“Want that, Honey?” Alonzo asked, looking back over his shoulder.
It wouldn’t fit on my small porch that was already full with two rockers and a little table. I stared at it a moment, then dug into my coat pocket and pulled out a dollar and some change. “Much obliged. Would you drop it off on Bonnie Powell’s porch?”
“Widow Powell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On et. Know’d right where it is.”
He tucked the money into his pocket and took off, wafts of horse, whiskey, and dirt climbing into the air, haloing him.
Saddened, I watched him ride away with everything I had always known, the very last of my Retta, until I could no longer see his hat and hear the clattering wheels of the wagon.
At the Tobacco Top drop, I tied Junia up next to a tombstone and began pulling out books and magazines for the tiny community that lived eight miles over the pass.
Junia stretched out her neck and blew at our visitor, Mr. Taft’s son, Tom, as he stepped off his great-grandparents’ crumbling porch, the walls of the small home boarded up, sunken, trailing with wild wisteria, ivy, and honeysuckle vines.
“Honey.” He waved. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes. When Pa said you would be delivering the books up here, our hoots could be heard over the mountaintops. It was all I could do to keep my young Iris from following me over here today.” He handed me a jar from inside his poke. “My woman grabbed this from the tater hole this morn’， said give these blackberry preserves to our bonny Picasso’s daughter, our new Book Woman.”
“Much obliged to Mrs. Taft. And I remember Mama telling me your papa used to call her that.” I grinned. “After Picasso’s blue painting of the Woman with a Helmet of Hair.”
“My folks always said our Maker saved his favorite color for our wonderful Book Woman.” Tom pointed upward to the blue skies and then started packing for his trip back.
I thought about Mama in prison, how different she was treated for being different. But here I’d grown up watching the good bookfolk welcome her with open arms and shout with joy every time she rode in with her treasures. Now here I was able to bring the books like she had, and my heart filled with pride and love for the printed word. Though Mama and I were the last of the Blues, the very last of our kind, and different from others, the books united every one of us.
Twenty-Eight
From atop Junia, I drew my eyes to the well and tried to spy the glass milk bottle. The yard was empty. Thin grasses poked up between patches of blooming henbit, briar weed, and field mustard. Wet clothing and sheets were pinned to Guyla Belle’s clothesline, the scents of lye soap and blooms swirling around the yard. The boy’s rusted trike rested on its side. The curtains were drawn on the cabin windows.
Mr. Gillis must be home. I turned Junia back to the road, then chanced another look once more at the well, stretching my neck to get a better sight. I couldn’t be sure and I dared not go into the yard to get a closer look, but it seemed like Mr. Gillis had finally concreted it over, and I let out a breath, relieved for the boy’s safety.
Then the door creaked open and a small, unkempt woman stuck her head out. “If you’re looking for Guyla, she ain’t here,” she said, her voice full of grave dust.
I nudged Junia closer. “Ma’am, I’m Honey Lovett, the outreach librarian assistant for our branch.”
Johnnie squeezed past the woman, and she snatched him back to her side.
“Buk uman.” He pointed, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes swollen from crying. “Buk uman an-an-and Mama. Well!”
“Hello, Johnnie,” I called out, friendly. To the woman, “Ma’am, do you know where I can find Guyla Belle?”
“I’m the boy’s auntie, Ida Gillis. Perry’s at work and Guyla’s done gone.”