The Reading Lessons

THE READING LESSONS

by Carole Lanham

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without the permission of the publisher. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

Copyright © 2013 by Carole Lanham

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-938750-87-8

For Jake and for Ellie

The most beautiful, amazing, and beloved works of art that I’ve ever had a hand in creating.

Always and forever

For Chris

How lucky I am to be learning life’s lessons alongside the one I love.

“There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”

―Bram Stoker, Dracula

Geri Buss, Emily Thoroughman, Jeanie Thies, David Rush, and Curt and Karen Hoffmeister for their early attempts to make my work shine; Leslie Brown, Mike Norris, and Jeremiah Sturgill for their patience, dedication, and guidance in the work of smoothing out the lumps; and Shana Raywood for her superb editing, attention to detail, and faith in Hadley and Lucinda. Big thanks as well to my parents, Gary and Jeannette Kralemann, and to the rest of my family and friends whom I owe all. And to Chris, Jake, and Ellie whose creativity and support never fail to make me look better than I really am.

God bless you all!

Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces – and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper – love her, love her, love her!

Charles Dickens 

Great Expectations

Beattie’s Bluff, Mississippi 1920

Five minutes after Dr. Mangrove announced that Hadley Crump was going to die, Lucinda walked into the bedroom stirring a cup of chamomile with her finger and smiling as though it was Christmas. Mama had rushed off to the kitchen to fix up a pair of healing socks for his feet, leaving Hadley all alone. Lucinda bumped the door shut with her hip and poked that tea-stirring finger in his mouth as though she meant to feed him the whole cup one lick at a time. 

“I brought you something,” she said, and she wasn’t talking about tea. Hadley followed her gaze to the little strip of violet paper on the rim of the saucer. He didn’t let himself look at it until her daddy called her off to work on funeral plans. 

I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck . . . 

About the time Hadley got to the hot breath part, his fingers let loose, and the words loop-the-looped away with all the devilish momentum of a broken promise. 

Had he not been dying at that particular moment, Mama would have spotted the purple scrap on the floor and wondered why Lucinda Browning was writing notes to her seventeen-year-old son. Then again, had he not been dying at that particular moment, Hadley would have tucked the violet paper in his pocket and hid it away like he hid all of Lucinda’s secrets. As it was, he waited with onions in his socks, curious to see which would take him first, Lucinda or his festering wound.

Because Hadley was the cook’s son and Lucinda Browning was a Browning, she was careful to return later and search for her note under his bed. “Did you read it?” she asked.

Hadley nodded.

Lucinda balled up the words and pitched them in the stove. With a sigh that seemed to say,
Well that’s that then
, she ran her teeth around the curve of his ear.  “I’ll be back after your mama falls asleep.”

A few minutes later, Mama returned in her nightgown, but before she had a chance to fall asleep, Hadley asked her to open up the right-hand door on the washstand. 

“There’s nothing in here, son,” she said. “Nothing but your
Whoops Jar
.”

Whoops Jars
were a Crump family tradition that dated back to slave times. For every misstep he made on the road of life, a Crump was obliged to put a nail in his jar to remind himself that a single moment of poor judgment could amount to another nail in his own coffin. Hadley came from a long line of mis-steppers. 

“Hand me the jar, Mama, and that box of nails, too.” 

Mama reached for his jar like it might sprout teeth and chomp off a piece of her. 

Some Crumps favored jelly glasses. Others liked a soup can. Hadley’s jar was a spiced-fish jar with the word WHOOPS painted across the glass in pale blue egg-yolk tempera. Except for the stink of sardines, it was entirely empty. 

The nail dropped with a doleful clink, spun twice, and settled in under the “OOPS”. Mama wiped her nose on his blanket and cried her ever-loving heart out.

It started with the advertisement for
Experienced Negro Cook
. Mama had circled another one in that same paper too. That one said: 

WANTED — An active girl to do the general housework of a large family, one who can cook, clean plates, and get up fine linen. — No Irish need apply.

Mama preferred to stick to cooking, but she had a lot of skills. She’d also circled:

Hardy souls wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, safe return doubtful.

That’s how desperate Mama was.

Hadley was a boy of nine back then, and this was their second week looking for work. Mama wasn’t taking any unecessary chances. She’d tucked a lucky cat bone into her apron pocket and spit on her lucky penny before dropping it into her lucky shoe. Browning House was their third stop of the day. Mama really needed that penny to work.

Stop Number One shut the door in her face before she even said hello. Stop Number Two was kind enough to offer an abbreviated explanation regarding Mr. Brampton Tripp’s ironclad policy against hiring jigaboos with
skunk babies
. After Stop Number Two, Mama told Hadley to quit looking so white.

Stop Number Three turned out to be a man sitting in a zinnia bed fanning himself with the morning edition of the
Beattie’s Bluff Dispatch
. His house was by far the most elegant of the stops. The front porch was flanked by six big white columns, the lot of which happened to be serving at that particular moment as the Coliseum for the great Lucinda Augustus—First Empress of Rome. It was there, in the shadows of the Coliseum, that Hadley first locked eyes with Lucinda’s bright monkey-flower blue eyes, and oh what a memorable day that was. 

Making yourself look more nigger-colored can be a terrible task when only part of your blood knows how. Hadley was doing his level best, but when he spotted the girl with the crown of leafs on her head, he forgot about trying to be anything but his old mixed-up self. Mama gave him a swat and tried to hide him behind her good blue dress.

“Quit staring,” she said. 

It was typical of her to make such impractical demands. Once the words were spoken, Hadley wanted nothing so much as to stare at that girl. Beads of consternation popped out on his upper lip. His heart got jumpy. His eyes would not stay put. He tried focusing on the man in the zinnias. Failing that, he dipped his toe in a puddle and stirred it around, trying to get up a whirlpool. Finally, he rolled up his sleeves and checked his arms to see if they looked browner in the sun or the shade. To decide, he had to step back and forth several times. The answer was shade. In the end, it was all too much. Before Hadley knew it, he was shooting looks everywhere. Zinnias, girl. Puddle, girl. Girl, girl.

“Quit!” Mama hissed.

Only once before had Hadley ever attempted a feat more difficult than looking away from that girl, and that had been when he tried to lift a Guernsey with his bare hands based on some misinformation given to him by a fellow called Tibbs Deets, who claimed that a milked cow was lighter than air. He couldn’t lift the the Guernsey anymore than he could keep his eyes off the girl.