Earthly Vows

by Patricia Hickman

  Claudia had not a speck of food to be found, not a spoonful of cornmeal or even a single yam. Angel cut up the remaining loaf of Abigail’s bread and pulled yesterday’s bottle of milk from the icebox. She fed Thorne and John most of it and then sliced up an apple from the Coulters’ withering orchard. It tasted both sweet and sour. Tart, Myrna said, for cooking pies. John sighed, rolling his eyes in ecstasy when he bit into his portion.

  “There’s more coming, John. Momma’s bringing more food,” said Angel. She helped John onto the floor and then Thorne. The floor looked like it could use a good sweeping. She found the broom out back, sewn into a corner by a web. She took that and a mop and cleaned the kitchen. She folded the blanket and put up the pillows and shoved the mattress against the wall where she slept with Thorne.

  By the time she cleaned the inside windows, it was nigh close to noon. Tapping heels clipped across the front porch.

  “Momma!” yelled Thorne.

  Angel met Claudia at the door. “Is that a smile?” asked Angel. “Are you telling me you got the job?”

  “Oh, Angel, I got it!” She set down a sack and threw her arms around Angel’s neck.

  John ran to look into the sack. He pulled out a small train. He set it on the floor and looked through the bag. “Food, Momma?”

  “We’ll have all the food we need, baby. Momma’s got a new job,” said Claudia.

  “But you bought food with the money, right, Claudia?” asked Angel.

  “Edwin had to get to work. I had stopped at this little store outside Packingtown, thinking we had all the time in the world. I bought John that train.”

  “I’ll go and buy more food from Mrs. Abercrombie. Where’s the money?” Angel held out her hand.

  “I had to buy work clothes. They make you wear this uniform at the slaughterhouse, blues they call them, and these white aprons, as if that would do any good in a slaughterhouse.”

  John shook Claudia’s uniform out onto the floor.

  Claudia sighed. “Angel, don’t give me that look. Edwin said that he would bring us a sack of food tonight after he got off work, plenty to get by, he said, until I make it to the first paycheck. Stop looking at me like that. I should have borrowed a smoke off him while I was at it. I hope I don’t lose my mind.”

  “So you must be starting work tonight? Is Edwin taking you?”

  “There’s a truck that comes by every morning one mile from here. They do it for the Packingtown workers. They don’t dock us much for the ride.” She let down her hair. “I start tomorrow.”

  Angel slumped down in the chair. “You were supposed to take the night shift.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “School, Claudia. I start school, remember?”

  “Angel, you’re going to have to forget about that until we can get on our feet. Now I did the best I could with what I had. If your reverend friend hadn’t have give me that name, I would have been standing out in the heat all day like most of the fools I saw turned away today. I took what they give me.”

  Angel got up and went outside. She sat on the front stoop. Mrs. Abercrombie and her son argued inside their house, the kitchen windows open. She yelled at Edwin for promising grub to the moochers. She called Claudia a tramp. On the back porch, the cat was lapping milk from a dish.

  Angel had left her drawstring bag on the porch, left it out all night and did not notice it until now. She dug through it until she pulled out the piece of paper she fished out for Fern at the bus stop. Fern had written down her telephone number and even Will Honeysack’s number in case she could not reach her. She folded the paper in two. On the back of the paper was more writing. She turned it over. In fine-printed letters was the name NASH and a telephone number. That’s what he meant when he said he slipped her his number. She flipped over the paper and looked at Fern’s name and then back again at Nash’s.

  Claudia yelled at John from inside for crying. Angel buried her head in her arms. The sun bore down hot from the sky that held nothing, nothing except blue emptiness. Rain was gone for good, like everything and everyone else. The telephone rang across the yard from inside the Abercrombies’ place. Angel could see Mrs. Abercrombie cross the house inside and answer her telephone next to the windowsill, where she cooled pies. The window was without a screen and seldom latched. Mrs. Abercrombie ought to take care of her things. There was a Depression on. People tended to take without asking.

  9

  JEB CRUSHED ORBS OF PECANS UNDER A dishrag, hammering the nuts open, blow by blow, tossing them into a basket for Ida May to shell. Freda Honey-sack called her to the back of the store after dawn and showed her the sacks of pecans, forty pounds delivered the night before. She gave Ida May a sackful for a penny, but then refused the penny.

  Jeb invited Ida May to ride into town for his newspaper run. She said she needed to buy pencils. School started in nine days, nine days for Ida May to moan about walking to school without her sister or how Angel fixed her braids up and ribboned them.

  Jeb counted the cracked pecans and said, “That ought to be enough, Ida May.”

  “The dough is too dry.” She put her head down on the kitchen table and cried.

  “Add a spoonful of water, Ida May, for crying out loud!”

  Ida May lifted her head and then laid it down sideways on the table. She contorted her mouth until her chin flattened and turned white. One tear dropped onto the tablecloth, another down her nose. She raised her head, sniffed, and said, “Who was the letter from?”

  “I didn’t pick up mail today. Freda didn’t say I had any,” said Jeb.

  She used her sleeves to dry her eyes. “Mrs. Honeysack gave me the mail today. I told you, I know I did.”

  “Ida May, you never gave me the mail. Where is it?”

  She fished through her smock, turned sideways, and cupped her hand to her mouth. She ran outside. The truck door squeaked open and then clicked, not quite shut all the way. She ran inside, waving the envelope. “I forgot. Don’t look at me that way.” She gave Jeb the letter. “I can’t remember nothing now with Angel gone.”

  Jeb turned over the letter. “Philemon Gracie.” It was his second from Gracie within the last month. He took the letter to his study table and used a letter opener to slice it open. He slid his reading glasses down his nose and read to himself. “He says he plans a trip to Nazareth,” said Jeb.

  Ida May perked up. She liked Philemon’s children, although his daughters were too old for her. But his son was of a good age for throwing rocks down in the creek.

  Philemon’s brother found him a good doctor, one who helped his stomach to heal. Jeb read the next paragraph in silence and then read it again:

  By now, you have guessed that I am bored with sitting around mending. I assumed you would turn down the Oklahoma City pulpit unless you could be confident of a good successor for Church in the Dell. That is why I’m writing to tell you that I am fit and able to return to shepherd the Nazareth flock again. In case you’ve not heard, the pulpit committee at First Community Church was ecstatic to have found a candidate so quickly. Congratulations, Jeb! I couldn’t be prouder than if you were my own son.

  He took off his reading spectacles.

  “What else did he say?” asked Ida May. She picked up the nut picker and culled pecans from the cracked shells.

  Jeb tucked the letter back into the envelope. He looked at his watch. If Will Honeysack knew about any of this, he would not have been able to keep it under his hat. Jeb had seen him twice since returning from Oklahoma.

  Ida May cupped her hand to her mouth again. “Miss Fern came by yesterday,” she said.

  “You forgot to tell me that too, I guess.”

  Ida May spread her fingers out on either side of her face. “All’s I know is that she was wearing her mean face when she left. I been seeing that a lot lately on her. What did you do?”

  Jeb put on his hat and tucked the letter into his jacket. “Don’t bake that pie until I get back. I don’t want you and Willie making a
ny fires with me gone.”

  “Are you going to the school?” asked Ida May.

  “I’ll be right back, Littlest.”

  “You could ask Miss Fern if she’d like to come and finish putting together this pie. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  Angel met Mrs. Abercrombie as the early sun was turning the back porch yellow. She took her up on the offer to shuck and cut up corn even if she couldn’t stand the sight of her son. She sat in the shade of the screened-in porch. Edwin had gone to work. Claudia too. Angel showed John and Thorne how to make a doll by winding thread around two shucks. Thorne called her baby “Bean.”

  Mrs. Abercrombie yelled from inside, “I got to go into town for a bit. There’s a tent revival.” Some women were picking her up, she said. She looked out the window at Angel. “You got fast hands, girl. Maybe I’ll have you shelling beans next summer.”

  “Your corns sure come in puny, ma’am,” said Angel.

  “I know, but some ain’t got any corn at all. I’m thankful to God for what he give me.”

  John asked Angel for a bite to eat.

  “That girl’s kids are always hungry,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “When I stopped helping her is when she finally got herself a job, though.”

  “She couldn’t work until she had someone to watch her kids, all due respect,” said Angel.

  “Shouldn’t have got herself in such a tight spot. Don’t make no sense. Girls like her get the cart before the horse, then expect others to get them out of their problems.”

  Angel sliced the cob at the stalk and then set the corn straight up on a cutting board, where she cut straight down. The kernels fell onto the board like small yellow teeth.

  “You’re not like your sister, are you? You don’t ever ask for no one to feel sorry for you.”

  Angel cut another row. “I hear you got a cow needs milking. I can milk her for you twice a day.”

  “You done that before?”

  “It’s not hard.”

  “Twice a day, I’ll pay you a quart of milk,” said Mrs. Abercrombie.

  “Twice a day is worth two quarts of milk,” said Angel.

  “Two quarts, then. But I don’t want to hear you moaning after the first cold snap that it’s too cold to milk.”

  “Two quarts a day, ma’am. Deal.”

  “I got some corn bread left from last night and some cow’s milk already cooled in the jug. May as well make use of it. Stir some up in a glass and feed those two kids, but don’t tell your sister. She never gets to the end of need. Can’t give her an inch.”

  “You’re a good woman, Mrs. Abercrombie,” said Angel. “I’ll wash down your corn for canning if that’s what you want.”

  “I can see why Claudia went after you.” Mrs. Abercrombie picked up her handbag and left.

  Angel slipped off the porch and, from the corner, watched her disappear in a dust cloud. She returned to find John and Thorne standing wait for her. John overheard Mrs. Abercrombie’s offer of corn bread and milk.

  “Let’s not mess up her kitchen. The two of you wait on the porch and I’ll go inside and bring out the food.” She raked the corn into a large brown bowl. The bowl was no more than half full, not enough to can. The woman had bats in the head if she thought she had a mess big enough for canning. Angel took the bowl inside, washed it good, and set it on the counter. She found the milk jug inside the icebox. The corn bread was covered in a plate on the stove. Angel pulled two glasses out of the cupboard and poured them half full of milk. She crumbled the corn bread into the milk and stirred through.

  John climbed onto one of the chairs on the back porch. Angel lifted Thorne and seated her next to John. “Here’s your spoon and your corn bread milk. Stay put, both of you. I’m going back inside to fix a glass for me.” The telephone rang. Angel let it ring a good long time. What with the party lines and all, the call could be for one of any of the families that lived out along the roadways of rural Norman.

  She sat at Mrs. Abercrombie’s table and ate alone for the first time in days. The house was cleaned up neat as a pin, but a strong odor blew in and hung in the air like Edwin had gone and butchered a hog. Framed photos were nailed across the wall near the kitchen table, one each of what looked to be grandchildren and one of Mrs. Abercrombie and a man that had to be her husband. Claudia never mentioned what became of Mr. Abercrombie, Edwin’s daddy. Angel figured he died, since Mrs. Abercrombie did not act like a deserted woman. Whatever happened to him, he left her in a good way and what with Edwin’s job they did quite well for themselves. A Victrola, recent model, sat on a table right outside the kitchen next to a stand-up radio. The rug on the floor was most likely made by Mrs. Abercrombie, a braided oval the colors of Christmas candy. She made a lot of her things by hand: a moppish yarn dog, twenty or more doilies hanging over every piece of furniture, two dolls most likely kept for grandkids, and a shawl folded up and kept on the arm of a chair.

  She watched Thorne and John through the back screen door. Thorne slid off the chair, both hands in the air, balancing her drink and spoon. She crouched down and commenced to play with Bean and the gray cat. She gave the cat a new name each time it appeared. For the moment, it was Dew.

  Angel kept looking at the telephone. The corn needed to be placed in the icebox, so she did that. Then she washed up her glass and spoon and left them on a towel to dry. She stuck her hand into her smock pocket and pulled out the piece of paper bearing Fern’s telephone number on one side and Nash’s number on the other. She picked up the receiver. Two women gabbed back and forth. One of them heard the break in the line and asked who was there. Angel placed the receiver back on the hook.

  She went back outside and cleaned up the corn silk and the remaining husks. She shoved them into a dry bushel basket. Then she gathered up the naked cobs, packing them into the slop bucket. Thorne yawned. She would soon go down for a nap. “Let’s go back to the house,” said Angel.

  John protested. He liked Mrs. Abercrombie’s house. Angel coaxed him off the porch. She led them across the yard, opened Claudia’s door, and blocked the cat from coming inside. Thorne padded to the mattress on the floor and curled up, holding the cornhusk doll next to her. John clambered onto the mattress next to his sister and closed his eyes. Angel retreated to the porch and waited for the kids to doze off. She read the telephone numbers again. Fern had nice handwriting: her f a flourish of confidence, the e a forward movement into the r. The n lapsed into a graceful mark that flew completely off the page. Fern taught Angel her penmanship. She hated her for that and the way she smelled the spine of a moldy book before shelving it. She hated how Miss Coulter harped on proving arithmetic, dividing into multiplying, chalk tapping the slate like a woodpecker until the numbers locked together in Angel’s head, equations popping out, the annoying snap of the ruler, the straight edge rigidly guiding the pencil, the lines so straight, all of life woven perfectly as she planned. She hated her for finding happiness in Nazareth. No one could love Nazareth except her. Miss Coulter always had her way.

  The sun finally went behind some empty clouds. Four buzzards circled a pasture distantly. There was the wafting of smells from the hog pen mingling with sweet hay and nodding clusters of Saint-Andrew’s-cross. Angel cut across the front lawn, meandering around the white picket fence.

  The telephone had not rung, not since lunch. Since she was the last to leave, the door to the screen porch blew open, unlatched. The cat ran onto the porch. The door closed, tapped open, slammed shut again, bounced, and fell ajar. The open kitchen window sucked air from the outside in, the curtain billowing in and out, lapping onto the sill. The cat jumped onto the sill, made a circle, and then crouched to nap.

  Her hands were sweaty. Fern’s number was smudged, but still legible. She flipped over the paper. Nash’s handwriting was spare and hurriedly scribbled. He was in a hurry when she met him and even the day he called her at Abigail’s. He never said where he was staying. She could call and get some mobster on the line for all she knew. S
he could not prove Nash ran with a pack of dogs. But she knew his kind. She knew better, had been taught better.

  She made it to Mrs. Abercrombie’s screened-in porch.

  Edwin’s car sputtered from the front of the Abercrombies’ house, choked, and then died. A buzzard glided straight down from the sky and landed on a pasture post. The screen door slammed shut behind Angel as she went back into Claudia’s house. She curled up in her sister’s bed. Claudia had not one book in the house to read or paper to write on. Until now, she had not noticed the bedroom ceiling was mottled by round gray patches, flakes of gray ashes dotting the whitewashed tins, as though Bo stubbed out his cigarettes on the ceiling. Or maybe Claudia did it after Bo left her. She could not explain it, so she closed her eyes.

  Jeb lagged out in the hallway at Stanton School. One of the teachers glanced into the hall, waving at Jeb, and then disappeared back into the classroom. Fern’s husky voice echoed from inside her empty room. She chatted it up with Frank Harrison, one of the students’ out-of-work dads who did odd jobs around the school, such as sweeping the halls and bringing books out of the attic. Jeb tipped back in the chair against the wall. Fern’s door came open and she thanked Mr. Harrison for his help. She looked surprised to see Jeb and surprised him. He came down hard on the four chair legs. “Fern!”

  “You know Mr. Harrison, Reverend Nubey,” she said.

  Jeb extended his hand to the janitor. “I’ve come by to take Miss Coulter away from her duties for a breath of air and soup at the diner.”