The Sleeping Night (17 page)

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s like a really fancy living room. You’d put your piano in there, maybe, and there’s probably a big fireplace.”

“For Santa Claus to come down?”

Angel smiled. “You bet. And to keep you warm on cold days, because it’s a lot colder in England than it is in Texas.” She put several of the tiny, crustless sandwiches on his plate and poured the tea. “If you weren’t rich, you’d do like we’re doing right now, you’d put what you had on a plate and have it with a pot of tea. “

“Can I eat now?”

“Go right ahead. Sandwich, first though.”

“I know.” After a minute, he said, “My mama said we’s from Africa.”

“Some people think—and my daddy was one of them—that Africa’s had people living there longer than anyplace else. Not thousands of years—millions.”

“How much is a million?”

Angel laughed, “I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. If you started counting right now, and counted every minute, you probably couldn’t count to a million before you were ten at least.”

“Ten?”

The bell attached to the front screen door signaled the entrance of a customer. “Angel Corey,” bawled a familiar voice, “I need some help out here.”

Edwin. Angel glanced at Paul. “You stay in the kitchen ‘til I get back, you hear?”

He nodded. “Bad things happen when you’re disobedient.”

She touched his nose with a finger, “That’s right.” Smoothing her dress, she left the kitchen and went down the hall to the store. Edwin’s big dark head showed above the shelves. “What can I help you with?”

He smiled as she joined him near the cash register, a smile that made her feel nervous. “I just wanted you, honey.” His breath carried a hint of liquor.

Angel rounded the counter, putting it safely between the two of them. “That so?”

Undeterred, he leaned over, settling his elbows on the wide flat wood. “Yeah, I’m sorry about your Sunday school class.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I am, Angel. I know how you like them kids.” He lifted neon eyes. “All you have to do is sell this damn store and you can have it back.”

“Well, I guess I won’t be teaching Sunday school anytime soon, then.”

“Damn. You’re as stubborn as your daddy, ain’t you?”

She crossed her arms. “Worse.”

“Oh, now, don’t take it out on me. I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I sure as hell don’t care if you teach those kids. I don’t have any.” He stood up, touching his chest. “Don’t blame me.” Casually, he strolled toward the end of the counter, toward the wooden magazine rack that stood against the wall there. Picking up an
Ebony
, he chuckled. “And if you didn’t have this store, where’d these folks find their nigger magazines?”

“Edwin, what do you want?”

He put the magazine back, straightening it ostentatiously, then gave her a lazy once-over, his eerie gaze lingering over her breasts and belly and legs.” I already told you.” He slowly walked toward her, trapping her behind the counter. “You.”

“And Edwin always gets what Edwin wants?” She folded her arms more securely against her. Stupid, she thought, stupid to get herself stuck back here. He kept advancing until he was right up on her. She could feel the window sill against the back of her knees. But she didn’t move, not even when he lifted one hand to her arm—if you let a dog see you get scared, he’ll bite you. Likewise staring in their eyes—it was a challenge.

So she looked toward the cash register stonily, as if she didn’t care, as if his hand on her arm didn’t make her skin crawl, as if she didn’t have to swallow so her voice wouldn’t croak. “Leave me alone.”

“Angel, you know it ain’t like that. I ain’t some monster.” His was voice low and raspy. “I’ve wanted you for years and years and years and I ain’t got you yet, have I? I’m just getting so tired of waitin’, Angel. The least you could do is give me a little kiss.”

“No.” She put a hand between them, close to her face. “I want you to get out from behind my counter and out of my store.”

He laughed. “Or what?” He pushed his body against hers, rubbing his sex on her hip bones so she’d feel it. A bleep of alarm sounded deep in the back of her brain, sending alerts down her spine and into her limbs.

Think.

He was drunk, or on the way there by the smell of the liquor. But not crazy drunk. Drunk like he’d been sipping at something all day long, just a little bit. She softened her body language deliberately and looked at him under her lashes. “Please, Edwin. My daddy’s only been buried two weeks. I’m just not in the mood for kissing and all the rest right now.”

“It’ll help,” he said, and grabbed her chin, hauling her face up to face him. She smashed her mouth as tight as she could, keeping one arm between them, but it wasn’t enough. He pinched her mouth open and thrust his tongue in her mouth, groping her right breast painfully. He tasted of sour whisky.

Angel cried out, pushing against him with one arm and struggling to shift her head. His thumbs dug into her cheeks and he shoved his erection against her pelvis and squeezed her breast so hard she wanted to cry out in pain. Finally she bit his lip as hard as she could, tasting blood before he yelped and pulled away.

She had one instant of relief before his fist caught her on the cheek with a jarring smash. “Don’t you ever do that again. I’ll—”

Diving through the window of opportunity, Angel scrambled up and over the counter, landing hard on one knee. Scrambling to her feet, she thought of Paul in the kitchen and ran the other way, toward the front door of the store, thinking of the open road. Surely he’d leave her alone out there?

But he was faster than she expected, and came around the end of the counter, grabbing her arm. Angel jerked free. “Leave me alone!” she shouted, backing away. “This isn’t a war. You can’t do whatever you want! Get out of my store.” She glared at him. “And don’t you come back here.”

For an instant, he stared at her, breathing hard. Then he smiled slowly, licking the blood off his lip. “I’m going,” he said, and lifted an eyebrow. “You’ll come around. I can wait.”

He walked out.

Angel stared at the retreating back in disbelief and shock. Reaction slammed her legs and she sank against the counter, shaking. She pressed three fingers to her cheek. “Lord have mercy,” she said aloud. “What will it take to get through to him?”

A small voice sounded behind her. “Miss Angel?”

She whirled. Paul stood at the end of one of the aisles, looking small and vulnerable and afraid. He wasn’t crying, but he was very close. “Oh, sugar,” she said, moving toward him. “It’s okay.”

She kneeled and gathered him into her arms. “It’s okay,” she repeated. “I’m all right.”

Paul said nothing, but he nestled his head in the hollow of her shoulder, his hands around her ribs, and let himself be held very tightly. Angel hugged him as much for herself as for him. She held his head, kissed his forehead. “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.”

When she felt steadier, she said, “Let’s finish up our tea, shall we? Isaiah will be here pretty soon.”

“You don’t have to carry me,” Paul’s voice, oddly deep for a child, was tight, but sturdy. “I can walk.”

“Of course you can.” Angel put him down. They walked through the store and in to the short hallway to the kitchen. As if the mention of his name had summoned him, Isaiah appeared at the back screen.

“See, what did I tell you?” Angel said. “Speak of the devil.”

But the last thing he looked like was a devil. His big frame filled the space of the screen door, looking like a wall of protection. But of course that was illusion. Everything was dangerous. Everything she did. Everything she thought. Everything, everything, everything.

Struggling to keep an even tone, she waved a hand. “Come on in. We’re having English tea, aren’t we, Paul?”

“Is that right?” He opened the door, and Angel saw that he carried something in his left hand. Lifting the case, he smiled. “Brought you something.”

“Bring it on in here. “ She pointed to the kitchen. Her eyes were fixed to the case, black and bulky, and by the way the tendons in his arm were straining, heavy. A light sparked in her mind. “Isaiah High, is that a
typewriter
?”

“Bout broke my arm, carrying it down here,” he said, lifting it with a thud to the kitchen table. “What this?” he asked Paul, gesturing to the spread on the table.

“We had tea.” He still held Angel’s hand. “Like Mrs. Wentworth used to talk about.”

“We haven’t finished,” she said. “Haven’t even touched the cookies yet.”

“I ain’t hungry no more.” He pulled his hand out of Angel’s. “ I’m’onna go pull weeds.”

Angel swallowed, feeling Isaiah’s eyes hard upon her. “Okay, sugar. Put on your hat. It’s hot out there.” As he left the kitchen, she smoothed her skirt, resisting the urge to pat the seared spots on her face. In a bright, brittle voice, “So, did Mrs. Pierson lend you the typewriter?”

“Yeah.” Curt and cold. “That Edwin Walker I saw on the road?”

“I don’t know who you saw.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you aware that you’re bleeding?” His tone was disgusted rather than sympathetic, and it took every shred of control to keep from crying.

“Just go, will you. I’ve had enough today.”

His hand slammed down, jingling her good china teacups in their saucers, “Look at this—this—
make-believe
world you live in! That world you keep dreamin’ about don’t exist! And the longer you dream, the worse it’s gonna be when you wake up.” He leaned forward over the table. “That man is gonna kill you before he’s through, you don’t wake up.” He flung himself upright. “You need to doctor up that cut. I’m gonna take Paul home.”

Angel forced herself to be very, very still, not looking at him until he was gone. Then, feeling as brittle as candy cooked too long, she cleared the table, washed the cups and saucers, put the teapot away. The place where Edwin had back-handed her ached with a low, steady throbbing and her tongue found a tooth that had been knocked loose. When she finally went to the bathroom to rub salve on the spot, she sighed. No black eye—that would have been hard to explain—but a greenish purple mark showed dark against her fair skin, right along the cheekbone. And on the arm Edwin had wrenched, just above the elbow, were the fingerprints he’d left in reminder. She opened her dress and looked at her breast, small and white, and saw bruises there, too, purplish smears on her tenderest skin.

It made her feel a little ill, that he’d managed to leave marks. She knew he’d like seeing them. Seemed almost as shameful as a hickey and, finally, she let the humiliation and fear out of their hiding places, sinking down on the side of the tub, its narrow ridge cold on her legs. It had been the accusation in Isaiah’s eyes that had shut her up. As if she’d done something wrong, or at least something not right.

She didn’t know where to go or what to do. “God, if you’re listening to me, I could really use some help,” she said, and covered her eyes with her forearm, cradling her bruised breast with the other.

But she had no feeling of God hearing. Not even Ebenezer, sleeping in the branches of the cottonwood, answered.

V-Mail

April 3, 1944

Dear Isaiah,

It’s late, and my daddy’s gone to bed. I’m sitting on the back porch, listening to the radio play quiet while I write this letter by the porchlight. Air’s nice and smooth, the way it is sometimes in the spring. Something sweet is blooming in the forest, but I couldn’t tell you what it is.

All day, I’ve been working on my garden. Victory garden! That’s what all the posters say. Plant a Victory Garden! I’m missing my flowers to tell you the truth, but if I spent all my time on dahlias, I’d be shamed right out of the county. Daddy’s been helping some, though he tires real quick. We planted tomatoes and beans and corn, which has already sprouted up to my ankle! Collards and potatoes and watermelons. Pumpkins just for fun. My Sunday school children will like that, come fall. We’ll roast the seeds and make pumpkin pies. I’m learning to can, but you can’t make me like it! What a big chore! I’druther buy pumpkin in a tin can like always.

Course the garden means I haven’t had as much time to read as I’d like, but I did check out Brave New World from the library, like you told me. I’m only about halfway through, but by the time you write back, I’ll get it finished, so go ahead and tell me what you thought of it. I’m not sure, yet. Sometimes you like books that are much darker than the ones I like. I still haven’t forgiven you for
Down and Out in Paris and London
! Nasty, sad people.

What else you been reading lately? Did you get the peanuts and hard candies I sent yet?

Saw your mama yesterday and she’s doing fine, don’t worry. It was just a spring cold, nothing serious, not like the pneumonia she had last winter. I promised I’d keep an eye on her and I am. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. (ha ha)

Well, I reckon I better hurry up and close. Running out of space, even writing this tiny. Your friend, Angel.

V-Mail

April 12, 1944

Dear Isaiah,

I finished Brave New World last night, and I will be thinking about it for a long time, and I think he’s right—that people would do more for pleasure than anything else. Think there’s any chance we can ever get that far, to create a world where people are mainly happy? Not that it was all good in Huxley’s book, naturally (mainly because you can’t take a drug and expect to be happy), but when I look at the world at this very moment, we’re a long way from peace, joy, and happiness.

You know what I’ll say, that it’s God who needs to be our soma. That’s the real peace and joy, and there’s a direction that comes from God, too. We all have something to do, some work, some task, and it makes us happy to do it. What if everybody did that? Did their work, found the thing that gave them joy? What if you got to build things every day for the rest of your life, plan them and build them and admire them when you were done? I bet you’d be happy as a pig in slop.

Out of room. Angel

V-Mail #1

May 4, 1944

Dear Angel,

We are so bored here you can’t even imagine. I wish we could plant a garden, do something besides sit around getting on each other’s nerves, playing cards and dice and getting into fights. Seems like it’s been gray or raining for about 10,000 years and my blood is too thin for the damp cold we’ve been having. Everything’s always just a little bit damp—clothes, socks, books, even this here paper. So believe me when I say I am so grateful for the magazines and books you been sending. I’d go plumb crazy without them, and I pass them around to the other guys. Everybody likes Detective Stories best, and Amazing Stories, next. Me, I like the books. Double Indemnity is my favorite, though I bet you didn’t read that one. I’m sure it was Parker’s book.

Sorry he’s not doing well. My mama would say he should have cod liver oil. Have you tried it? (I’m chuckling to imagine him actually swallowing it!)

Mrs. Wentworth sent some books, too. More poetry, of course, this time some old guys they call the Cavalier poets, (I recommend you read them. Robert Herrick.) and all the Shakespeare sonnets. I imagine you’ve already studied the sonnets in school or something. You were always the big English girl, but I never had read them and specially now, when everything is gearing up, they’re rich, rich. I walk off by myself to read them so I can read them aloud, like Mrs. Wentworth showed me, and the words are powerful, powerful things.

V-Mail #2

The guys already call me The Professor, so I don’t care if they hear me, or if they catch me reading poems or Detective Stories. They don’t have much schooling—not much value in it in they worlds, anyhow. Book smarts might take your mind somewhere, but street smarts are what keep you alive.

Thing is, though, books can teach a body to think for himself. That’s what I think will make the world peaceful and full of joy, like you said God will do. Education! That’s what takes you somewhere. God might plant the seed, but education is what takes you there. Till everybody has a chance to learn to think for himself (and I’m thinking about womens, too), they ain’t gonna be able to do whatever they called to do. You got to be able to think.

This whole war is about people not thinking. That’s what Shirer said in Berlin Dairies, remember, that it was too hard for the Germans to think after all they’d been through, so it was a relief to let the government tell them what to think. That’s what Huxley’s saying, too—think, think, think. Think for yourself. Think about everything, even when it’s hard.

Sometimes, I reckon I’m thinking too much, to tell you the truth. But still, what if

V-Mail #3

more folks had been thinking anywhere, when all this was rolling into power? Could we have stopped it before it came down to practically every man on the earth in one uniform or another, killing each other? Makes no sense atall.

Anyhow, I got up on my soapbox, and that’s what I mean, thinking too much. Let me ask you, though, Miss God Is Everything, if you weren’t a girl and there wasn’t a war and you had all the chances anybody could have to go to school or whatever, what would you do with it?

Your friend,

Isaiah

V-Mail

May 16

Dear Angel,

Collards! Damn, I’d give my little finger for a big plate of greens and ham. Big greasy pork chops, and some pineapple upside down cake for desert. Have mercy.

Thank you for the candy and peanuts. You are the #1 favorite in my unit today. Gotta go now. Big craps game. (Which you needn’t mention to my mama or Parker either one.)

Isaiah

V-Mail

May 14, 1944

Dear Isaiah

I’m hurrying this morning—like a crazy person, I’ve up and lost my ration book, and I have to find it—but I wanted to let you know. Your letters got here so fast! And there’s so much to think about. I did get to the library and checked out a book of Cavalier poets, and .
 . . well! I’d say I’m blushing, and I reckon I should be, but I’m not. They made me laugh. That’s all I’m saying about that, except my favorite was Robert Herrick.

My daddy’s sending you some fresh socks, so look out for those.

More later,

Your friend,

Angel

V-Mail

May 15, 1944

Dear Isaiah,

I found my ration book under my pillow for no reason I can fathom, but I was all a-flutter with reading the other night and must have just got distracted. It happens. Between the store, the garden, and taking care of my daddy, plus my Sunday school class, sometimes it seems like I’m a chicken with no head! Bawk bawk bawk!

What a big question you asked! I wish I had an answer, Isaiah, about what I’d to if I had all the opportunities you listed, but it’s almost impossible to even imagine. A man, and any college in the world, and enough money to get through—! I don’t even know where I’d start.

Well, maybe I do. I’d just start by studying, and I write that and think, “Study what?” and that’s a little harder to pinpoint. I feel like I need some grounding in thinking, in the ways humans have thought about God and themselves all these centuries. Is that philosophy? Theology? More philosophy, I suspect. The rules and regulations never have been as interesting to me as the place of connection between a person’s spirit and God. That individual connection. I’ve been reading a lot of New Thought publications, from the Divine Scientists and their ilk. Edgar Cayce caught my attention and I just can’t get over it, how he does all those things, so I’m reading and digesting things he’s written, which led to some other reading. (All this much to my daddy’s amusement, I must say—but he says himself he taught me to ask questions, so he can’t be too upset when that’s exactly what I do.)

—more next page—

V-Mail #2

It makes me think more about God, and connection, and I guess, as boring as it must sound to you, that’s what I’d like to spend my life thinking about. If I were a man, maybe I’d be a preacher, but not a Baptist or a Methodist. Something .
 . . oh, I don’t know . . . .kinder than that, you know? Seems to me people are mean or evil because they’re scared, mostly, or in pain, or afraid they’re going to lose something. I’d like to be in a position to help them heal so they didn’t have to be mean. What’s Hitler so afraid of that he had to make all this craziness? He must have been really, really afraid.

Anyway, that might be more than you asked for, but I’ve also been reading Vita Sackville-West,
All Passion Spent
, and it’s about women who need work, a career, something besides just a man and a bunch of kids. We have work to do, too, and I like that idea. You see it all over the country now, women working the same jobs men always did, and doing just fine.

You’re right about one thing, and that’s education. Everybody should have the freedom to learn as much as they can, and it does make you think, think for yourself. What a world it would be if we did that! What if it didn’t matter if you were a female or colored or an Okie, you could just go to school and drink up as much as you wanted, be a doctor or a preacher or whatever. How about that?

Stay safe, my friend. Thanks for so many things to think about all the time. I’ll ship out some more Detective Magazines and all real soon. I like being #1! (ha ha!)

Angel