The Book of Lost Friends(67)

“Oh, mercy!” Granny T finishes, “All those women of the original Ladies New Century Club, they were pea-green jealous, I’ll tell you. That was back during segregation, you know, and the black folks never got the better part of anything, so for us to have a place so fine and finer than the town library, that was a blot on Augustine, they said. Wasn’t much they could do about it, except they did get the city to rule against the permit for the library to have a sign. That way, nobody coming through would know what it was. And so we put a statue of a saint on top of the marble base that was made to hold the sign, and for years, the building stood there that way, but it couldn’t stop the magic. In those hard times, it was a symbol of hope.”

She has barely stopped talking when the kids begin asking questions. “How come it’s just called ‘Augustine Carnegie Library’ now?” one of the country kids wants to know.

Granny T points the lecture finger at him and nods. “Well, now, that is a good question. Y’all been passing around the pictures. Why do you think the old saint had to move on, so a new sign saying only ‘Augustine Library’ could go up on that marble base?”

The kids try out a few wrong answers. I’m momentarily distracted, thinking about Councilman Walker’s visit to my front porch with his dog, Sunshine. The library saint lives in my oleander bush, thanks to Miss Retta. Now I appreciate him more than ever. He’s a book lover, like me. Library history runs in his veins.

“Who’s got the picture from 1961?” Granny T asks. “I bet you can say why it’s just the Augustine Carnegie Library now.”

“Segregation got over, Granny T,” Laura Gill, one of my townie girls, answers shyly. Laura has never, absolutely never, spoken to me in class or in the hall. She’s clearly quite comfortable with Granny T—a relative or former Sunday school teacher, maybe?

“That’s right, honey. And hooo-ee! Augustine might’ve fought other things as long as it could, but the city was sure happy to take over control of that library!” Memories dance behind Granny T’s thick glasses. “It was the end of something and the beginning of another something. Now, black kids and white kids could sit together in the same room and read the same books. It was another chapter in the library’s history. Another part of its tale. And a lot of people have all but forgot about that. They don’t know the story of that building and so they don’t appreciate it like they ought. But now, you kids…now you understand what it meant, and that it was hard won. And from here on, maybe you’ll care about it in a different way.”

“That’s the reason I asked Granny T to come share with us today,” I tell the kids, joining Granny T in the front of the classroom as the students pass around old photos. “There’s so much history in this town that most people don’t know. And, for the next few weeks, we’re going to do some detective work, see what we can find out. I want each of you to discover the story of a place or an event in this town—something people probably aren’t familiar with—and take notes, copy photographs, whatever you can gather, and write the story.”

A few groans follow, but they’re muffled. Mostly, there are murmurs of interest, mixed with questions.

“Who do we ask?”

“How do we find stuff?”

“Where do we go?”

“What if you don’t know anything about anything here?”

“What if you ain’t from here?”

A desk screeches and for a bare instant, I’m afraid some form of trouble is about to erupt right in front of our guest speaker. Surely they wouldn’t…

I follow the sound to find Lil’ Ray halfway out of his seat with one hand stuck in the air. “Miss…ummm…Miss…” He can’t remember my real name, and he’s afraid to call me by one of my dubious nicknames in front of Granny T.

“Lil’ Ray?”

“So we gotta write about a place?”

“That’s right. Or an event.” Please, please don’t start a revolt. If Lil’ Ray rebels, so will his crowd of admirers. It’ll be tough to get the class back after that. “This is going to be a big part of our semester grade, so it’s important to work hard at it. But I want it to be fun, too. As soon as you’ve found your subject, let me know, so we won’t have any duplicates, and we’ll learn something different from each report.”

I pan the room with my teacher eye, as in, I mean it. Okay?

Another squeal of desk legs. Lil’ Ray again. “Miss…uhhh…”

“Silva.”

“Miss Silva, what I meant was, instead of telling about a place or a event, can we write about a person, because—”

“Oh, oh.” Laura Gill interrupts—actually cuts him off—but she’s got her hand in the air, as if that makes the interruption okay. “At this school in New Orleans, at Halloween time, they do this thing called Tales from the Crypt. I saw it in the newspaper last year at my cousin’s house. They dress up like the person and stand there in the graveyard and, like, tell the story to everybody. How come we can’t do that?”

The idea ignites something I’d only dreamed might be possible. Suddenly, fresh tinder is everywhere. My classroom is afire.





CHAPTER 17