“Grab something to read outside, and when I collect all the paperwork, I’ll call for you.”
Twenty minutes later, she invited me back in. After I filled out the paperwork, she handed me a list of the names of patrons on my route and their addresses.
“You can start tomorrow if you’d like,” the librarian said, pleased.
“Yes, ma’am, I’d like that a whole lot.”
“Your outpost that houses the reading materials will be the same as your mama’s, the boarded-up church down by the creek. It’s still standing.”
“Yes, ma’am, I remember.” I thanked her several more times.
“Paychecks will arrive at your outpost, and you can cash them at the bank or the Company store. Assistant Librarian Oren Taft will get your reading material out on Tuesday mornings. Oh, weekends off, but should you find you can’t cover the route on a certain day, you can make it up on those days off. Just leave a note for Oren to give to me. Your only duty is to get the reading material into the hands of anyone wanting it.”
Relieved, I inhaled the scent of book-and-paper-soaked air. Bringing the written word to others would keep me free.
“Thank you for your service, Honey. It’ll be a godsend around here,” she said and sounded like she meant it. She picked up something from her desk, then pinned the official name tag onto my coat and gave me back the flyer from the bulletin board. I looked down at my name and the title she’d typed out neat and correctly.
HONEY LOVETT
ASSISTANT OUTREACH LIBRARIAN
***
A door jingle announced my arrival at the Company store, rattling the Coca-Cola sign that showed a happy young girl reading a book on the floor and raising the bottle to remind folk to Serve Coke at Home. Another advertisement hung above the Champion mechanical kiddie ride showing a beaming Santa Claus toasting the holidays with his cola. Next to the dark-brown horse, a man fed coins into a cigarette machine while a young’un dropped money into a red bubble-glass gumball stand.
I made my way around the rack of bib overalls, coal miners’ britches, and shirts and stepped around a group of huddled men discussing the latest news, weather, and work, their murmurs lifting into wisps of cigarette smoke. I found a basket of apples beside the bread rack and egg bin, and then inspected several and picked the shiniest.
Up at the cash register, I set the fruit on the counter. A boy about my age picked it up, sneaking glances at my name tag. “Honey Lovett, huh? Don’t believe I’ve heard the name. You from these parts?” He pulled out a tiny brown sack from underneath the counter to bag the apple.
I was sure he was someone I hadn’t seen before, yet he looked familiar. “My mama, Cussy Carter, was a book woman for the Pack Horse Library Project, and my grandpa Elijah was a miner.”
His eyes widened. “My gramps worked with Elijah Carter! Yours saved his life in the mining accident back in ’36. Gramps gave away your mama, at her wedding to, uh—” He snapped a finger, trying to remember. “She was the Pack Horse librarian and he—”
“Jackson Lovett, that’s my papa,” I said, surprised, remembering my folk talking about Mr. Moore.
“Good folks, my family always said. Are you taking over your mama’s government route?” He pointed the apple to my name tag.
My cheeks warmed, and I turned away, digging into my pockets, fumbling for a coin with my awkward gloves on. I pulled one off to grip the money. “Yes, and the WPA no longer funds it, but the library is going to revive the service and pay me wages.” I lit a shy smile and plunked down a coin, snatching my arms to my side, wanting to get out of there before I ruined it all with my loud-talking blue hands.
His eyes were friendly, and he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m Francis Moore from Straight Creek. My folks moved here last year to be closer to kin and get work. I’ll have to tell Mama to sign up for the route.”