.