I held it out to her and she swallowed, staring at it. “Go ahead and have some. Bit-O-Honey’s my favorite.”
Wrenna studied me a moment, then dug into her dress pocket. She pulled out several horse chestnuts and a spent flower, then handed me the bud and a seed before snatching the candy out of my hand.
Mrs. McCain said, “The chil’s always toting home presents to me.”
“Pretty flower and this seed sure is the shiniest one I’ve ever seen. Thank you, Wrenna.” I smiled and inspected the horse chestnut that many thought carrying around would bring good favor.
Hesitant, she tasted the candy with the tip of her tongue, and then took another small lick, her eyes widening with delight.
“Wrenna?” Mrs. McCain said, her voice soft and warbled. “Wrenna Jean, say thank ya to Book Woman.” But the child didn’t hear. She’d already plopped down in the yard to read with Tommie perched on her shoulder as if he was reading, too, slowly chewing over the words and gnawing on the sticky taffy.
I said goodbye, climbed atop Junia, and pointed her to my next stop, the Moores’ cabin. Before I reached their home, I smoothed down my hair and tucked in my blouse, making sure I looked fine when I saw him.
Mrs. Moore insisted I come in. “Francis ain’t here, but he and my niece Bonnie done told me all about the new book-drop service and I couldn’t wait to sign up.”
My shoulders sagged. I’d hope to chat with him away from the Company store.
I stepped inside the small cozy cabin, the panel walls lined with smiling faces of relatives in handmade frames. There were pictures of Bonnie and Francis together in the yard. On a small table there were more photographs. Mrs. Moore caught me looking at them and went over and picked up a small frame. “This is my pa, Howard”—she tapped a finger on one of the men—“and this is your grandpap, Elijah Carter, outside the Blue Diamond mine.”
I traced the picture with my finger. Grandpa didn’t look much different than Mrs. Moore’s papa, both standing in coal-covered clothes, with black-smudged faces and holding their miner helmets in dirty hands. It was the first time I’d seen a photograph of him, and I peered closely, wishing I had spent more time with him before he passed.
Mama kept his old brass carbide lamp that he wore on his miner’s helmet atop the mantel. She’d have me light it once a year on his birthday, and then she’d read from the yellowed paper the quote Grandpa Elijah told Mr. Moore to tell her before he died, asking his friend to stand in for him during my parents’ matrimony ceremony.
“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm;
for love is as strong as death… It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame.”
“Keep it, Honey, I have others,” Mrs. Moore said, taking it out of the frame and handing it to me. She rearranged the photographs and stopped at one. “That’s my cousin Kelly Ann Moore.” She lifted up a small frame of a woman sitting atop a horse holding books. “She was a Pack Horse librarian over in Straight Creek before she up and married and moved to Texas. Mighty fine book woman she was. And this one sitting on her mule”—she picked up another—“is my dear friend, Laura Adams over in Letcher. Another brave, dedicated Pack Horse librarian who worked the project.”
“Much obliged for the photograph, Mrs. Moore.” I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to show Mama. Except for the photograph with Retta, there were no pictures of our family, nary a one, and I suspected it was because of the humiliation over our rare color. I pressed the picture to my heart before slipping it into my pocket.
“Reckon I’ll be putting up a new one of my niece in her work clothes soon,” Mrs. Moore said with a tinge of sorrow, rubbing the empty frame. “Pa always said coal is never really a good neighbor to our people, our land and critters. It rips away the men from their women, leaving behind too many widows.”