Earthly Vows

by Patricia Hickman

  “You said your mother was in the hospital, didn’t you, back in Ardmore?”

  “I don’t know if she’s still there. Her sister, my aunt Kate, she may have taken her in. Momma didn’t have no money, so she may have lost her room. You ever heard of a nervous hospital?”

  Nash nearly ate a tamale whole. “The loony bin.”

  “Don’t call it that.”

  “Sorry, sweet cakes. It is what it is,” he said. “For you, I’ll call it a palace if that makes it better.”

  “I like these tamales,” she said. “They’re not bad.”

  Willie called out the sign for the Oklahoma City border. He rode shotgun, sitting watch for any sign of a two-door, light-colored sedan.

  Jeb stared into the dark, certain he had gone blind. Ida May was falling asleep. Willie’s interest in gawking at every passing car was waning fast. Ida May took Angel’s coat into the backseat for warmth. He was so certain he would be sitting with Angel at this hour, listening to how she was sending the boys into a spiral, beating out the other girls in the spelling bee, wrestling against arithmetic, that the emptiness left him sick at his stomach. He took the letter off the dashboard, the one he mailed to Angel. He tore it in two.

  Willie didn’t say anything, but stared at Jeb like he might.

  If Fern had come … he kept thinking, and then he’d dismiss the thought. For if she had come, she would have, like he had, found Angel run off. But she might not have tolerated the late hour when he took off, might have gotten them all to Norman sooner. Had he not said that to her, that he managed poorly without her? Angel would have been at Claudia’s still, not having been attacked, and by whom? Who was Edwin Abercrombie and how did he gain access to her? How badly was she hurt? This woman at The Diner, she hadn’t asked enough questions, or else he hadn’t. Again, Fern was better at thinking of all the things a girl might think.

  Willie’s belly rumbled.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Jeb.

  “Of course, ain’t you?” Willie sure sounded surprised.

  “You ate your supper,” said Jeb.

  Willie laughed. “We ain’t had our supper, Jeb. Ever since leaving Oklahoma City, we been doing nothing but hunting down Angel.”

  Supper came and went, with no thought for it. “I’m sorry, Willie.” He was surprised Ida May dozed off rather than worrying him about a missed meal. “I’ll try and find a place.” He slowed the car. There was a sharp turn right or he could continue straight ahead. A group of migrant tents were camped up the side road. He could stop and ask one of them to recommend a place still serving supper.

  “What about cake?” asked Willie. He picked it up from the floorboard.

  “It’s good enough for me,” said Jeb. He continued up the highway. Willie passed him a handful.

  Nash fell quiet on the drive from the café toward Edmond. Angel dug through Claudia’s bag. She left in too big a hurry and only brought half of what she brought to Claudia’s. But Claudia’s bag was lighter for fast traveling. And, of course, most of her things hung in a parsonage closet back in Nazareth, so she didn’t need the larger suitcase in the first place.

  Nash had called Mrs. Abercrombie’s house, so that meant he had a telephone. By morning, she would be rested and in a better frame of mind. She would call again, this time for Miss Coulter. The youth at Will Honeysack’s grocery had it wrong. Jeb leaving Church in the Dell was nonsense. He had his worries, but leaving had not been on his mind. Of course, he and Fern had not gotten on well in Ardmore, even putting off their wedding date. But that was Abigail’s doing, not Jeb’s. If anything, he wanted the wedding date moved up, not back. Even though Miss Coulter was nervous on the trip, that was a bride’s privilege.

  “We’re not far now,” said Nash.

  Worry took over Angel’s thoughts. John and Thorne had it bad all over again. Claudia would find the note on her pillow tonight when she pulled back the covers. On it would be Aunt Kate’s address in case she had lost it and five dollars for traveling money, saved from the chores she did for Mrs. Abercrombie. If she wouldn’t smoke it up, and would take that and this week’s pay, she could make it back to Little Rock. Aunt Kate might help her find work. She could see to Momma. “I need to find work,” said Angel. “I gave most of my money to my sister to get home on.”

  “Nazareth?”

  “Home to our mother and aunt Kate. Little Rock.”

  “Is that where you plan to go to?”

  “No, I’m like you. My family takes all I have, all I make. It’s time for me to do for myself.”

  “I’m staying in a house where you might get work for a few days. Would that tide you over? Making beds, washing dishes.”

  “I can do that, Nash. Then what?”

  “How about a steak dinner at the best little place this side of the Mason-Dixon Line?”

  He made her laugh.

  15

  REPORT PROVES 250,000 HOMELESS YOUTHS roam the country. Jeb folded up the Oklahoman to take inside and put away. He knew every crack and brick at the top of the church landing. He had paced it since two hours after sunrise, taking the walk from his study to the landing, back inside, repeat.

  The world aged as he waited for the squad car to pull up and park near the church steps, for the deputy to get out, fetch his pad of paper. From Thursday night until Friday midafternoon gave a girl hours to be lost. “Is there a Reverend Nubey here, sir?” he asked standing down on the street.

  “I’m Nubey,” he said.

  “You have a missing child, I hear, Reverend.” He had to move the bulk of his weight from the first step, straining to the twelfth, but reached it at last. His face was slick and pink.

  “Angel Welby.” Jeb helped him spell it.

  “Shame. So many kids out on the streets now. You hear of one that has left behind a good home and you shake your head. So many others got it so much worse. Welby, you say? I thought it was Nubey.”

  “Welby. I’m Nubey.”

  “Is she yours, Reverend? By that, I mean are you blood related?”

  “Angel has lived with me a long time. I’m what you’d call her guardian. Her brother and sister live with me too.”

  “Are her parents alive?”

  “She was abandoned.”

  “But you’re the one looking out for her?”

  “Of course. Could we go inside?” A cup of Rowan’s coffee might help calm the waters, he thought. He took the cop to his study, pulled out a chair. Jeb leaned against his desk. “Angel and her brother and sister, Willie and Ida May, they’ve lived with me since 1931. We recently found some of Angel’s kin in Norman.”

  “Good town.”

  “It is, but this sister of hers, she didn’t look after Angel in the right way. Claudia let …she was seeing a man. He might have hurt Angel. She ran off.”

  The deputy wrote each letter block-fashion.

  “But I have a name and a car model.”

  The deputy lifted his pen. “We don’t normally take down information from a person outside family. It’s not what you call protocol.”

  Jeb went around his desk and sat where he could look into his eyes. “Angel is like my own daughter. I never should have let her go to her sister’s. It was my mistake.” He couldn’t say whether or not the deputy understood him. “I’m worried.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “When does the girl turn eighteen?”

  “March fourteenth.”

  The officer kept writing.

  There was a knock at the study door. Rowan stuck in his head. “Your fiancée, Reverend,” he said.

  Jeb was relieved. Rowan opened the door and in walked Fern. “Rowan said we’ve lost Angel,” she said. “I’m sick to death, Jeb. Is this Claudia’s doing?”

  “Officer, my fiancée, Fern Coulter.” Fern said, “I came the second I could get away from the school. What do we do now?” The deputy scribbled down a few more notes. “Lots of missing children nowadays. You have a telephone?
”

  “We do, here at the church, but she doesn’t know,” said Jeb. “She never got our letter saying where we moved.” The deputy stared thoughtfully at the floor. “You say you have a name of who she might be with?”

  “Nash Foster, we think,” said Jeb. He gave him the car’s description. The officer flipped his notepad back a few pages. He pulled out his pen and said, “Mind saying that name one more time?”

  “Nash Foster.”

  “Where was this automobile last seen?” he asked.

  “The Diner, in Norman.”

  “The girl’s description.”

  Jeb told him. He was glad to see the officer finally taking an interest. He told him what few facts Joe gave him about this Nash fellow. “Reverend, did he say what direction this driver was headed?”

  “North on Highway nine, out of Norman, last night. I drove up and down the highway, looking myself, but I never found the car,” said Jeb.

  “Do you know how Miss Welby came to know this Nash Foster character?” Jeb admitted he didn’t. “What can you tell me?”

  “This name came up once before, tied in with a gangster out of Boston name of Bill Foster. They’ve been hitting banks from here all the way down to Texas. This Nash fellow, he was questioned, though, and let go. He claimed he was related to Bill Foster, but not tied into his crimes.”

  “Wasn’t there a gang robbery in Ardmore?” said Fern.

  “Was the girl in your care then?” asked the deputy.

  Jeb hesitated.

  “She was out shopping,” said Fern. “Not always with us.”

  “Your girl could be in a world of hurt, Reverend, or completely fine, never know.” He closed up his book and asked for the telephone number of First Community Church. Jeb gave it to him, but asked, “What do we do now?”

  “What you do best, sir. Pray for your little girl.” The deputy left.

  “My head is swimming,” he told Fern. “This can’t be true, not of Angel. She’d never follow after that kind, not her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  “What if she does?” Had she slipped completely away this time? “What happened at Claudia’s place?” asked Fern. Jeb helped Fern to a chair. “I learned this from little John, mind you, not Claudia. Claudia was dating some hoodlum. He tried to make a move on Angel and she took off. How she hooked up with this Foster fellow, I can’t say. Claudia has no telephone, and little of anything else to keep together body and soul.”

  “I’m staying at Sybil’s this weekend,” said Fern. Jeb nodded. He didn’t know what else to say.

  Nash stayed in a boardinghouse, a brick two-story surrounded by a dying garden. The interior was sectioned off by a staircase, a maze of halls, and many rooms, all rentable on either a long-term or a short-term lease. His room, as he said, offered two clean beds, one against one wall, the second near the window; there were stiff, crisp linens, white from thorough bluing. Angel slept near the window, at times startling awake to see Nash sleeping as he had promised, not finding his way into her bed. When she roused at dawn, Nash was already gone. The proprietor, he said was a woman named Ruth Levy. Don’t let her know, he told her, that you slept here, only that you know me and I said she might give you some work. He left an uncle’s address on the nightstand for her use. The plumbing was often warmed up by sunup, was another thing she ought to know, since the guests were early risers. Nash got the lucky draw. His room had its own private toilet and bath. Angel slid into the warm tub, water up to her chin. She pulled up her knees and there was the bruise on her thigh. It was deep purple, a crescent moon yellowing on one side. She borrowed the bar soap left on the sink, soft and white and smelling of lilac. The lathering felt good, a coarse cloth rubbing her torso and legs, washing away yesterday.

  A key rattled in the outside latch. She rinsed quickly and yanked the stopper. A white towel, thick and soft, hung on a hook on the bathroom door. She wrapped up in it. A young woman’s voice called out, “Anyone here?” The voice was expectant, familiar. The bathroom door opened. An Asian girl stood holding a stack of towels. Angel surprised her.

  “I sorry, I sorry,” she kept saying, a trite curtsy, her knees slightly bending.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” said Angel, keeping the towel around her, the water dripping from the strands of her hair onto her shoulders. “You brought those for Nash. I’ll take them.” She held out her hands, but the girl wouldn’t let go of the towels. “I put away. My job, not your job,” she said. Her words spilled out rhythmically, coming out from between her throat and nose, ringing almost. Nearly fearful.

  Angel stepped around her, into the bedroom. She asked the girl her name.

  “Guan-yin. And you are?”

  “Angel.”

  “Where is the young man?” Guan-yin asked.

  “Gone to work.”

  She backed toward the door. Her body was thin, moving like silk, nearly weightless, so that she slipped out of the room more quietly than breath.

  Angel hung up the towel to dry and dressed. Her hair was damp at the ends, so she combed it off her face. She would need Nash’s notes, the proprietor’s name, and Uncle Bill, was it? She’d need his address and the room key. All lay on the nightstand.

  The doors in the hallway had all been painted black, a white number nailed into the wood. Nash’s was an upside-down 4. The wainscoting in the staircase, the banister, the curving balustrade, were white, but the steps were black like the doors. A man passed her as she descended, but he did not speak, even after she said, “Good morning.” The smell of fried eggs lured her into the room to the right of the staircase. Two men sat at a long dining table, the remaining chairs either vacated already or not yet claimed. A maid gave them their utensils and a napkin each. Angel’s belly rumbled. Mrs. Levy was easy to pick out. She poured coffee for the two guests, but where the serving maid wore a dark short-sleeved dress and white apron, Mrs. Levy sported a long-sleeved dress and a necklace string of large red beads. No apron. She was short and thick, her sleeves barely containing her arms. She gave the maid the coffeepot and then crossed the room the minute she laid eyes on Angel. “You looking for someone?”

  “Mrs. Ruth Levy,” said Angel. “I’m Nash’s friend.”

  She was unmoved upon hearing Nash’s name. The guests were given sausage with their eggs and a red sauce made up of tomatoes and something green.

  “He said I might find work here.”

  “Already hired a girl two days ago. Chinese. If she doesn’t work out, who knows, maybe.”

  A cold draft seeped in. Nash had not left her a note telling her to put breakfast on his tab. Angel had Mrs. Abercrombie’s last two bits upstairs in her pocketbook. Enough, she thought, for a breakfast.

  “Someone must have left the back door open,” said Mrs. Levy. “Thanks for coming by. If I need you, how can I reach you?”

  Angel said, “I’ll stay in touch.” Biscuits were set out.

  Mrs. Levy left, heading for the back of the house beyond the staircase. When she was out of sight, Angel headed back up the stairs to dig out her money. Guan-yin passed her coming down the hall and scowled. “You Mr. Nash’s girlfriend?” she asked.

  Angel shook her head.

  Guan-yin smiled.

  The door was standing open at room number 4. Nash was filling his open suitcase, thrown on the bed near the wall. “Come in, fast,” he said. “And then shut the door.”

  “Mrs. Levy has no work for me, Nash,” she said. “Have you eaten?”

  “Pack up. We’re moving out,” he said.

  There was a faint rap at the door.

  Nash told her, “Ask who it is.”

  “Who’s there?” asked Angel.

  “It’s me, Nash, Guan-yin.”

  Nash closed up the suitcase. He opened the door. “Guan-yin, what do you want?”

  “Are you mad at me?” the maid asked.

  “What are you pulling? For crying out loud! I don’t have time,” he said.

  “Is she why
you not talking to me?” She pointed to Angel.

  “Angel’s a friend, Guan-yin. That’s all. I don’t live here. You know I can’t stay.”

  Her cry was like a small bird’s. Nash put his arms around her and said, “I’m sorry. I have to leave. You go. And stay away from room seven.” He wiped her face. Guan-yin left.

  Angel shoved her clothes into her bag. Nash led her out of the house, out the back way.

  Jeb gave Rowan a folder of invoices and instructed him to prepare pay envelopes for them. “I’m leaving early,” he said. Fern waited in her car. He would follow her to Sybil’s house.

  The Blooms, both Sybil and her doctor husband, Rodney, came from Ardmore, like Fern, but unlike her, settled in Oklahoma City, Fern said. The bungalow, spread low and wide over the neatly trimmed lawn, had a sleepy look.

  Sybil met Fern on the porch. She held open the door after Fern passed inside, waiting for Jeb to make it to the door. “Nice of you to drop by, Reverend,” she said. She apologized to Fern for the way she looked. There was no color to her face and her hair was pulled back into a scarf. Fern kept apologizing for dropping in unexpectedly.

  “Sybil, can Fern stay here the weekend?” he asked.

  “You don’t even have to ask,” she said. “Fern, you have your things?”

  She did.

  It was settled then. “I’ll come after supper, though,” said Fern.

  “There’s extra for dinner. Both of you join Rodney and me. We love company,” she said.

  “Jeb has to get home to see about Willie and Ida May, and I ought to cook them something,” said Fern.

  “How old are the children?” asked Sybil.

  “Willie’s eleven and Ida May’s nearly nine, old enough. But Jeb still keeps watch over them.”

  “How about you eating here and then I’ll fix two plates to take home?” asked Sybil.

  She was so insistent, Jeb finally told her they would stay. “You’ve kept body and soul together for us since we got here,” he said. Half-meals sat in the parsonage icebox.

  Sybil instructed the Latino woman that helped around the house to stay over to help fry up catfish. Jeb invited Fern back out to the porch. “There’s a swing,” he told her.