Crayons and Angels

by Rita Kano

  “I know how it sounds. I do. I know, but those letters are trapped where they don’t belong, Miss Shirley. That’s why beautiful angels like my precious wife and Martha Ann disappear and don’t ever come back; angels with red hair and skin the color of buttermilk pudding.”

  Shirley caught her reflection in the glass of the TV. Red hair and skin the color of buttermilk pudding.

  “The way I’ve got it figured…” Nash returned to his rocking chair. “The way I see it, Lizzie’s safe for a while,” said Nash. “She ain’t old enough yet. But you… you showing up here now…” Nash dropped his head, “I’m caught in the midst of thankfulness and a lot of worrying. Maybe you shouldn’t have come here, Miss Foster.”

  Shirley hadn’t known about Nash’s wife disappearing. Her mind quickly and roughly laid out the pieces of information Nash had given her. “But Martha Ann doesn’t have red hair. Her black hair, ice blue eyes and that creamy white complexion were what first caught my attention. Unless… Nash, does Martha Ann dye her hair?”

  Nash dragged in a string of breath. “We had to do something. We had to try.”

  A shiver clawed up Shirley’s backbone. The things Nash claimed sounded crazy, but the sincerity in his voice began to convince her he might have good reason for it all. “Nash, tell me everything. You’ve got to tell me everything you know or think you know. I don’t care how weird it sounds. Just say it out loud. That’s the first step.”

  “It’s the first step alright, pretty lady. But it ain’t the first step to where you think you’re headed.”

  “Or…” Shirley stiffened against Nash’s assumption, “maybe not to where you think you’re headed.”

  Nash chuckled. “Stubborn. Yes, indeed. You are that for sure. Not always a good thing, by my experience. But right now, maybe stubborn is the best thing the Lord could have sent me and Martha Ann.” Nash returned to the couch beside Shirley and tapped the letters with one work-worn finger. “There’s a spirit trapped in those letters. A spirit stretched across time, forwards and backwards. Trying to take back what used to be his. Instead, he’s takin’ what’s ours.”

  “A spirit? You mean a ghost? Nash…” Shirley’s eyebrows arched remembering Luke Cox, the man who gave Shirley her first taste of love, “you think a ghost is responsible for the disappearances?”

  Nash set a firm jaw against Shirley’s questions. “You asked me. I told you. Read the letters. You come up with a better answer and I’ll be the first crazy old coot to thank you.”

  “Sorry, Nash, I didn’t mean to come across in a… Sorry, I’ve been told I sometimes strike a tone people find offensive. It’s not intentional. I…” Shirley ran out of words that weren’t doing her or Nash any good.

  Nash’s eyes displayed every ounce of his painful disappointment. He reached out for the letters.

  Shirley held onto them. “No. You misunderstand. I didn’t mean to imply…”she shook her head, “I’ll read the letters. I want to. But I’ll have to take them with me, if that’s all right.”

  “Nothing would please me more.” Nash’s tone fell at odds with his words.

  Shirley studied the lines of his face trying to decrypt his true message. The meaning quickly became clear.

  “You can take them to hell, if you want. Can you do that? Make sure you hear what I’m sayin’, Miss Foster. It don’t matter where you take them. They’ll be back. They’ll come back to Hog Swamp and my doorstep as long as there’s a red hair on the head of a Britt or Lovett woman unless somebody finds that other letter.”

  “It might help if I knew why you’re so sure there is another letter.”

  “Cause there’s got to be. Best you see for yourself… one step at a time, Miss Shirley. I don’t want to lose you now.”

  Nash held the door open for Shirley and stood on the porch as she drove away a second time.

  Shirley glanced back, as was her defensive habit. When the glow from the porch light disappeared and darkness closed around her, she knew only one thing with absolute certainty. Tonight she had walked through a door that gave no indication where it would lead.

  Chapter 5

  Mysterious Old Letters

  At home, beneath the pointed beam of her desk lamp, Shirley unrolled the buckskin protecting the partially burned letters. Immediately, the scent of leather and ashes arose and floated heavily in the air, an appealing combination to her senses, on the tail end of a very long day. Shirley’s tired eyes traced the sharp, heavy angles of the handwriting. Written by a man’s hand, it seemed to her. And to all appearances, a feather quill had fashioned the ink on the paper. A header on the pages read: C. M. Townsend, dealer in General Merchandise, Cotton and Fertilizers. The town printed beneath the store name, Raynham, N. C., had been struck through. There was no date, other than August and no salutation.

  I take the greatest of pleasure in writing you a few lines this morning for you have been constantly on my mind since I first saw you outside the gate of the meeting hall last Sunday evening. It cannot be expressed in words how much I could think of you, would you allow me the pleasure of calling to see you occasionally for really I think you are a girl I could easily learn to love. I guess you may think I am a little fast for expressing my opinion so freely, but this is all the way I have to relieve my mind and to let you know what is in my heart. I hope that you may grant me the pleasure of being a true girl to me for I am sure I could always be true to you and I don’t believe you would ever find me otherwise.

  Now I must apologize for the lack of a proper greeting and for keeping my name a secret. It is best, as you will see if you accept my invitation to meet. It is for this reason my words will be delivered to you by someone you know and trust, as do I, he being one of more expansive mind than others of my acquaintance.

  I must close for now and pray as I do that you will grant the deepest desire of my heart, to meet face to face and discover if you see in my eyes that which I see in yours.

  The messenger into whose hands I place this letter will inform you of a place and time that no other living person must know.

  Sincerely,

  He who will love you always

  The second page appeared to be only part of another letter.

  Such a great disappointment when you did not arrive at the meeting place. To see you face to face is my dream. A simple question I ask you, dearest. It is very well if time reveals you do not care for me. I do not want you to simply say you do. And if you did care for me you would not mind admitting it to me. Can you make that decision on written words alone? Please do not. If you think I am trying to make cheap of you, I am sorry you take me that way for you are unknowingly wrong. I love you and always will even if you do not care for me. My heart would overflow with joy if I had any indication that you would consent for us to be more than mere friends. I will be at the meeting place again tomorrow at the same time as before awaiting your presence, praying that you, having reconsidered the genuineness of my words and the risk I take to see the fulfillment of my dreams, will be there too.

  The letters intrigued Shirley. She read two lines again. The messenger into whose hands I place this page will inform you of a place and time that no other living person must know. And the closing: He who will love you always.

  Nash placed dire importance on finding another letter. Although there certainly could be at least one other, without names and places and dates, what value could another letter have?

  A breath collapsed within Shirley as she leaned back in the desk chair. Nash’s desperate need to find his granddaughter had landed him on the wrong track. She was sure of that; fairly certain, anyway. How could letters nearly a century old have anything to do with Martha Ann’s disappearance or help find her? The buckskin bundle, like Sadie Redding’s diary, had simply found its way out of an old trunk or a dusty corner of an attic onto Nash’s doorstep, quite by accident. Shirley could see no reason for Nash to reach the conclusion about spirits and ghosts or the past being trapped in the present. And as far
as the lack of names and the letters being sent by messenger, perhaps the initiator of the letters was a married man. Time laid no claim to infidelity. Yes. Shirley slumped and her head inclined forward. Yes, absolutely. Infidelity was the simple answer to the mystery of the letters. A secret from the past had found the light of day and stirred the dust of fanciful visions. Mystery solved. Simple, clean and neat, just the way Shirley liked it.

  She yawned and rewound the letters. Her fingers remained for a moment on the buckskin wrapping, caressed by the pleasurable touch. She yawned once again, propped her elbows on the desk and leaned over into clasped hands. The scent of leather and ashes clung to her fingers. What now? Maybe Arlene called it right. Maybe she did poke her nose into places it just rightfully didn’t belong.

  After a short prayer for Martha Ann’s safe return, Shirley snuggled deep into downy bed covers and closed her eyes. She remained motionless for less than a minute when she suddenly sat up and tossed the covers back. Shirley had been hit by a hunch.

  “Of course,” she exclaimed out loud. “Of course,” she said again as she rushed back into the living room where she had left the letters. Quickly opening the bundle, she reread the words she had not imagined… the risk I take. The writer of the letters wasn’t a married man. No. No, no, no. That wasn’t the case at all. The hunch swelled gloriously within Shirley. The risk taken had to be much more than that of a cheating husband. She read another line… outside the gate of the meeting hall last Sunday evening.

  Shirley scanned through the bold, angled text again and found the words that had tenaciously clung to her sixth sense… if you see in my eyes that which I see in yours.

  “That’s it. That’s it,” Shirley whispered. “Not infidelity but yes, yes, a forbidden love affair. The suitor saw his princess but she had not seen him. Why?”

  Shirley read another line. If you think I am trying to make cheap of you, I am sorry you take me that way for you are unknowingly wrong.

  Unknowingly wrong, Shirley repeated to herself. She felt her stomach tighten and twist as she ran her fingertip over the weathered commercial stationary. “Who are you?” She lifted the letter to her nose and breathed it in. With her other hand she reached out and touched the buckskin. “Tell me who you are. You didn’t write these letters. They weren’t even your words. Yours words would have been much more simple and pure. But you had to trust someone. You had to know if love beyond the church doors could be real. So you took a chance.”

  Shirley held the letters against her chest as she turned off the light and returned to bed. She lay with them, staring at the blank white ceiling. “What did it cost you? How badly wrong did it go?” she asked as she closed her eyes. Shirley fell asleep with question after question mingling restlessly with the rich smell of time and ashes filling her lungs.

  The sun rose on another Wednesday morning. Birds sang from tree tops and fence posts. Light greeted the day with bright anticipation. No shadows from the night before dimmed the new day’s possibilities. And to Shirley’s great surprise, the intuition about the love-smitten writer of the letters that had arisen in the late night hours previous did not seem silly at all in the light of day, as her midnight musings often did. Not that she knew what to do with them or where her suspicions might take her. One step at a time, she reminded herself… with no guarantees. But for today, as far as she had any way of knowing, her calendar promised only one appointment with fate. She intended to meet Nash later on at the revival and see if any clues could be found there about Martha Ann’s disappearance; perfectly sane down to earth clues that had nothing to do with spirits or ghosts.

  As Shirley placed the bundle of letters on the kitchen table, she wondered with fresh enthusiasm, why they had appeared on Nash’s doorstep. Last night she had an answer. Today she did not. There could be a reason at odds with chance. Nash had said, there’s a spirit trapped in those letters… stretched across time… forwards and backwards… trying to take back what used to be his. Instead, he’s takin’ what’s ours. Preposterous claims, so it seemed. But Shirley’s opposing belief had begun to waver in the light of Nash’s conviction. Was his claim just preposterous enough to be true? The reason Shirley had showed up on Nash’s doorstep was Martha Ann. Did the letters from the past have something to do with his granddaughter, too? Soon, against all Shirley’s reasoning to the contrary, emerged the strong possibility that the letters’ timely appearance, like hers, might be more than a coincidence.

  The Wednesday evening Baptist revival reveled in a full swing of emotions by the time Shirley arrived, spotted Nash and sat down beside him.

  Tears streamed from the faces of women overtaken by the spirit, as they waved their hands in the air and men nodded to the hallelujahs. Amen. Amen. A band played so loudly no individual voice could be heard over the music. The production landed nauseously in the pit of Shirley’s stomach. The battling choir of attention seekers was as pleasant as a girdle of barbed wire.

  She smiled as she settled down, adjusted her skirt and assumed a proper reverent attitude. Nash acknowledged her with a pat on her knee, but did not return her warm greeting otherwise. She suspected he had arrived early and already asked around about Martha Ann being seen there the previous Wednesday evening. If he had, the news was not good. With his granddaughter missing, receiving word she had been seen talking to a handsome young man would have given some hope she would return home again with another batch of colorful, fresh picked excuses her grandpa would soon forgive.

  The truth being told, Shirley felt like an elephant on a flagpole as she sat beside Nash nervously fiddling with the sash of her dress. Another dress Eunice had given her, the sage green one with delicate purple pansies bordering the hem and neckline.

  Shirley scanned the huge tent wondering if the Cox family could be in attendance and she might get a chance to say hello. As she looked around, memory acknowledged many familiar faces, but none she would call friendly. Their glances toward Miss Foster, the Welfare Worker, leaned toward the curious and the very unashamedly judgmental. But Shirley didn’t judge the town folk judging her. They were perfectly justified in having reached the conclusion she was not there to enjoy a hellfire and brimstone sermon with the hope of being caught up in the spirit and being saved from eternal damnation. She nodded to her acquaintances with an accepting grace, but her spine nerves tensed under the pressure of each and every condemning face.

  How good it would be to see Eunice, Quessie, Agnes and Papa Zeke. Thanks to the three days she spent stranded with them, they saw her differently. They were the only souls in Purity ever given the time to see through her practiced defenses down to the goodness of her heart. And even though she had tried hard to soften her ways since then, her stubbornness and hound doggish curiosity still managed to rub people the wrong way. Adding a smile to vinegar, as Arlene sharply and aptly noted, didn’t make it taste any better. Being in the middle of a revival tent made Shirley feel every inch of the odd ball she was. Chances were she’d never fit in. Here in Purity or anywhere else. That sheer, clear-cut thought came close to welling Shirley’s eyes with tears.

  Nash Britt took notice of the young woman sitting next to him batting away her feelings with rapid blinks. Before Shirley knew what was happening, he lifted her left hand from her lap and pressed it to his lips. The kiss to her hand did not go unnoticed. One head turned; then two; then three, until there were too many to count. There’d be a tap on someone’s shoulder, a whisper and it’d start all over again.

  Shirley didn’t mind the kiss. She didn’t know what to think of it. But she surely didn’t mind. None of the few dates she had been on over the years made it that far. They were all a one-time dinner and a movie affair, without even a gentlemanly walk back to the stoop of her front door. Every man she had ever taken an interest in had run like a scared rabbit or politely dodged her like a bullet thereafter. And they had all arrived there on the content of a few hours spent together. Shirley had no idea what she had done to ignite such behavior. And sh
e surely didn’t recognize the difference now. She knew only that whatever was happening or might happen with her and Nash lay completely in the hands of the Almighty.

  Nash kissing her hand in front of practically the whole town gave Shirley a real warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. It scared her a bit, too. He was a man almost twice her age, but then, come to think of it, she had always felt twice her age. Shirley looked into Nash’s eyes and succeeded in forming an upward twitch in the corners of her mouth. He nudged her with his shoulder and laughed, but she couldn’t hear the sound of his voice over the band music. She blushed when the most intimate of thoughts crossed her mind. If Nash hadn’t figured out she possessed the rare claim to virginity, she knew it wouldn’t be long before he did.

  One of the heads that twisted around to look at Miss Shirley Foster belonged to Bessie Redding. The turn on the shoulders of Bessie brought a realization. Either Shirley had missed seeing, or there hadn’t been another excerpt from Bessie’s great grandma Sadie’s diary that morning in the Purity Post. And Shirley didn’t think she had missed an article. Curiosity about Sadie’s diary replaced the warmth in her gut radiating from Nash’s unabashed public kiss and that curiosity, sharpened like a brand new #2 pencil, poked at her overinflated snooping sense to the point of bursting.

  At that pivotal moment the revival lights went down and a low-pitched buzz of murmurs electrified the tent, as the Reverend Litmus LeGrande entered the stage to a solo of Amazing Grace, sung by a plump, fair-haired woman wearing a white robe trimmed in blue satin. When the preacher reached center stage, marked by a spotlight, he raised his arms and the voices of the multitude joined in the chorus.

  The rest of the service went down bitter sweet for Shirley. Sitting next to Nash unleashed dreams she had long ago placed on a shelf alongside dreams of finding her connection to the world in general. Right now, what the world thought of her didn’t matter in the least.