Page 8 of Where the Rivers Merge

Cattails (Typha latifolia) are one of a genus of some thirty species of tall, reedy aquatic plants that grow in fresh to brackish waters. They have many uses but are sometimes considered a nuisance as they can interfere with water flow and crowd out other seed-producing plants that are food for waterfowl.

1908

Our “schoolroom”

was in the Mayfield library. Books—old, dusty and moldy—filled the shelves floor to ceiling. Stepping into the library was like walking in the deepest, darkest woods where the smell of composting wood tickled your nose. Maybe that was why the library was always my favorite room in the house.

Mama stood at the door beside Mr. Horace Coxwold, her hands folded and her back straight, looking like a teacher herself. She’d said to be educated was the mark of gentility, and come hell or high water, her children were going to be well educated. Even if we did live far from Charleston.

Mr. Coxwold was tall and thin and stood erect in his gray-striped suit and starched shirt. He wore a gray waistcoat that had tiny pockets. Heyward quickly gave him the nickname Mr. Highpockets. His head looked like an overripe melon. I figured it was too much area for his thinning hair to cover, so he combed long strands over the scalp. He was very particular that those hairs never got mussed and checked on them during the day, his long fingers tapping the top of his head. He smelled of mothballs and the licorice chips he sucked on. I thought he was near one hundred years of age, but Mama laughed and said he was but half that.

“Welcome, Miss Eliza,”

he said in a formal manner when I approached. His body was still but his eyes flickered like a cat’s tail when about to pounce. I took a step back. Mama gave me a hooded be a good girl look.

“Thank you, sir,”

I mumbled.

“You’ll find my Eliza is as bright as a shiny penny,”

Mama said.

I was startled hearing that, like I’d been given some award. Beaming, I added, “Daddy says I have horse sense.”

Mama’s face mottled and she hustled me into the library. I saw Covey already sitting at one of the desks, her hands tightly clasped and her brow furrowed. She wore a sun-colored dress with a round collar so crisp she must’ve soaked it in starch. Her hair was slicked back in tight braids tipped with bright yellow ribbons. Her face brightened when she spotted me. I hurried to her side, and we hugged tightly.

“You’re here!”

I exclaimed.

“Wilton brought me first thing. I rushed to get my chores done. I didn’t want to be late on my first day.”

“You look real pretty,” I said.

“So do you,” she said.

My dress was new. Pink gingham flowed loose to the sash at my hips, then fell in pleats below my knees. I wore black stockings, like Covey, though I wore black strapped shoes and she wore her usual brown lace-up boots. But they were polished till they gleamed.

Heyward approached the library sauntering like the conquering hero of some novel. Mr. Coxwold greeted him exuberantly and escorted his prize pupil to the largest table.

Lesesne followed and was also warmly welcomed. Mr. Coxwold put his hand on Les’s shoulder and offered a squeeze. Lesesne rolled his hand off with a sneer.

Mr. Coxwold closed the library door and sat behind his desk. His smile swiftly disappeared to be replaced by a sour expression, like he was sucking a lemon. His gaze swept the room and landed on Covey. He narrowed his eyes, then looked at me.

“Miss Eliza.”

“Yes sir?”

I responded.

He tapped his desk. I thought that was an odd way to call us up, but I obliged. I drew close enough to catch a whiff of mothballs and spy a thin line of perspiration on his brow. I reckoned he pulled his wool suit out of the cedar closet for the season. It was a hot September day and I would’ve felt sorry for him, except he was so mean. He looked down at me from his height like we were bugs that he was considering smooshing.

“So, Miss Eliza, you’re to be in my class this year.”

There wasn’t any joy in that statement.

“Yes sir.”

“I understand you’ve brought your—”

he paused “—friend with you.”

He cast a disdainful glance toward Covey.

I felt my blood chill and replied in a low voice, “Yes sir.”

He cleared his throat and looked down his long nose. “I am not accustomed to teaching Negro children.”

Plucking lint from his sleeve he added, “And I’m not particular to teaching girls. I expect you both to work especially hard and try to keep up with the boys.”

“They can try and keep up with us,”

I snapped. I regretted my words when I saw his eyes flicker. Mama told me to be good and she wouldn’t take kindly to a bad report on my first day.

He parted his lips to speak, then they closed in a sarcastic smile. “Indeed. You can take your seat.”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

With assumed dignity, he passed out the new schoolbooks. These were prized and handed out with pomp—arithmetic, geography, and history. There were workbooks for writing, numbers, and religion. He gave one set to me. “These are yours.”

He paused. “You can share them, if you wish,”

he added with a sniff.

“Why do we have to share?”

I asked indignantly. “Lesesne is only six and he can’t read one bit.”

Mr. Coxwold eyed me warily. “And you can read?”

I didn’t care for the sarcasm in his voice and lifted my chin. “Of course I can read.”

I chuckled and looked at Heyward with a smug smile.

“Is that so? Who, may I ask, taught you to read?”

“Well.”

I hesitated, looking at my older brother. “Heyward helped me when I asked him. And I like to sit by him when he reads out loud so I can follow the words. It just happened. It’s not that hard,”

I said with a shrug.

I heard Heyward stifle a laugh.

Mr. Coxwold studied me for a moment. “Please oblige me, Miss Eliza, and read a paragraph.”

“Yes sir.”

I was happy to have the chance to show Mr. Coxwold that I could read. I noticed Covey was watching with keen eyes. She handed me the McGuffy Reader from our pile of books. I ran my hand over the cover, appreciating the feel of my first schoolbook in my hands. Opening to one of the first pages, I selected a random paragraph. The words seemed easy enough, I thought. I began to read.

“‘Good morning, little children. I hope you are all well. It is a bright, sunny day. The birds are singing and the flowers are blooming. Can you hear the birds chirping? Can you see the pretty flowers in the garden? Look at the sky. It is so blue. What a beautiful day it is.’”

“That will be enough, Miss Eliza,”

Mr. Coxwold said dryly.

I closed the book, looking at him, expecting him to be pleased. But instead, he looked annoyed by my reading. Confused and worried I’d made some error, I glanced at Heyward. He rewarded me with an approving nod.

“You done real good,”

Covey whispered to me.

That was all the praise I needed. The day progressed slowly, with Mr. Coxwold deferring to the boys and almost ignoring Covey and me.

After school was dismissed, Covey and I darted to the door like buckshot, but stopped short when we heard Mr. Coxwold call out. “Girls!”

“You,”

he said, pointing at Covey. “Come to my desk.”

We shared a worried glance as Covey went to stand before Mr. Coxwold, her hands clasped and her eyes wary. I watched from the doorway.

“Yes sir?”

He folded his hands on his desk. “From today forward, after class it will be your duty to clean the erasers and the blackboard.”

He waved his hand indicating the room. “And any other cleaning that needs to be done. We must keep our schoolroom tidy. I’m sure that would be appreciated,”

he said, smiling thinly, “by your most generous patron, Mrs. Rivers.”

“Yes sir,”

Covey replied softly, her eyes downward.

Satisfied, Mr. Coxwold got up, swept his books from his desk into his arms, and regally walked toward the door. I abruptly stood in front of him, blocking his path.

“’Scuse me, Mr. Coxwold, but it ain’t . . . isn’t . . . right to tell Covey to clean the boards. I mean, shouldn’t we all help?”

I saw his sour expression and added, “Sir?”

Mr. Coxwold peered down at me in thought, then surprised me by nodding in agreement. “You make a good point, Miss Eliza.”

I smiled, encouraged. “Thank you, sir.”

“Indeed, cleaning is women’s work. ‘She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.’ Proverbs 31:27. It seems fitting that you assist in the cleaning of the room. Every day after school. Understood?”

I gasped in protest. “What about the boys? Don’t their minds go idle?”

Mr. Coxwold’s lips twisted into an amused smirk, as though I’d told a joke. “Good day.”

He turned and exited from the library, unaware of the dirty look I shot his way as he passed me. My blood was boiling, and I was about to pounce after him when I felt Covey’s hand slip into mine. I swung my head around to face her, unprepared to see her smiling.

“Please, don’t cause no trouble.”

“But—”

“Eliza, I don’t care, if it means I can stay in the class. And you were kind to offer to help, but don’t feel obliged. I’m fine doing it on my own.”

Her gaze lifted to the books that lined the shelves of the library. Her expression was filled with wonder. “I like being in here. I feel like I’m in church, you know? It’s a holy place. All these words surrounding me, just waiting for me to read them—they’re like gifts from God.”

She leaned closer. “When he’s gone,”

she said conspiratorially, glancing at the door, “and no one else is in here, it’s like my own secret place.”

My eyes gleamed and my fury seeped from me like a balloon that released air. I knew what Covey meant, but for different reasons. The library had long been my secret hideaway in the house to escape my mother’s criticisms or glances of disapproval.

“Tell you what. I’ll help you do the chores,”

I offered, squeezing her hand. “We’ll stay here after we finish and read. Together. No one will come looking for us here. Not Mama, not Lesesne—”

We both smiled and said at the same time, “—and not Mr. Coxwold.”

* * *

Cool fall days turned to long chilly months of winter.

Covey and I became very best friends.

Inseparable.

We made a clapping game of cleaning erasers, talked as we washed the blackboard and straightened desks.

Then we prowled the shelves, discovering books and sitting shoulder to shoulder on the cushy sofa reading.

Some days, we made up stories of our own, laughing as we created villains and heroes of people we knew.

No faint-hearted teacher could keep Covey from learning.

By winter’s end Covey had not only passed me in her level of reading, but she was also catching up to Heyward in poetry.

On occasion, Heyward joined us in the library after class and I watched as they recited poetry to one another, challenging each other to know the author.

I admit I was jealous when I saw Covey’s and Heyward’s heads bent close over a book.

Winter changed to spring, and the library windows were flung open.

The stuffy smells of chalk and licorice were replaced with the giddy scents of yellow jasmine and Mama’s roses.

The promises of warm weather could be felt on the gentle breezes and seen in the soft green grasses and leaves budding on trees.

Once the spring planting season commenced, we bid farewell to Mr.

Coxwold and began farm chores.

Covey was sorry to see the school season end.

But for me, summer meant freedom to roam the acres of my beloved Mayfield.