I looked up at his joyful eyes.
“Yes, ma’am, a mighty fine day to marry Troublesome’s finest gal,” Jackson practically crowed.
Harriett and Eula had their hands planted to their chests, mouths agape, inviting flies.
Honey pulled off her new bonnet, and I tied it back onto her head, swept a kiss across her chubby sweet cheek.
Eula’s face softened a little at that. She took out a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed it over her eyes and pressed it to her nose.
Harriett elbowed her sharply and whispered something. Flustered, Eula leaned away and shook her head. Then Harriett hollered, “Bluet!” She raised her arm, waved. “Bluet, you missed two days at the Center.” She stepped off the stoop. “You be here Monday, and on time! You’ll be crating books all day and the next for Oren.”
I was delighted to hear they’d hired Mr. Taft, and it didn’t bother me none to do the heavy lifting. I’d do their work all day, every day, as long as I had the books and spent my nights with Jackson. I glanced up at him and warmed in anticipation of our first night.
Jackson felt it too. I caught the yearning in his bright eyes and saw his love would be tender and beautiful.
“Bluet, seven sharp, not a minute later,” Harriett snipped, her order bouncing down the street.
Jackson turned and in a smooth voice said, “I’ll make sure my bride’s not late.” Then he winked in a shameless manner at the library ladies before pulling me into a fiery public kiss.
Honey squealed, and Jackson pecked her cheek and released me, both of us reluctant to part.
Harriett gasped and worked a silent sassing mouth. The two women stretched their necks our way and locked eyes with me, a mix of wonderment, surprise. Then Harriett whispered again to Eula, but the head librarian wagged her head and disappeared back inside.
Harriett stomped off toward the dry goods, her angry skirts scattering leaves.
Jackson led us inside the courthouse and down the hall to a small office. “It’s the wedding couple,” Mr. Dalton, the banker and Jackson’s friend, called out a cheerful greeting. He looked dapper in his suit. Doc stepped forward and kissed my cheek, thumped Jackson lightly on the back. “What a pretty bride, Bluet. A blessed day for a wedding indeed.”
The officiant slipped a finger under his bow tie, straightening the band. In a minute, his wife came into the room with a Bible. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t keep you,” she said, her eyes darting over the faces before landing on mine.
“Ah, good morn’, Margie, meet our lovely couple, Jackson and Cussy,” the justice said. Margie murmured a shy hello. She opened the Bible, found a page, then passed it to her husband and took the spot beside him.
The justice said, “We are gathered before God and man today to join this couple in holy matrimony.”
Honey rested her head on Jackson’s shoulder, and he reached for my hand.
A sharp rap on the door interrupted, and coal miner Howard Moore poked his head inside. “Pardon, sir, but I need you to stop the ceremony.”
“What’s the nature of this?” the justice scowled. “This is a legal and holy matrimony.”
A chorus of fizzling gasps crawled around the warm room.
Jackson tensed, and I gripped his hand in a dampening clasp.
“Take your leave,” Doc demanded and squeezed up front, glaring hotly at the miner.
Mr. Moore shook his head. “I need to have a word with the officiant. It’s mighty important. Won’t take long.” He twisted his hat in a hand, anxious.
The justice quickly excused himself and left the room. Doc leaned in between us, wrapped his arms over our shoulders and whispered, “I’m sure Justice will be right back and will have you married within the hour.” He nodded firmly and took his place close behind us.
We stared at the door, watching.
Honey fidgeted in the heat, wriggled in Jackson’s arms. The air felt like it had wrapped the room in molasses.
When the justice returned a few minutes later, Mr. Moore and two other miners who had brought Pa home that August night pushed into the room with us.
“Cussy,” the justice said, “the men have something important to ask of you.”
The miners were pink-faced and scrubbed, with worn hats clasped to their bellies, dressed in clean but coal-stained work britches and pressed shirts.
Puzzled, I murmured my consent, and Mr. Moore stepped forward.
“Ma’am, uh, Miss Cussy, the last words of your dear pap was for you. He asked that I stand in his place should this marriage come to pass. And I promised I would… And iffin’ it’s alright with you, Miss Cussy, I’d sure like to keep my word and see you knotted an’ done right. Be honored to give you away, ma’am.”
“Yes,” I barely breathed.
“Very good, Mr. Moore,” the justice said. “We can now begin the ceremony with your passage.”
Mr. Moore took the empty spot by my side, pulled out a tattered piece of paper, and said, “Elijah asked me to read this, Song of Songs 8:6.”
And very carefully, Mr. Moore did. “‘Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame,’” the coal miner read.
Slowly I turned to Mr. Moore and saw Pa there with his burning candle, speaking through him.
The ceremony didn’t last more than five whirlwind minutes and came to a close when Jackson kissed me, and the justice of the peace pronounced us Mr. and Mrs. Lovett and kindly added And Miss Honey Lovett. A flurry of kisses, congratulations, and pats on backs passed around the stuffy room.
Outside, I was surprised to see Birdie with her boy waiting on the courthouse steps. R.C. and his young bride stood beside them, and Martha Hannah, Devil John, and the young’uns lingered nearby, along with a few other curious bystanders.
A secret flickered in Jackson’s eyes.
“Did you invite these folks?” I asked.
“I may’ve mentioned the wedding to a few when I was clearing your paths, checking on your route.”
I was thrilled that he wanted my patrons here for me, even more that he’d taken over what Pa’d done: clearing the briars and brush trails to keep me and Junia safer.
I spied Timmy Flynn and his mama standing back in the little crowd. Timmy ran up to me, handed me a scraggly daisy, and hugged my waist before disappearing behind his mama’s skirts.
Small cheers and well wishes lifted into the air as my patrons gathered around to watch us depart.
Jackson helped us onto the wagon. A young man limped over and introduced himself as Alonzo, Loretta Adams’s nephew. He reached up to hand me a bulky package. “Aunt ’Retta sent me to deliver a gift. God bless ya, Mr. an’ Mrs. Lovett.” His greeting was slowed with whiskey.
“Thank you for coming, Alonzo.” I passed Honey to Jackson and opened the present. It was a neatly folded calico quilt with colors of many hues. Miss Loretta’s note read:
October 20, 1936
Child,
May your union blossom and your lives be filled with all the precious colors of God’s glorious fabrics.
Your library patron,
Miss Loretta Adams
I looked at Jackson and our beautiful child, then turned my gaze toward the colorful Kaintuck mountains and back to my precious patrons, feeling blessed by the glorious tapestry they had given me, by their lives that enriched mine. I didn’t want to leave, needed to give my thanks, linger, and share this moment, this time, with each of them. I loved these folks, and for the very first time, I felt them loving me back.
From behind, I heard someone call for Jackson. Once, then more urgent. “Hold up, Lovett.”
It was Sheriff and his deputy, and they looked agitated. Doc followed close on their heels, his face just as red.
Jackson handed Honey back up to me.
A door creaked open, and Harriett stepped out of the Library Center and folded a smugness into her crossing arms.
Confused, I searched the faces of the lawmen, stiffened atop the wagon seat.
“Davies Kimbo, you have no qualms with these good folks.” Doc rushed up to Jackson’s side. Most of my patrons milled about and stared, straining to hear.
Sheriff Kimbo ignored the doc.
Despite the cool fall day, Honey’s face grew flushed, and a fussy whine rose from her. I patted, rubbed her back with my darkening hand, jiggling her on a knee.
“Jackson Lovett, you’re under arrest,” Sheriff said.
Jackson spun around, puzzlement crawling into his bright eyes.
“What? What’s the meaning of this—” Jackson demanded.
“Miscegenation laws. Kentucky law says intermarriages between Negroes or persons of color in Kentucky are prohibited and punishable,” Sheriff clipped.
“That’s absurd,” Doc said. “Your kin, Charlie, sure ’nough married her, Kimbo.”
“Bluet can’t marry again,” Sheriff said flatly. “The law was revised this June, and it now states clearly and includes any color, any mix.”
A bigger crowd gathered, pushed forward, closer now.
Someone yelled, “Lock them sinners up, immoral!”
Another cried “No!”
And one more shouted, “Heathens!”
I gasped. It had never happened here, but I’d read about the laws in the city newsprints and know’d they were being enforced in other places. Folks were charged and thrown in jail for courting someone not like themselves, for taking another color to their marriage beds. It was an ugly law that let mere folk lord over different-type folks, decide who a person could or couldn’t love.
“You got no quarrel with me, Sheriff,” Jackson said, dismissing him and lifting a foot to get into the wagon.
Sheriff shifted and squared his shoulders. “The law clearly states that marrying a colored destroys the very moral supremacy of our Godly people and is damning and destructive to our social peace.”
“I’m taking my wife and daughter home,” Jackson told the sheriff.
“You listen to me, Lovett. You think you can jus’ waltz back in to Kaintuck with your highfalutin ways and soil the good people. No, sir, this ain’t the west!” Sheriff’s face heated with a fury.
The crowd’s voices rose like a swarm of angry bees.
Honey startled with a whimper and rubbed her tearing eyes. Again, I patted her back and clutched her closer to me.
“Tha’s right!” Someone in the crowd punched the holler.
“They ought to be horsewhipped,” another bellowed. “Ain’t natural, ain’t right, Sheriff.”
“Shut your mouth, Horace! You ain’t right in the head,” another lashed back.
“You best come peacefully, Lovett,” the deputy warned.
Mr. Dalton pushed through the crowd and said, “I will have you answering to Mayor Gibson for this, Davies Kimbo.” He turned and made his way back to the courthouse.
“Stop this foolishness, Sheriff,” Doc said loudly. “No law has been broken. A simple pill can turn Bluet white.”
A hush fell over Troublesome, and then another buzz climbed into the air and seemed to deafen me, making me light-headed.
Some looked up at me and pointed; others wagged tongues to their closest neighbor.
Honey buried a sob against my chest, and I tried to speak softly to her above my own loud heartbeats.
“It’s the truth, Davies,” Doc said.
Sheriff glanced at me, unsure, then shook his head and said, “That’s hogwash, Thomas, and you can save it for the judge. He’s being lawfully charged for fornication and the unlawful marriage and cohabitation with a colored and mixed citizen.”
Fornication. Dumbfounded, I opened and closed my mouth, and the scratched denials trickled out. “No, no—”
Jackson’s voice toppled mine. “Go to hell, Kimbo.”
“Dammit,” Doc’s curse laddered atop of Jackson’s. “It’s lawful, and I’ll attest Bluet has a medical condition and can be treated with pills.”
“It’s true, Sheriff.” R.C. stepped forward and tucked his head. “Yessir, it is. Seen it for myself. Miss Bluet, uh, Book Woman, was a white ’fore my very eyes.”
“She’s a gawdamn colored!” Sheriff turned and told the stirring crowd. A man and woman jeered; another gasped.
Again, Honey fussed and squirmed in my arms, and I tried to rock her.
Jackson glanced up at us, his face rigid with grief, worry, and a hint of something troubling.
“I seen it, Sheriff, and so did my Ruth,” R.C. said, quiet but insistent.
“You get on back to your fire tower, lad, or I’ll see to you fighting a bigger fire with them whimp’d park ranger bosses of yours,” Sheriff barked.
A few folks guffawed.
R.C. flinched, and his freckled face turned penny orange.
Doc cursed and then pleaded, “Davies, she’s a decent woman, for God’s sakes—”
Sheriff cut an eye to me. “I know Bluet’s a good enough lass, but she’s a colored one jus’ the same.” He shot out an accusing arm to me. “And I know damn well you already attested to her being of fit body and sound mind!”
Harriett stepped out of the crowd to glare, and I dropped my gaze, remembering Doc had told her just that.
Doc looked to Harriett and the sheriff, studying, then turned back to the assistant supervisor, a contempt rising in his wrinkled brow.
Harriett’s cold eyes filled with defiance, and she tilted a triumphant chin skyward.
Jackson’s eyes tightened, and he tossed his hat into the back of the wagon and loosened the collar on his freshly pressed shirt.
Doc shook his head. “She’s not colored. I’ve told you: it’s a medical ailment and—”
“She sure enough is,” Sheriff thundered. “An ailment on these good folks. Step aside, man.”
“We’re lawfully married, Sheriff.” Jackson fished into his pocket and pulled out the folded marriage license and flicked it open.
I tried to speak, but the words thickened in my throat, smothering. Honey squalled, and I lowered her onto the boards with shaky hands, trying to calm her so I could go to my husband. She quieted some, and I climbed down and went to Jackson’s side.
A few of my patrons lifted their voices. “He’s right. Let ’em go. Leave them in peace, Sheriff,” one man called out from the back of the crowd, and I could tell it was Devil John.
“Best move along, Devil, lessen you be thirsting for something a little harder than what you can swallow—or are you wanting to spend more time with me again and let your paying customers go thirsty?” Sheriff shouted.
A few snickers floated in the air.
Devil John took a hard step forward, but Martha Hannah grabbed hold of his sleeve, whispered into his ear.
“This is a sham, and I’m taking my bride home. Let’s go, Cussy Mary.” Jackson reached for my arm.
“It’s the law, and the law says she’s just another nigger,” Sheriff spit and grabbed Jackson’s sleeve.
The words lay thick atop the crowd’s energetic whispers. Then Harriett’s hisses reached my ears. “A damnation. Sinners.”
Jackson growled a low curse and leaned in toward the sheriff, then swung, and his fist landed square on the lawman’s face. The marriage license floated to the ground.
Sheriff’s head snapped, and he turned partway, wiped his cracked lips, and spit out blood. The deputy flew to Jackson’s backside, latched hold of his arms, locking him in a hug. Sheriff drew back an arm and punched Jackson in the gut and thrust another to his head and one more to his middle.
I cried out for Jackson. Doc gripped hold of my arm and yanked me back.
Jackson staggered, and I screamed and broke free of Doc just as my husband slumped to the ground. I bent down to Jackson, but the deputy stepped in front of me.
Doc cursed and rushed over. “Stop this, Davies! Stop, I say!”
“Take the wagon, Cussy,” Jackson rasped as he tried to pull himself up to his knees. “I’ll…” He pressed a hand on his side. “I’ll be along shortly.” Doc laid a concerned hand on Jackson’s shoulder, but he shrugged him off and took a breath, blood trickling from his brow. He got partway up, when Sheriff swung his boot, kicked him in the side and once again in the gut.
Jackson crumpled to the ground, struggled to rise to his knees. Sheriff got in one more hard kick.
“Lie still!” Sheriff ordered.
Jackson’s jaw folded and smacked the earth, a flurry of dust rising. Then the deputy hefted a boot and brought it down on Jackson’s leg. I heard the sickening sound of bone shatter fold into Jackson’s scream, his cry echoing mine.
From the crowd, a single applause lifted and several protests rose, but no one dared step forward.
Jackson stretched out his arm and tried to pick up the dirt-stained marriage license near him, leaving a bloody print on the paper.
“I said lie still, boy, lessen you want to end up as jus’ another dead nigger lover.” Sheriff drew his gun from the holster. “Get on home, folks, before I lock you up for meddling with the law.”
A few of the townsfolk slowly turned away, taking their leave, their grumbles falling into purring whispers.
Jackson moaned.
Sheriff pointed the gun at him.
“No, please don’t hurt him.” I dropped beside Jackson, huddled over him, begging. “Please, Sheriff, we don’t mean any harm. Just let us go.”
Jackson grunted one last time and passed out.
I cradled his face. “Jackson, wake up, wake up—”
Sheriff holstered his gun, then knocked my thigh with his boot, leaving a dirt stain on my wedding dress. “Get on.”
A war cry erupted, and R.C. came charging at the lawman half-bent, his head aimed toward the sheriff’s belly. But Sheriff had a bigger might, swiftness over the young boy, and grabbed R.C. by the shoulders and flung him to the ground.
The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Page 27