“No, sir, Your Honor. But I haven’t even had a chance to go on my first date because the way things are in my life. Have myself a proper kiss even,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself, and the laughter grew louder.
“Order,” the bailiff called out.
“I live alone, Your Honor.”
“And where is that?”
“At the Carter homestead alongside Troublesome Creek. Anyone”—I lifted an unsteady gloved hand over to the sheriff and social worker—“can visit me anytime.”
Again, from behind came guffaws, but I couldn’t help myself. “I keep it nice and clean, and feed and care for my critters. Junia. She was my mama’s mule.”
Judge Norton’s eyes grew distant like he was remembering something or someone from long ago.
“But Junia’s mine now. The ol’ girl delivered thousands of books on hundreds of porches for the Pack Horse Library Project years ago. And she’s doing it again with me. I take care of her and Miss Retta’s cat. I take care of myself.” I reached inside my dress pocket, pulled out the folded paycheck stubs and held them out in front of me, up high. “My pay stubs, Your Honor.”
The judge leaned toward me and looked over his glasses, quietly studying me.
An utterance of disbelief arose from Mrs. Wallace. I placed the stubs on the table and glanced down at the empty chair where Retta had sat beside me, suddenly feeling an ache for her presence, her pride and strength.
The sheriff stared at me, bored, like I was no more than the bother of a housefly, and I saw Gillis’s cruel face in his. My mind pulled to Guyla Belle’s suffering, the horrors Gillis had burdened little Wrenna, me, and the other women with, and a surge of blinding fury and power sent quakes to my being. Steadying my sweaty gloved hands on the table, I took a deep breath and tamped down the anger, trying to think smart.
“Your Honor, if I don’t want to marry, and instead I want to keep house alone, Kentucky will punish me by sending me to the children’s prison and lock me in weighted leg chains to work hard labor until I have reached the age of twenty-one. I will soon be seventeen, and I have a home and a respectable government job and the means to support myself. I deliver books and important reading material into these hills, and my patrons need me and the materials. If the law says I’m of marriageable age, old enough to get hitched at twelve or thirteen or sixteen, why can’t it declare me an adult when I’ve been making it on my own the same as fourteen-year-old Byrne McDaniel? Why should I be forced to marry a man to have my freedom, to do what I’m already doing and doing well?”
Attorney Vessels popped up fast and noisily, stopping me. “Objection. Totally irrelevant.”
“Overruled. Miss Lovett, are you seeking permission to marry?” The judge looked at me, puzzled.
“No, Your Honor. No, sir. I’m seeking the freedom not to!” I sat down, scooted closer to the table and clasped my trembling hands.
The court clerk lifted the pen off her page and glanced at me, a mixture of pity, shock, and admiration fleeting across her eyes before she dropped her gaze back to the task at hand. I looked back to the judge, gleaning an unsettling rising while the clock ticked loudly into Mr. Morgan’s fast-shuffling papers.
Judge Norton stared down at me from his perch.
Purring whispers crawled around the warm, oppressive room as I smoothed down my skirts, tasting the heavy, standing air coating my throat.
Mr. Morgan leaned over and uttered something, but I couldn’t hear anything except the heartbeats of terror pounding in my ears.
The judge finally pulled his gaze away. “Why, indeed, Miss Lovett,” he said quietly, then announced louder, “Application for the emancipation of Honey Mary-Angeline Lovett is hereby granted. Please approach the bench with your client, Counselor.”