Angel Thieves

by Kathi Appelt

  It is spicy and warm and delicious.

  It isn’t enough, but it will do for now. She rolls onto her back and stares through the wires of the opening. As she watches, a pair of nighthawks swoop into view and fly in a circle, as if they are dancing in the air, wings spread wide.

  Zorra, sing the spirits of the bayou.

  Zorra, they call.

  Zorra. Don’t forget who you are.

  j

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER

  Cade walks on the edge of the concrete trail that runs along the bayou. He has followed it before, sometimes with Martin, more times with Paul, but usually by himself.

  The bridge that spans the bayou to the other side harbors a colony of bats, thousands of them. At dusk they’ll pour out from under it, weaving and spinning, tiny Mexican free-tails. From this distance they’ll look like small puffs of smoke just above the water’s surface.

  It has finally stopped raining long enough to venture out, and for a second he wishes Paul was there with him. Then again, Cade needs some time to think, so it is just as well that his dad has stayed home to watch the baseball game.

  Paul was a star player for his high school team. Apparently there had even been some pro scouts who had been keeping their eyes on him. Paul’s life would have been markedly different if Cade had never been born.

  (And also, as Martin has said more than once, “if your grandparents hadn’t been such asshats.”)

  Who knew? His dad might have gone on to college, and then maybe to play professional baseball, and instead of posters of Nolan Ryan on their walls, there might be posters of Paul Curtis.

  Whenever Cade tries to bring up Paul’s missed opportunity in baseball, Paul cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it, Li’l Dude,” he says. “I wrote my own history. I’m cool with it.” And then he wraps Cade in a big bear hug. One thing about Paul, he is a major hugger.

  “And besides,” Paul says. “You’re the best thing about me. Ballplayers flame out early. You and me, we’re good for life.” And Cade knows his dad means that, and he also knows how painful that must feel, considering that Paul’s dad never said it to him.

  Asshats. Martin was right. Same for his mother, Evie.

  The Astros were having a great season, and even though he and Paul didn’t live very far from the stadium, Paul prefers watching the games on television. He likes being able to see the instant replays.

  Now Cade stands there on the edge of the bayou alone, the daylight fading. As he watches the water rumble past, he sees a bundled-up bag of trash go by—it has the familiar logo of Whataburger on its side. God, he hates people who throw trash into the water. He’d grab it if he could, but it’s out of his reach, so all he can do is watch as it floats downstream and finally disappears underneath the bridge.

  “Jerks,” he says out loud. But then he pauses. Jerks. Asshats. Jerks. Asshats. And he has to ask himself: Who is he to call anyone a name? The question eats at him.

  He gathers a handful of rocks, and one by one, he pulls his arm back and lets fly. Each rock skips across the water—once, twice, three times—before it sinks out of view. Even though Cade is not the baseball player that his dad must have been—in fact, he has no interest in playing at all—he doesn’t have a bad arm.

  The water is running higher and faster than usual.

  From where he stands on the trail, he can look across the bayou and see Houston’s brilliant steel-and-glass skyline. Downtown’s cluster of skyscrapers is only a couple of miles away. He could walk there if he crossed the bridge and kept going. It wouldn’t take long.

  Standing there, the rays of the sinking sun dodging between them, the buildings appear shinier than ever. Nearby, he knows, is the Church on the Bayou. He’s seen it before, but only from the street.

  The words, Ultimate Love, swim through his brain. They bump up against another word, Soleil. Together, they all circle around each other, like fish in a pool. He pats the pocket of his jeans. The note is there, tucked inside the purple flyer.

  “Whatever you do,” says Paul, “be careful around girls.” Then he pauses, raises his right eyebrow, and adds, “Especially in the biblical sense.” The first time Paul said that, Cade had no idea what “the biblical sense” meant. So Paul explained it to him, along with a whole lecture about using protection, followed by the overwhelming merits of abstaining altogether.

  Even though Paul was semi-joking, he was also dead serious. Of course, he didn’t really need to worry, since Cade’s experience with girls was minimal. He had gone out in groups before, where girls were present, but those encounters were nothing more than study sessions at a coffee bar, or a meet-up for the school dance. He’d only been kissed a couple of times, and one of those times was in kindergarten, when Marsha Esposito came dashing toward him on the playground and out of nowhere planted a huge kiss right on his mouth.

  The second kiss was almost as much a surprise as the first, when in eighth grade, Libby Franks zoomed by his locker, paused long enough to say “Hey,” or something similar to that, and gave him a smack on the cheek, and forever after that, even now, hardly acknowledged his existence. In fact, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder if he’d always be the recipient of drive-by kisses, since that was his experience so far.

  But now here he is, in a position that can only be considered enormously ironic, being asked to go to a church party by a girl who wears a gold cross on a nearly invisible chain around her neck. It all seems fairly biblical to him, especially considering the fact that aside from going with Martin to All Saints Catholic Church a couple of times, the closest he had come to any sort of regular attendance of holy territory was prowling around in old graveyards, searching for statuary that could be loosened from its moorings and lifted into the back of his father’s pickup truck.

  As he stands here, watching the bayou rumble by, another question zooms up behind it. Would Soleil have invited him if she knew he was a thief? Of course, he knows the answer, and the knowing of that presses into him, as if he is caught in a swinging door, not able to exit on either side without getting slammed.

  With that, he hauls off and throws the last rock so hard it lands on the opposite side of the bayou, right at the foot of the bat bridge. If he had stood there for even a split second longer and waited for it to land, he might have noticed a loud thunk.

  But he has already turned away. Even if he had heard it, he wouldn’t have seen what the rock hit, camouflaged as it is behind a thick stand of vines, snugged up in the twisted roots of an old hickory, invisible to the eye, invisible to everyone but the pair of nighthawks swooping atop the thermals that spin in the air above it.

  Zorra

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER

  An ocelot needs more than the bayou can give.

  She paws at the empty bowl, sniffs at it. The only thing in it now is a tiny glimmer, sent by the waning moon. Nothing she can eat or drink.

  Oh, Zorra, the bayou has carried you far from the hidden cove, away from the smoky breath of the Caretaker. She saved you from his hard wooden paddle. The bayou summoned her foggy haints to sing you a lullaby. But one thing she can’t manage, no matter how hard she tries, is to unlock the door to your cage.

  There is only so much the bayou can do.

  Soleil Broussard

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER

  What kind of person uses Jesus to get a date? Soleil feels only slightly less than horrible. But she is also feeling a little hopeful, too.

  At once, there are steps in her feet that she needs to take, three-quarter waltz kind of steps. She scrolls through her playlist. Ed Sheeran’s voice fills her room. “People fall in love in mysterious ways.”

  It’s not so different from what her mom says: Some things are beyond knowing.

  What isn’t beyond knowing is that more than anything, Soleil wants Cade to be in her life, wants him to come to the gathering on Sunday night, and she genuinely hop
es that Jesus won’t mind that she’s used His love like this, even if it wasn’t intentional.

  Mother River Church of God’s Blessings

  HOUSTON, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS

  1845

  Celia Phillips sat at the piano in the front of the church. The pews were empty and the morning sunlight streamed through the open windows. She was thumbing through the sheets of music in front of her when she noticed that someone had stepped inside.

  She paid no mind. The doors of the chapel were always open, and it wasn’t unusual for a person to wander in. The Houston heat was relentless, and sometimes a body just needed a place to cool off, and sometimes a body just wanted to sit back and listen to Miss Celia practice. That was fine by her. She loved her piano. It had been in her family for years, and when she and the reverend told her kinfolk about the new chapel, they had it shipped to her, as a personal gift, they said, “to the glory of God.”

  It had arrived soon after the chapel was built. It was placed right up front, next to the altar, where Miss Celia played it with verve. Whenever she hit the keys, the ringing sound of her piano could be heard all the way down Main Street, even as far over as the Hotel de Chene, with its wide front porch that overlooked the bayou.

  Passengers on boats going upstream and down could hear it too. Even when Miss Celia played a quieter hymn, the notes on that piano soared. She was a fine player, too, having come from a musical family.

  So there she was, deep into the notes of “Lead, Kindly Light,” when she suddenly heard a man’s deep, resonant voice, singing the lovely verses:

  Lead, kindly light, amid th’ encircling gloom

  Lead Thou me on!

  The night is dark, and I am far from home

  Lead Thou me on!

  Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

  The distant scene; one step enough for me.

  So long Thy pow’r has blest me, sure it still

  Will lead me on,

  O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till

  The night is gone.

  And with the morn those angel faces smile

  Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

  The voice was so warm and mellifluous that she continued to follow the sheet music in front of her, playing each line with a delicate touch so as to allow the words of the hymn to float above the sound of the piano. It wasn’t until the song ended that she looked up, straight into the eyes of James Morgan. She hoped her surprise hadn’t shown on her face, but she felt the fine hairs on her arms lift up, and she found herself quickly looking back at the sheet music, flipping through the pages as if to organize them.

  “Mrs. Phillips,” Morgan said, placing a hand on her own, so as to make her stop shuffling the music. She froze and he moved his hand. Then he gave her a slight bow.

  “You play quite well,” he said. The voice she had so enjoyed while playing the song now burned in her ears. She resisted the impulse to cup her hands over them. James Morgan was not a member of the Mother River Church, but she certainly knew who he was. She scooted over on her bench, to put as much distance as she could between herself and her visitor.

  “I came to speak to your husband. Where might I find him?” Morgan asked.

  The reverend had told her that he and Major Bay had some business to take care of in Frost Town, a few miles upstream. She knew that they might not return for several hours. Should she say this to James Morgan? Morgan was a highly respected businessman in these parts. Even though he lived farther north, on a plantation near the Brazos River, he spent enough time in Houston to be a commanding presence. He and his wife even had a home nearby, where they often feted the more well-to-do citizens of the new city.

  She cleared her throat. “The reverend should return any time now,” she said, trying to be as calm as possible. “Would you care to wait?”

  He reached for her hand again, lifted it in front of her, and ran his thumb over her knuckles. She tried to pull it away from him, but he held on, drawing her nearer to him.

  And then, in a voice that was even silkier than the one he had so recently raised to sing of moor and fen, he smiled in a way that showed a full set of teeth and said, “Word is that your husband has been preaching a dangerous gospel, Mrs. Phillips.”

  She tugged her hand again, and he clenched it even tighter. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “You do know that there are runaways. . . .” He relaxed his grip. “A woman and two girls.”

  Morgan continued to smile. “Those girls belong to my wife.”

  At that, Miss Celia stood up and looked directly at his face. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I don’t know what we’d do if Major Bay ran away.” With her loose hand, she crossed her heart, an effort to show her earnestness. She hoped her statement would reassure him.

  It must have because he paused, but then he said, “Just be sure to let your husband know that we’re going to find them.” With that, he let her hand drop, but he said it again, “We’ll find them.”

  Miss Celia tucked her freed hand behind her waist, as if to hide it from Morgan. She resisted the urge to shake it, to throw off the awful feel of his fingers.

  What else should she say? They had been so very careful, she and the reverend and Major Bay. She glanced down at the words on the sheet music.

  And with the morn those angel faces smile

  Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

  “Why, Mr. Morgan,” she said at last, her hand still behind her, “God bless you, sir.”

  He stepped back and then turned on his heel, but not before looking over his shoulder at her and smiling again. “Good day, Mrs. Phillips.”

  She remained standing as she watched him walk out through the carved doors. For several long minutes she waited, fearful that he might walk back in. She let out a long, deep breath, one she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Then she sat back down at her bench, laid her hands back on the keys, and played, softly at first, then more forcefully, the notes rushing into the air of the friendly chapel and slipping out the windows. Finally she leaned into the piano, as if Jesus Himself was watching her. She played until at last she could no longer feel the imprint of James Morgan’s thumb pressing on her knuckles. She closed the cover down over the keyboard, wiped it with her fingertips, then pressed her palms together and prayed, “Lord, where? Where are those angel faces?” And with her whole heart she begged Him to show His ever-loving mercy.

  Achsah

  HOUSTON, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS

  1845

  Achsah looked into her baby girls’ faces and saw something in Mary Ann’s that made her swallow, hard. Fever. The night was warm, still holding on to the day’s heat. All three of them were coated in a light sheen of sweat. But she could tell by the glassiness in her daughter’s eyes that there was something else.

  She gripped Mary Ann’s hand. “Not far now, baby,” she said. Mary Ann nodded, her chin drooping farther down with each nod. In her hand, Achsah couldn’t help but feel her daughter shiver, as if something had run up her back. Achsah knew that childhood fevers came and went. Both of her girls had suffered through coughs and sore throats and rashes. She tried to convince herself that Mary Ann just had the ague from walking in the night air, nothing more. Just that, a nighttime chill, likely stirred up by one of the river haints. She tried to convince herself that that was all it was. Nothing more.

  But she had watched the yellow jack take the Captain. It had started like this, the fever, the glassy eyes. The shakes.

  “Mama,” Mary Ann whispered. Achsah turned toward her, just in time to catch her before she slumped onto the ground, pulling Juba with her. Brave Juba. Another child might have cried out, but she clamped her teeth shut and held on to her mother and sister like their lives depended on her. Achsah resisted her own urge to cry out for help. She knew they couldn’t be far from their destination, from the steps, from the Lady who would guide them to freedom. Not far at all.

  But now h
er daughter needed help. Urgency pounded in her chest. But indecision climbed over her like a creeping vine. If she turned herself in, Mary Ann could get medical treatment.

  But, Achsah knew, that would mean being under the control of James Morgan. Memories of her life with the Captain, of being trapped in his cabin aboard his boat, of being kept in his bed since she was twelve rushed through her.

  “You’re my treasure,” the Captain had told her.

  She clung to her girls.

  No. She could not let them go to James Morgan. Never. She’d rather take her chances with the bayou.

  She knelt there for a moment, her arms around them both. She was so very tired. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of her screamed for rest.

  In that moment, all she wanted to do was lie down along the shoreline and sink into the water, let it take her away, past the town of Harrisburg, past the wharves of Brazoria, past the port of Galveston and into the blue, blue Gulf of Mexico.

  She felt Mary Ann shudder, felt Juba’s small arms around her shoulders. Her babies. Her babies. She held them as tight as she could. She remembered her own mama, holding on to her. Happiness. She remembered the master, pulling them apart, ripping her away . . . away . . . away . . .

  And then, as if they knew they had been summoned, the haints spoke.

  Achsah.

  She closed her eyes.

  Achsah, they said.

  The Lady is waiting.

  Hurry.

  It was what she needed to hear.

  So she put her hands under Mary Ann’s arms and pulled her up. Then she lifted her so that her girl’s head rested on her shoulder. She breathed in the smell of her, her little-girl smell. She looked down at Juba, her hair all matted and messy, so sweet in her messiness, and told her, in a voice so low it sounded like part of the breeze, “Put the kettle in the river and shove it as hard as you can,” which Juba did. And from their place on the bank, they watched it float out into the current like a tiny round boat, watched it sail downstream. But only briefly, because they couldn’t hesitate one more minute. Achsah knew: what they had to do was run.