Page 46 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“Oh yes,” Sam told her. “The Lamberts were the reason my family had to leave town.”
Sixty years earlier, there had been another gathering in Jackson Square. On that day, Sam’s father had been at the front of the crowd. He wasn’t there to defend Augustus Wainwright, but to rally a group of mill workers—many of them descendants of the men and women who’d worked in the Wainwright fields. The Emancipation Proclamation was one hundred years old, but the area’s Black folks had never been fully free. Many felt like they’d gone straight from one form of slavery to another. The jobs at the mill were supposed to pay the minimum wage, but the checks they took home from the mill never added up. The days lasted sunup to sundown, just as they had before the war. They were expected to arrive early and leave late. There were no breaks or vacations. You prayed you never got sick. Those who were injured on the job were let go. Whole families could starve if a father broke an arm.
For over one hundred years, this was the way things were done. Exploitingthe Black people in town—preventing them from ever getting ahead—well, that was as much a tradition as cornbread and greens. Samuel’s father had tried to change that. All he’d asked for was the same basic rights that workers in other places were given. For his impertinence, their house had been burned to the ground after the rally. A mob was searching for Samuel and his father the night he begged Bernice to leave. There was no point in calling the police for help. Some of the men hunting them worked for the local sheriff. The entire Yates family was forced to flee Troy, hidden in the back of a delivery truck.
For twenty years after that, things went back to the way they’d always been. Then a local lawyer sued the mill on behalf of the workers. Wilma Jean Cummings’s father had once worked for Leonard Lambert, and she knew exactly what kind of man he was. When she and the workers prevailed in court, Lambert was bankrupted. He’d been forced to sell the mill to an outside company. The new owners would never have been mistaken for socialists, but at least they let the workers take lunch breaks and paid them what they were owed.
It was a small step forward. But for many, the damage had already been done. Lives had been sacrificed. Others, like Bernice’s and Sam’s, had been ripped apart. Progress had arrived at last, but it had come at a terrible price.
Bernice’s eyes skimmed down the line fromThe Art of CrochettoManhood. It had to be the most ridiculous selection of titles she’d ever encountered.
“These are the books your friend thinks might be changing the town?” Sam asked.
“Oh Lord,” Bernice said. “Look at this one.” She pulled outA Caledonian Fling. The cover showed a handsome Highlander in a kilt wooing a lass in a tartan dress while a herd of sheep looked on. “I haven’t seen this book since I was in grade school. I nicked it from my mother thinking it might be naughty. Damn thing bored me to tears.”
Sam reached out for the book and she passed it to him. He flipped to a random page and read.
“‘My secret vices are no longer secret and I no longer have to be clandestine or to hide the covers of the books.’”
“What?” Bernice said. “I don’t remember that part.”
Sam turned to another random passage. “‘We had one rhythm from the beginning. We didn’t need to practice, or tune our instruments. He would be astonished and proclaim his astonishment. I wouldn’t have time to share in his proclamations. My time was dedicated wholly to pleasure. I would fall silent. I would cling to his body and bury my face beneath his armpit and breathe his smell deeply into my chest.’”
Sam paused and whistled softly. “You were one jaded schoolgirl. This is some good stuff!”
Bernice playfully swatted Sam on the arm. “You’re making it all up!”
Sam laughed. “I wish I was capable. I’m just reading what’s right here on the page.”
“Lemme see,” Bernice demanded, and Sam turned the book to face her. She studied it for a moment. “Oh!” She peeled off the cover and stuck it back in Lula’s library. “There’s a different book inside.”
“‘The Proof of the Honey,’” Sam read from the book’s spine. Then he grinned. “Someone’s gone and switched Lula’s books.”
“You suppose this one’s real dirty?” Bernice asked.
“Only if we’re lucky,” Sam said, tucking the book under his arm and offering the love of his life his hand.
Chapter 20
How the Word Is Passed
Keith Kelly was rolling up his sleeve for the tetanus shot when the office’s front door slammed against the wall and someone shouted for Dr. Chokshi. He and the doctor hurried out of the exam room to find two teenage boys in the reception area. A burly, athletic kid was carrying Bella Cummings, her body limp and eyelids fluttering. His tall, terrified brother brought the doctor up to speed.
“Mitch Sweeney knocked her off a stage in Jackson Square five minutes ago. She was unconscious for just under two minutes. She’s been disoriented since she woke up.”
“Bring her in,” Dr. Chokshi ordered. “I’m sorry, Keith—”
“No worries.” Keith raised his hands and hopped out of the way on his good foot.
It went without saying that girls with head injuries took precedence, but the truth was, Keith was more than happy to wait. As much as he loved his family, he was in no rush to get back to them. In the three days since he’d come home from college, he’d endured a constant barrage of death, destruction, and drag queens. The minute his parents got up in the morning, the news came on—and it didn’t go off until the two older Kellys went to bed around ten. He felt like he’d wandered into a war zone. The territory in dispute was his brain.
That afternoon, Keith had escaped for a walk. He strolled down Main Street, bought a pair of salmon-colored shorts at a boutique, and browsedthe books in a purple little library. He’d chosenContract with Americaby Newt Gingrich and carried it to a bench in Jackson Square. The book inside didn’t match the dust jacket, but Keith would have read almost anything. By the end of the first two chapters, he was hooked. That’s when a group of townspeople appeared and began to construct a stage around the statue of Augustus Wainwright in Jackson Square. Then a crowd began to gather, and Keith got up to leave. On his way out, he stepped on a dropped nail that had landed sharp side up between two cobblestones.
There was a doctor’s office on the other side of the square. It wasn’t much trouble to hop there. Only one thing bothered Keith, and it wasn’t the pain. Now, with an injured foot, he’d be stuck at home. The next two days were going to be hell. The exam door closed, Keith Kelly drew in a breath and relished the silence.
“Turn up the TV, would you, sweetheart?” Ken Kelly called out to his beloved wife of twenty-two years. He was still in the kitchen, fixing their after-dinner smoothies.
When Glenda and Alan Johnston purchased their split-level ranch in 1985, they thought they were buying peace of mind. Their suburb outside of Baltimore was known for its good schools, friendly neighbors, and low crime rate. But over the years, Baltimore descended into chaos, and the criminal element began to stretch its tendrils out of the inner city and into the suburbs. As crime gained a stranglehold on their beloved neighborhood, Glenda and Alan refused their children’s pleas to move. Then one night, just as the couple were preparing for bed, there came a knock at the door. On the other side was a young man, who told them he’d been in an accident. The Johnstons’ doorbell camera caught Alan and Glenda stepping outside to help. It was the last time the elderly couple was seen alive. Their mangled bodies were discovered—
