by Cathy Gohlke
“It’s a matter of time, Lilliana. I feel it in my bones—and my heart.” She reached her hand into the air, searching for mine. “We must speak frankly.”
I took her hand and held on tight. “It will be a relief to me to have Gladys here. She’s so capable and knows everyone in the area. She knows just what to do in a crisis and even how to handle Ida Mae—which I certainly haven’t mastered. She’s become a good friend, and I love Celia and Chester. Unless . . .”
“Unless, what?”
“Unless you think she’d feel tainted by me or that the community might make things harder for her—because I lied about my name and because of my separation from Gerald and the library and . . . everything.”
“We both lied and I put you up to it. I’ll tell Gladys that. I believe she understands more than you can imagine. She’s been through so much in her own life. But we won’t know until we ask her.”
“I suppose not.”
“Then it’s settled. You’ll take care of it.”
“Right away. If she’s willing, they don’t need another night in that cabin by themselves.”
The name Wishon had sounded familiar when Reverend Willard met me on the road and told me about Gladys’s troubles, asking that I keep an eye out for her and send for him if I thought he was needed. Now it dawned on me. “Is that man—Troy Wishon—related to Ruby Lynne?”
“He’s her uncle—her father’s younger brother. Younger by a good bit, born late as a surprise, and spoiled all his life. Their mother died in his childbirth and the father took to drinking hard. The boy was raised mostly by Rhoan, Ruby Lynne’s father. Both of them drink and have tempers, especially Rhoan. You’ll want to avoid the Wishons.”
“Except Ruby Lynne.”
“Except Ruby Lynne. That dear girl has a hard row to hoe. If her father allows her to step outside of No Creek, it will be a miracle.”
“Her heart’s set on going to college—to teach, like you.”
Aunt Hyacinth shook her head. “That will happen when pigs fly. She hasn’t even been allowed to graduate high school. Rhoan thinks women are bred to breed and not worth education beyond simple reading and calculating a market bill. Being able to sign their names is enough in his mind.”
“That’s why Gladys cautioned me about having her help with reading lessons—and asked Ruby Lynne if her daddy knew what she was up to over here.”
“Ruby Lynne’s such a bright young thing. One of the best and brightest in my class. She cried when I retired. I’d so hoped that she would join the other children on the bus and continue her education. But her father treated her every academic achievement as if it wasn’t worth the paper it was written on and forbade her going on. I’m afraid when he learns that Ruby Lynne’s coming here—especially if she continues to tutor Marshall—he’ll not only be angry but punish her.”
“Punish her?” Knots formed in my stomach, worry knots of remembrance—my father’s belt and my husband’s fists. “Punish her how?”
“Years ago I saw bruises on that girl’s arms and neck that couldn’t be explained by bumping into things or being accident-prone, though that’s what she claimed at the time.”
I knew exactly what that meant, how hard it was to keep up the pretense—the daily, hourly waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, wearing long sleeves and dark stockings or longer skirts in the heat of summer . . . and I was sick at heart for Ruby Lynne. I mentally counted the second- and third-floor bedrooms. We might need one more.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CELIA SAW MISS LILLIANA’S INVITATION as a gift from heaven and a sure sign that the Lord loved them. Her mother’s smile said much the same.
“You have no idea what this means to me, Miss Grace—Miss Lilliana.”
“Please, Gladys, call me Lilliana. Aunt Hyacinth deserves the ‘Miz,’ but it makes me feel old. We’re friends and equals. By moving in, you’d be doing me such a favor.”
“I don’t see how, what with all the noise and commotion my children make—”
“Don’t you?” Miss Lilliana leaned close. “It’s not been three months since my mother died in my arms. I can’t bear to lose Aunt Hyacinth or to be alone when the time comes. I see the signs. I’m afraid it won’t be long, and I’d love for you to stay on. Please say you’ll stay—unless there’s some reason you don’t want to. I understand if you’d rather not. You don’t have to explain anything. I know what the community thinks of me.” She twisted her fingers in a knot.
Celia saw that her mama could hardly hold her chin steady, she was so relieved and touched. She blinked to think how much her mama had been holding in since her daddy’d gone away, surely trying to spare her and Chester. Well, now they’d not be alone in that cabin, and Troy Wishon wouldn’t dare come to Miz Hyacinth’s house. She was greatly respected, and the preacher lived just down the lane. They’d be all together, like a real family, where there was electricity and books and conversation and safety in numbers and indoor plumbing and even a piano in the parlor—a grand piano. Maybe Miz Hyacinth would teach her to play, or maybe Miss Lill knew how.
Celia went to sleep in a real bed in a real room all her own that night, believing, at least hoping, that despite Europe’s worries pouring through the evening news over Miz Hyacinth’s radio, God and the world smiled.
•••
Ruby Lynne came to Garden’s Gate every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, when her daddy drove into the next county and she knew he’d be gone a couple hours or overnight and not need her for anything. That’s what she told Miss Lill. He might be mean as a grizzly, Celia decided, but Rhoan Wishon was predictable, sort of like her own daddy. She understood about sneaking around drunk tirades and moonshine runs.
As Celia watched Ruby Lynne teach Marshall at the kitchen table, she saw something more than a girl running away from her daddy. Ruby Lynne had a real gift for seeing what Marshall didn’t understand and then explaining it. And Marshall was driven to read and to write.
Celia wondered—even feared—he might get to be sweet on Ruby Lynne, but she saw no sign of that. Only a big boy embarrassed that he was nearly grown and unable to read worth spit, at least when the lessons first began. He worked hard. Every time Ruby Lynne assigned him some homework, he came back with it done and done right. He was polite to everyone in the house and always thanked Ruby Lynne and Miss Lill for helping him on.
But Celia knew the lessons were best kept secret. She knew it without being told. She just wasn’t expecting Janice Richards the day she came calling.
The bell Miss Lill had hooked over the front door to let the household know someone had entered the library jingled. Celia rushed from the kitchen to see who it was, forgetting to close the door behind her.
“Janice!” Celia was astonished to see her archnemesis. Archnemesis was the new word she’d just read and she figured it meant enemy. “What are you doin’ here?”
Janice flipped her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder. “Anybody can come to the library. My mother said so.”
Celia’s heart beat a little faster. “’Course they can.”
Janice’s chin lifted.
“I thought your mama didn’t want you to come.” Celia shifted her feet. “You want to check out a book?”
“Maybe. Mostly I’m here to see Miss Grace—I mean, Miss Lilliana Grace. Mama heard she plays Miz Hyacinth’s piano from time to time and figured she might give me piano lessons.”
Now Celia raised her chin. Who was Janice Richards to ask Miss Lill for piano lessons? Miss Lill hadn’t said anything to her about teaching piano, and Janice’s mama had not made Miss Lill or the library welcome in the least. “Miss Lill’s not here just now, and she doesn’t have time to teach piano lessons.”
“Mother said that if Miss Lilliana has time to teach coloreds to read, she certainly has time to teach me piano.”
Celia clamped her lips.
“Where is she? She can’t have left you alone in the house with Miz Hyacinth. Where’s your mothe
r? Isn’t she supposed to be working here—scrubbing or something?” Janice wrinkled her nose, and Celia knew it was because Janice’s mother had never had to work outside the home a day in her life. Probably didn’t work inside the home, come to think of it.
Celia felt her dander rise. The desire to protect her mother flared within. “Mama’s down to the store and Miss Lill is out back in the garden, busy with Miz Hyacinth, helping her get some air. Now, what book do you want? I’m the person to check one out to you.” She couldn’t stop herself from adding, “As long as you bring it back on time. If you think you can remember.”
Janice swept past her then, as if she were queen and Celia just some little peon in the way of her grand entrance. She ran her fingers over the books lining the shelf. Celia cringed at the way Janice acted like she owned everything, more like a dog leaving its mark than curiosity about the treasures within the covers of books.
Celia felt the hairs on her head tingle as Janice strolled from shelf to shelf, through the children’s room parlor and into the grown-up portion of the library. She didn’t even bend down or look up to read titles and barely bothered with what was at eye level. When Janice finally chose a book, Celia knew it was one beyond her reading level—a book of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson with no pictures except the one of Mr. Emerson in the front. Celia had tried reading it herself, and though the essays sounded poetic, they were mostly beyond her.
“You sure you want this book? It’s a mite hard for . . . for reading.”
Janice smirked. “Maybe for you. Not for me. Check it out.”
So Celia did. She took the book to the desk and took her time pulling a card from the file box, writing down the name of the book and author and the date. She pulled a pen from the penholder with a flourish and held it up for Janice to sign.
But Janice was no longer there. She’d left the desk and was standing in the hallway, staring through the open kitchen door. Celia saw Janice’s shoulders square. A chill ran up Celia’s spine. When Janice turned, her face was flushed red and her green eyes stood wide as the tires on Troy Wishon’s fast car.
Celia blinked, understanding. She stood, heart racing, and handed Janice the book and card and pen. “You want your book?”
Janice’s lips formed a thin line, but her eyes gleamed as if she’d struck gold. She scratched an illegible signature across the note card, took the book, and fled, leaving the front door open and the bell jingling.
Ruby stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale.
“She’s gone,” Celia whispered.
“She saw us,” Ruby Lynne returned.
Celia swallowed. “Just the two of you reading.”
“That’s not what she’ll say.”
Celia nodded. It was the truth. And if she knew Janice Richards, she’d make much more of it than could possibly be.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IT WAS TEN THIRTY AT NIGHT when the pounding came at our door and woke me from a sound sleep. Before I was out of bed, Gladys stood barefoot in the hallway, bathed in the light of the overhead lamp. By the time I’d tied my robe around me and groped my way down the steps, Celia tucked into my elbow, whispering, “Don’t let him in, Miss Lill! Don’t let him in!”
“Celia Percy, get back here!” Gladys hissed, pulling her daughter up the stairs. “You and Chester go to my room and stay there till we get back.”
“But, Mama—”
“Don’t ‘But, Mama,’ me! Do as you’re told—and lock the door!”
I heard Gladys’s bedroom door slam closed and Aunt Hyacinth call weakly from her room.
“Gladys, I’ll take care of this. Watch over Aunt Hyacinth. She needs you.”
“Don’t open that door, Lilliana. Whoever it is, he’s likely skunk drunk this time of night and nothing but trouble.”
I knew about trouble. I was scared, terrified nearly out of my mind. But I also needed to protect Aunt Hyacinth and Gladys and Celia and Chester. They were my family now.
The banging came again. I was almost to the door when I realized I didn’t want to open it or challenge whoever it was empty-handed.
“Open this door, you city slut, or I’ll break it down!” The slur came, enraged.
I grabbed the fireplace poker. A moment later I realized that Gladys stood beside me, a cast-iron skillet in one hand and a hammer in the other.
“Weapons of choice.” I heard her half smile.
I squeezed her wrist in gratitude and just to make certain she stood flesh and blood beside me.
“Don’t open it. Just talk. Talk him down.”
I nodded and called, “Who’s there?”
“You know who it is! Open this door!”
“No, I do not know. Tell me who you are and state your business.”
“Rhoan Wishon! And I’m here to deal with you about my Ruby Lynne.” His banging rattled the front parlor windowpanes.
I swallowed. Celia and Gladys had warned me this might happen. “Mr. Wishon, no gentleman comes calling this time of night. If you’d like to speak with me, you must come back sober and in the daylight. You’re welcome to bring Ruby Lynne with you.”
“Ruby Lynne will never set foot in your whorehouse again!”
I felt Gladys tense beside me. “This is Miz Hyacinth’s home, Rhoan Wishon, and you’ve no call to speak to her niece that way. You are drunk and should be ashamed! Go home before you say things you’ll regret.”
“It’s my Ruby Lynne that’s regrettin’. It’s all over No Creek how you’re running a courtin’ house between our white gals and colored bucks—how you used my Ruby Lynne as bait. I ought to burn you out! We ought to string that boy up!”
“This is no ‘courting house,’ Mr. Wishon, and nothing but reading goes on here. This is a lending library where we help anyone who wants to learn to read and write. Your daughter was helping a young man learn to read better—that’s all. She’s a truly gifted teacher. You should let her go back to school.”
“My girl’s dumb as a milk can and already wasted years on the schooling she’s got. She ought to be married. She’ll be lucky to get a good, clean man to look at her now, thanks to you and your—”
That did it. I flicked on the outside porch light and unbolted the door, all the while with Gladys tugging at my waist, trying to pull me away. But my dander was up and I flung open the door, stepping forward and brandishing my poker in the man’s face, half a foot above me, so he stumbled backward and down a step, near blinded by the sudden light. “Your daughter is still a child. She’s too young to marry. She’s fifteen! And she’s brilliant. She’s capable and has a caring heart. She just wanted to see what it would be like to teach. She’s a wonderful teacher—would be a wonderful teacher given a chance. You should send her back to school, Mr. Wishon, and then to college for a teaching degree. She can make something of herself if you don’t hold her back.”
My long-winded speech momentarily rendered Rhoan Wishon speechless, but he summoned his wits and stepped up again, reeking of whiskey. “It’s you putting fool ideas in her head. College—a waste of hard-earned money.”
“I hear you have money. Don’t you want to use it for your family? Ruby Lynne’s your own daughter.”
“Use it? Waste it! Spend all that money on education and then she marries and stays home poppin’ babies? That’s what women are made for, Miss High-and-Mighty, or didn’t nobody ever tell you that? No, I don’t s’pose they did.”
“Mr. Wishon—”
“My girl’s not to set foot here again. She’s old enough to court and here you’ve ruined her reputation havin’ her spend time with a colored boy—whatever they’re doing. Well, never you mind. I’ll take care of him myself. Is that clear, Miss Belvidere? Oh yeah—it’s not even Miss, is it?” He snorted.
I gritted my teeth and gripped the poker all the harder—now in fear. He stepped onto the porch again, too close, staring down into my face. I trembled from the inside out, just as I’d done whenever Gerald stood over me, brawn and strength
intimidating my every breath.
He slammed his fist against the doorpost. “I said, do I make myself clear?” I couldn’t have told if he shouted or whispered, his words and fist and presence reverberated through my soul with such intensity.
“Clear.” It was all I could squeak out. He loomed over me so that I might have swooned from fright if I didn’t feel Gladys beside me, her arm snaked around my back for support.
Rhoan Wishon glared at both of us—two thin women in nightclothes armed in domestic weaponry. He looked us up and down, assessing every inch, smirked as if we were no longer worth bothering about, and stepped off the porch into the dark.
•••
Nobody slept that night. Gladys drew her children into bed with her and locked the door. I kept to the chair by Aunt Hyacinth’s bed, our hands clasped. The whip-poor-will sang all night. By dawn, when Gladys came with a breakfast tray, Aunt Hyacinth had failed dramatically.
“She’s so much weaker,” Gladys whispered. “We can’t sit her up to dress. She doesn’t even want to sip tea. I think we should send for Dr. Vishnevsky . . . and somebody ought to warn Marshall about Rhoan. I’ll send Celia down to Olney’s.”
I agreed on both counts, but all I could think of at the moment was Aunt Hyacinth. With trembling fingers I dialed the operator for the doctor’s number. I felt like a child, playing telephone, so inept and unprepared was I for Aunt Hyacinth’s sharp decline.
Dr. Vishnevsky came within the half hour. Aunt Hyacinth asked to be left alone with the doctor. I respected her privacy but anxiously paced the hallway outside her door.
Their voices, muffled, went on a long while. When at last the doctor came from the room, he removed his glasses, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Her heart?” I whispered, wringing my hands.
He nodded. “It won’t be long now. Last night’s shock did not help, but she has been nearing her time. Do all you can to make her comfortable. Offer liquids if she wants, but don’t force food. Her earthly shell is shutting down, getting ready.”