“I will. Thank you.” She lifted a hand in farewell, reassured somehow. Not everyone would shut her out, after all. Crockett wouldn’t. He was grizzled and set in his ways sometimes, but he was fair, always honest with his help.
She cut up a chicken and threw it in a pot for supper, then wandered outside. Led by Paul’s laughter, she rounded the house to the east, eyeing the smooth flat of her garden plot for a moment. Briefly, she imagined the plants that would sprout from the smooth earth in a week or two, pleased by the hidden life gestating there in the flat earth.
The sound of Isaiah’s laughter drew her around the side of the house.
He had climbed down the ladder and stood by it, his feet clad today in the heavy boots that had probably seen him through the war. With them he wore pressed, faded khakis and a soft work shirt that buttoned up the front.
He was laughing, standing just beyond the ribbon of deep shade that clung to the side of the house. Perched on his finger was Ebenezer, chattering in an almost earnest attempt to communicate. “This your bird?” Isaiah called, holding up his hand.
As she approached, his smile didn’t fade. It showed his white teeth and the dimple in the side of his face, and her skin rustled in a forgotten way, making her shy.
Ebenezer spread his jeweled wings, preening, and she focused on the flash of blue in his fathers. “He fell out of a tree and ruined one of his wings, so I kept him.”
“I never knew they could be friendly. He kept me company up there, chattering away.”
“He can’t fly very far, but he likes to be up high.”
“He sat on my shoulder,” Isaiah said in some wonderment, then extended his arm to give him to Angel. Ebenezer skittered up Isaiah’s arm to his shoulder, where he made soft, cooing sounds into Isaiah’s ear.
“Why, Ebenezer,” Angel said with her hands on her hips, “you traitor! See if you get the chicken scraps tonight.”
Isaiah laughed again and the sound moved through her very bones, settling in elbows and knees. She wrapped her arms around herself, cradling joints in the palms of her hands.
As Ebenezer cooed close to Isaiah’s ear, he ducked away. “Figures a woods gal like you would tame a bird.”
“Always wanted a squirrel. Never thought about a jay really.”
“You tamed enough critters for a zoo.”
“And my daddy always made me take them back.” She found she could meet his eyes when they were smiling. The unease in her chest softened although it didn’t fade entirely. For a minute, everything was normal, as it had been in their letters.
Before he abruptly stopped writing. She wanted to ask him why, but of course she would not.
He cleared his throat, looking back to the roof. “It’s going to take me a couple weeks to do this properly, but I can get it fixed up for you.”
“It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
“I’ll get some paper and tools tomorrow.”
“Fine, Isaiah. That’s just fine. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll take Paul home with me now, then, and see you sometime tomorrow afternoon.” He didn’t meet her eyes again as he gently took hold of Ebenezer and set him on the ground.
“Tell Mrs. McCoy she can leave Paul tomorrow, too, if she needs to.”
“I’ll tell her.” He took Paul’s hand and led him away.
Angel whistled at her bird, forcing herself not to look after them.
— 13 —
May 16, 1943
Dear Isaiah,
I’m writing this from my favorite place, the tree house you built. Stands just as strong as it did the day you hammered in the last nail—how long ago now? Must be ten or twelve years. Seems more like a million sometimes.
Anyway, it shows what a builder you are, this little tree house in the woods. I hope when this war’s all through you’ll think about that again. God gives a man a talent for a reason, and if I ever saw a man who could build things, you’re him.
From up here in the trees, everything looks so peaceful. It’s just past suppertime and I can hear the river. Some birds in a tree next door keep looking at me suspicious-like, but I think they finally figured out I’m not gonna bother them. They’re singing a little. I worry sometimes about the birds over there, in the war. It must scare them when the bombs come.
From where I’m sitting, all there is to see is tree branches and sunshine coming low through the leaves. The cottonwoods are glittering like Mrs. Pierson’s gold-button earrings. It’s a little hazy because it’s been raining. It’s so beautiful it makes you imagine those trees could be hiding a magic kingdom or a deserted isle, just like we used to pretend. (Poor Solomon—he never did have an inkling of our games. Nobody ever read to him. We were lucky in that way, at least. Or maybe not—I don’t know, maybe it’s easier not to know anything).
Yes, it shimmers out there and I wish I could still play pretend.
Because under those trees is only Gideon. Three telegrams in the last week about boys killed. I go see their mamas and wives because I was the first one to lose anybody, and I probably know a little something about how they feel. It doesn’t help very much. Mrs. Allen said yesterday that she just can’t stop thinking about her Jim’s bottom when he was a baby—a little soft bottom, pink and white. I don’t know what that’s like. How can I say anything?
And without war, there’s the mean little uglies no-body likes to talk about. Somebody probably told you about Mabel Younger. Nothing but a child, beaten and God knows what else. Course no one is saying who did it, but I reckon it was the same one that’s been beating and hurting people in these woods as long as I remember.
Of course, no one tells me these things. Not any of them.
Even my daddy treats me like I’m simple. Gotta protect Angel. Keep her sweet. She might end up like her mama.
Like I can’t see what’s under my nose. Like I can’t hear. Like he hasn’t been after me since I was twelve. Like I don’t know he nearly killed you. I saw you that night. Bleeding all over. I stood in the doorway to my room and watched you and my daddy in the kitchen. Saw you shaking mad and hurt. Heard my daddy talking, talking, talking. Knew enough to stay where I was.
But you saw me. Looked right at me. Like it was me that had done something, had hurt you. Then joined the Army and went away and have the nerve to write me a letter like we’re friends. I wish we were, Isaiah.
Because you were always the only one that didn’t ask me to be somebody else, who looked into my eyes and saw me, who listened when I talked.
I hate Gideon Texas. I hate it. And I know I’m not ever going to get out of here. Not ever. It’s just gonna strangle me and bury me. At least you got out. At least one of us got a chance.
[Never mailed.]
May 17, 1943
Dear Isaiah,
Flowers are in bloom by now, I bet. Tell me, what kinds? Have you got to go to a play or anything? Tell me more about your older lady. Where did she go in the service? What’s it like to have tea? I know you’re there to fight a war, but I’m just so jealous I could spit.
I’ve sent along some cigarettes and other stuff we thought you could use. Wish it could be more.
Heard Edwin Walker (your old friend, ha ha) is going to England soon. Saw his mama at church and as usual she talked my ear off about him. I never saw a woman as blind about her child as that one is. She flat spoiled him rotten.
Daddy is doing a lot better now the weather’s turned warm. He’s still awful thin, but he works every day and I think he’s getting better. You know he won’t go to any doctor.
Have to go wash clothes, now. I’m enjoying your letters a lot. It’s like a serial in the newspaper or something. I feel like I have some inside information.
Angel
— 14 —
By Friday, the days settled into a comfortable pattern. Isaiah worked mornings for Mrs. Pierson, tearing up her former yard and putting in a new one, a whim she could well afford and he suspected she had invented to give him work. He too
k it in the spirit it was intended.
When he finished around two or three, he walked back to the store, eating a sandwich or some cold chicken. At Corey’s, he climbed the ladder and got to work on the roof, working straight through until about suppertime, when he would climb down, refuse Angel’s offers of tea or cake, and take Paul home. He ate with his mother and sister, then went out to read and think on the porch.
His strategy was to keep to himself, only speak when spoken too, avoid contact with everybody as much as possible. His mama dragged him to visit with neighbors now and again, but he avoided them the rest of the time. Women came, one pretty, one smart, one both, all three angling for his attentions. He gently deflected them. Friends from childhood stopped by, eager to hear his stories of the war, of the world beyond East Texas. He ducked them, too, unwilling to find attachments that would snare him into staying in Texas.
The results were that nobody in upper Gideon much noticed Isaiah High was back home. In lower Gideon, he gained an unpopular reputation. He was satisfied with both.
The only time keeping his distance was hard was with Angel Corey. On Tuesday afternoon, when he climbed down from ladder, she had called to him. “Isaiah, you about finished up there today?”
He wandered to the back door where she stood with Paul. Her dress was the pale green of new leaves, touching the color of her eyes, and she smiled at him in her open way. “Why don’t you sit and have some chocolate cake before you go?”
“I reckon not. Thank you.”
“You can’t have grown up out of chocolate cake, Isaiah High. I remember when you could eat a whole one by yourself.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You gonna tell me you don’t like it anymore?”
“No.” He didn’t smile. “We ain’t children no more, Angel, and I don’t want to sit on your back porch and eat chocolate cake.” He set his jaw. “Wouldn’t be seemly.”
“I see.” There was an airy breathlessness to her words. “You can have Isaiah’s piece, Paul. Come on inside. I’ll get you some milk with it.”
Now, on Friday afternoon, he ripped shingles from the roof with vigor and he could smell cake baking again. She was famous in three counties for her cakes, which she baked for church socials and potlucks and just on general principles. The smell of this one was making his stomach grumble.
Parker Corey had been a good man, but he hadn’t done right by Angel. She was as likely to get killed as Isaiah was, unable to shake the Biblical injunctions her daddy had given her.
Parker had taken “Feed the hungry” literally, had greeted every man, woman, and child as Jesus incarnate, white or black, rich or poor. Never had gone to any church, though he had a good reputation among the preachers on both sides of the river, had just read the Bible and done his own interpretation. He said he’d had a vision in the war, his feet half-gone with gangrene. Jesus had come to his bedside in the hospital in France, and put his hands on the putrefying wounds. “Go among them,” Jesus said, “for these, too, are my children.” There had been no doubt in Parker’s mind about just exactly who Jesus meant.
Isaiah had heard the story from his father, who had heard it told in town while he worked. And Jordan had thought all the more highly of Parker for his silence.
Thinking of the old man, Isaiah felt a prick of sadness. He’d really wanted to see Parker again. Seemed a crying shame that he’d missed him only by a few days.
Below him, he could, hear Angel humming as she waited on customers, swept the porch, rattled around doing something.
That cake.
This time the sweet hot smell might be pineapple upside down cake. Damn. And as if he was in a battlefield, thinking about food to distract himself from the harsh reality of life, he found himself imagining it in detail—steaming yellow cake and hot, juicy pineapple, the edges crisp with sugar.
He ripped a nail free. Food was his weakest spot, always had been, and after six years of Army food, he didn’t know how he could turn down a slice of cake again.
Not likely she’d offer, he thought, thinking of Tuesday. Could be the cake was for a church supper or for a sickly neighbor.
But once the thought of it was in his mind, Isaiah had trouble loosening it. He cursed himself all the way down the ladder. When his feet were planted on the ground, he glanced at the sky, figuring the time until supper. Seemed like all he could smell was that sweet cake, heavy in the air. He walked around back, intending to ask for a glass of water.
Angel met him at the door, a curious expression on her face.
“‘You done already?”
He cleared his throat. “Just hot. Can I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, Paul tagged behind her. They came through the screen door together, Paul carrying two plates of cake, Angel with glasses of tea. Ebenezer appeared as well, squawking a welcome to Isaiah as though he hadn’t seen him in a year. He flew right to his shoulder and perched there.
Isaiah couldn’t help himself. He laughed, shaking his head. “Crazy bird.”
Angel extended the glass and looked at Paul. “You give it to him.”
Isaiah looked the plate. His mouth watered. He thought of her letter about cake, and shot a glance at her. She remembered, too.
“I knew you couldn’t stand to smell it cooking and still say no,” Angel said.
He said nothing, holding the cake in his hands, his appetite gone to dust. He glanced up at Angel. She met his eyes steadily, and for the first time he saw that she was no longer a girl, any more than he was a boy. The weariness of time showed in her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth were the slightest lines.
She met his eyes steadily, soberly, and tucked a lock of hair round one ear. “Your letters where so full of food I’d have to go have a snack when I finished one.”
Letters. He still had all of them, every one she’d written, stuffed in a canvas bag tucked in the bottom of his duffle. Sometimes those letters were the only reason he could think of to keep going.
“Go on and eat, Isaiah,” she said. “I’m gonna go get me some.”
Hell. The porch was shaded and cool. Isaiah sat down and measured the cake, savoring the scent of it, then took a bite. It was exactly what he had imagined, warm and syrupy and spongy all at once, melting on his tongue before he could taste enough of it. He ladled up another forkful and glanced at Paul, who was watching him as if he were the end product of some experiment. “What you lookin’ at, boy?”
“You like cake?”
“Course.”
“How come you didn’t want no chocolate?”
Isaiah took another slow bite. “Just partial to pineapple, I guess.”
“Not me.”
Angel stepped onto the porch, letting the door slam in place behind her. “That’s what makes horse races, my daddy always said.” She sat in the rocking chair. Isaiah could feel her motions behind him as she shifted, and now he could smell her over the scent of the cake, a simple flowery smell he remembered from childhood. He didn’t turn.
No one spoke for a minute. They sat in silence, eating. Then Angel said, “You know, I’ve won prizes for my baking. I wonder if I could write a cookbook.”
Isaiah laughed. Her voice was the same as the younger Angel’s, huskier than it should be, slow enough it hid her sharp mind, and he found himself responded to the memory of her. “You been saying you were going to for a hundred years.”
“I never had a typewriter.”
“You could’ve found somebody to loan you one.”
“I reckon I still could. And I bet people would buy it, too. Everybody likes my cakes.”
He swallowed a mouthful, able to smile freely as long as his back was turned. He pressed crumbs into his fork. “That’s why you had to make this one, cuz you couldn’t stand to have somebody turn you down.”
“You’re eatin’ it, aren’t you?”
He stood and turned to look at her, curled on the cou
ch with her feet tucked up under her. “Ate it,” he corrected. “And it was exactly what I thought it would be. Thank you.” She made him think of a cat, curled so luxuriously and comfortably—a silky cat with long eyes and graceful limbs. His eyes lingered a moment on her mouth with its strange, ripe lips, plump as late grapes. Thought again of waxy red lipstick.
Swallowing, annoyed with himself, he put his plate carefully on the step and backed away, eyes on the ground. “I’m gonna go finish up now.”
The legacies Angel’s mother had left her were few. No grandparents; no uncles or aunts or cousins, no stories of her girlhood. Wraith-like, Lona Corey had just appeared one day in Gideon. She had been a fragile, breathtakingly beautiful woman, and some said she had come from the brothels in New Orleans. Not even Parker had been able to extract her story, one that had died with her when Angel came into the world after three days of screaming labor. She left behind a green velvet dress, a pearl necklace, a box of cake recipes, and a single photograph. Nothing else. Lona was formless in Angel’s mind, a vague personage as ethereal as the soft white heads of dandelions gone to seed.
On Saturday morning, Angel baked another chocolate cake, this one taken from her mother’s box of recipes, for a potluck at the church the following day. It was flavored with the bushels of mint coming up around the house. In a burst of creativity, she topped it with swirls of thick chocolate frosting and pretty clusters of leaves.
Once it was tucked away in a cake safe, Angel mopped the wood floors of the store and straightened the stock, making notes for her orders Monday morning. Then she went through the outstanding customer charges likely to be paid that evening, swept the front porch, watered the garden and the flowers. Meantime, customers drifted in and out, and Angel attended to them, glad for the hard work.
The Sleeping Night Page 8
