Earth Angels

by Bobby Hutchinson

  Then don’t act their sweetheart either, he had wanted to snap at her. But of course he hadn’t.

  Thinking of that conversation now, his irritation rose all over again as he turned the bacon and got the eggs out of the icebox.

  He’d started dropping by the store whenever his surgery emptied to see Emma and exchange a few words. At least, he told himself that was his only reason for hurrying over every chance he got.

  But at four separate times in the space of one week, Oscar Macky had been there, lounging at the counter or sprawled in a chair at the back, watching Emma’s every move with his hot, dark eyes. He teased her and made idiotic, stupid jokes.

  What incensed Joseph was that Emma giggled at Oscar’s foolishness, tossing her head and teasing him back.

  George Rankin, the new young schoolteacher—also a single man—had also been in the store most afternoons. Joseph had ignored the shy young man until one day he found him reading to Emma from a book of poetry. Some ridiculous jingle had her laughing until tears came and she dabbed at her eyes an absurd scrap of pink lace. When the reading was over, she had put her arm on George’s arm in an affectionate gesture that Joseph thought was entirely inappropriate.

  “Thank you so much for sharing that with me, George,” she’d said, smiling up at him. “I do so love nonsense rhymes.”

  Joseph cracked the eggs against the side of the skillet with more force than necessary and the yolks broke. He’d wanted to shake Emma that day. Didn’t she recognize the naked adoration on George Rankin’s narrow face? It was entirely wrong of her to encourage the poor man.

  He had wrestled with the alarming emotions these encounters roused in him, trying to subdue the anger he felt at her flirtatious ways. But each day seemed to bring some new evidence that Emma was irresponsible with her affections.

  Why, just yesterday he had watched, filled with outrage, as she allowed a pathetic widower who was fifty at least to present her with a bouquet of wildflowers. She had smiled at the man with the same wide, affectionate smile she’d given Joseph just moments before.

  Then there was the memory of the afternoon he’d been getting his hair cut. Remembering that almost made him spill the eggs on the floor instead of onto the plate.

  From his seat in the barber’s chair he’d seen Emma walking down the street with a tall young stranger, talking with animation to him and tilting her head back, laughing up at him. The gentleman—if he was a gentleman—had appeared mesmerized by her, and Joseph had watched the four old men in front of the barbershop exchange knowing glances as she passed by on the stranger’s arm.

  His insides had knotted, but he’d never mentioned to her that he’d seen her. Instead, he waited for her to tell him. But she hadn’t, and when he’d finally asked her about it, she’d answered offhandedly that the man was a travelling salesman for a dry goods company she dealt with.

  Joseph placed the bacon and eggs on the table and sat down. As he ate, he realized that though he had never spoken to Emma about his feelings, if her behavior didn’t change, he would just have to show her in no uncertain terms the error of her ways.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In mid April, Joseph escorted Emma to the church social. Her dress was as blue as the evening sky, with enormous sleeves and an intriguing ruffle of white lace not quite covering the tops of her full breasts. Her curly blonde hair was drawn up into a high knot, her cheeks were a delicate pink, and her brown eyes sparkled.

  Joseph felt as if his chest would burst with pride when he walked into the crowded church hall with her clinging to his arm.

  The band, two fiddles and an ancient piano, tuned up and then burst into a spirited polka.

  Joseph hesitated, aware he wasn’t much of a dancer, and before he could gather his nerve and figure out the steps, Oscar Macky had whirled Emma away.

  Joseph swallowed hard and tried not to notice her skirts flying high around her shapely legs as she twirled, with Oscar’s hand clutching her narrow waist.

  She went straight from Oscar’s arms to Lucas Fowler, a pot bellied old patient of Joseph’s, and from there to George Rankin, who in Joseph’s opinion held her much too close. She didn’t seem to object, and then Oscar was whirling her around in a waltz, and her face was tilted up to his, her smile bold and inviting.

  Joseph seethed. Emma was at it again. He made his way onto the dance floor and cut in, utterly furious at her and at Oscar. He stepped on her toes twice and was doing a miserable job of waltzing, but she pretended not to notice, gazing at him with a misty smile.

  “I do love dancing, Joseph.” She tilted her head so her mouth was close to his ear. “And I love you, too,” she whispered.

  Slightly mollified, he tried a dip and a swirl and even managed a smile, but his smile faded because before the waltz was even ended, she was swept away again. He made his way to the refreshment table, wishing there was something stronger than grape juice in the punch. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

  What seemed like eons passed. By the time the musicians had laid down their instruments and everyone bid each other a cheerful good night, he had watched Emma dance with every man in the room, single, married, old, young. And she’d beamed up at each of them, chattering, giggling, tossing her curls, showing off her ankles. Flirting, laughing, teasing.

  She’d danced with him exactly twice, and his simmering anger was ready to explode at Emma—and the entire male population of Demersville. She was toying with his affections. She was the woman he loved, and tonight she’d forced him to suffer an emotion he’d never before had cause to feel and resented feeling now—burning, torturous jealousy.

  Joseph escorted Emma home, barely responding to her giddy chatter. He climbed the stairs behind her, politely took her key and opened the door, and then stood aside for her to enter.

  She lit the lamp and then looked at him, “Come in, Joseph. You are staying for a time, aren’t you?”

  “I think not.” His tone was formal and very cool.

  She frowned. “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why are you angry?” She sounded confused and hurt. “Didn’t you have a good time at the dance?”

  “If being forced to watch you dance and flirt with every man in the room is having a good time, then I had a perfectly wonderful evening.” His tone was scathing.

  “Why, you’re jealous. There’s no need to be. Those men happen to be my customers and my friends, Joseph.” Her voice trembled. “So are their wives and sweethearts. Refusing to dance with them would have been an insult.”

  “So all that flirtatious merriment was simply good customer relations, is that it, Emma?” He added in a caustic tone, “You seem to be on rather intimate relations with some of those men.” His anger was making him say things he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop the cruel words from pouring out. “In fact, I began to wonder if I’m the only man in town enjoying your favors.” He knew it was terrible and wrong, but he was past caring.

  She stared at him, her dark eyes wide and wounded. The color in her cheeks faded. “You should know better than anyone that there is nothing between those men and myself but friendship, Joseph.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “When I made love to you the first time, I did know. But how would I know now? Since the day I first came into your store, I’ve watched you give your attentions freely to everyone. Flirting with the men in there and on the street. In fact, wherever you go. And after your performance tonight, what am I supposed to think, Emma? Perhaps I’m just a flirtation too. Someone to amuse you.”

  She gaped at him, speechless. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “How can you insult me this way? You—you stuffed shirt! How like you not to understand simple friendship and warmth. You—you’re nothing but a hypocrite, Joseph Gillespie, a holier than thou hypocrite, not saying anything about how jealous you felt all this time, acting as if you loved me.” Her entire body was trembling. “How—how dare you make what we have together
dirty? If that’s what you think of me, then get out. Now.”

  She lifted one shaking hand and pointed at the door. “Leave. Now. And don’t ever come back.”

  Rage carried him out the door and down the steps, down the quiet, sleeping streets to his own door. He threw it open, stormed inside and then slammed it as hard as he could. In his bedroom he tore off his suit, heedless of flying buttons and ripped collars. He flung the garments on the floor.

  “You may need to wear those again, Joseph.” Nathaniel picked up his vest and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe. He sat down on the side of the bed and looked at Joseph, shaking his head. “Now why did you act like that, just when things were going so well?”

  “Don’t you start on me,” Joseph roared. He, who’d hardly ever raised his voice to anyone, now felt as if a bottomless pit of anger had opened up inside of him. He curled his fists, longing to smash something, to destroy something, but there was only Nathaniel.

  “I don’t need or want anymore of your sanctimonious claptrap. I’ve had all I can take from both you and Emma.” He pointed a trembling finger at Nathaniel. “What can you possibly know about men and women? You told me yourself you’ve never really been either. So you can’t have any idea what it feels like to be hurt and betrayed.”

  Nathaniel rose, his kind face sad. “There are human emotions I can never experience firsthand. But I do know how you feel. I see your pain, I hear it, and I’m sorry.” His voice held endless compassion and love, but it also held inexorable truth when he added, “But Joseph, you have only yourself to blame. You need to think about why you projected your own insecurities on Emma.”

  Some distant, honest part of Joseph recognized the truth in Nathaniel’s quiet words, but admission would be more than he could bear right now. Instead, he summoned up all the fury that had driven him like a painful whip. “I don’t need you, Nathaniel.” His awful words spilled like lava, horrifying him, and still he couldn’t stop them. “I never asked you to come into this part of my life. All you’ve done is make a mess of things, urging me into this relationship with Emma, mewling at me that my life was incomplete.” He snorted and threw a shoe at the wall. “Incomplete be damned. I was perfectly happy the way I was. I want you to leave me alone, so I can go back to being content.” He flung the other shoe, and it hit the daguerreotype of his parents that he kept on his bedside table. The glass shattered, and the prized likeness tumbled to the floor.

  Pain overwhelmed him, but Joseph turned it to rage. “Go away, Nathaniel.” The terrible dictum rang like a death knell, but Joseph was too overwrought to call it back. “Get out of my life, and stay out. Go back to wherever the hell you came from in the first place.”

  His eyes sorrowful, Nathaniel looked at Joseph for what seemed a long time. His voice was filled with love and compassion when he said, “If that’s what you truly want, then so be it, my beloved friend.”

  In an instant, Joseph was alone, more alone than he’d been since the death of his parents and the woman he’d loved so long ago.

  With a cry of utter anguish and despair, he picked up the crystal water pitcher from the table and sent it flying across the room, straight at the spot where Nathaniel had been only a moment before.

  The pitcher crashed against the wall and shattered into millions of fragments, and to Joseph they seemed to represent the broken shards of his life. He fell to his knees on the carpet, and for the first time in years, he wept.

  Emma had hardly slept last night, and for the first time since Valentine’s Day, she left Granny’s magic locket on the dresser when she finished putting on her clothes. Her eyes were heavy and swollen from crying, and she hated to go downstairs and open the store. She longed for her father

  Unfortunately, one of her first customers was Oscar, and his mindless, cheerful chatter about the dance grated on her raw nerves.

  “For gracious sakes, haven’t you anything else to do but hang around here?” she finally snapped at him. “Some of us have work to do.”

  His face fell. “Sorry, Emma,” he mumbled, heading for the door, his shoulders slumped. “Didn’t mean to bother ya.”

  Emma felt ashamed, but only for a moment. The next customer, always slow at making up her mind, had Emma pursing her lips and tapping her foot impatiently. The transaction was made in strained silence, with no cheerful goodbyes exchanged when the door finally closed.

  As the morning progressed, each and every customer was an irritation, and Emma’s bad mood didn’t go unnoticed. One woman asked if she was feeling unwell, and suggested Emma ought to go to Doctor Gillespie for a tonic. Emma wanted to holler that Doctor Gillespie was the cause of what ailed her, not the cure.

  George Rankin came in just past noon, a wide smile on his narrow face and a book clenched in his hands. “I ordered this volume of limericks, and it just arrived. You simply must hear this one, Emma, it’s hilarious.” He began to read aloud, something about a young woman named Emma.

  “Oh, George, for pity’s sakes not now.” She knew she sounded like a witch, but she just didn’t care. Someone had spilled oatmeal from the bin, and she grabbed a broom. “Look at this disgusting mess, you’d think people could be a little more careful.”

  George swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He turned scarlet and hurried out without another word.

  Emma knew she’d hurt him and she was too miserable to care. But it just wasn’t fair to treat her friends and customers this way. She closed the store and stumbled upstairs, feeling wretched. Joseph had become the centre of her life, and his harsh, unfair words had destroyed her. Now he was gone, and she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She’d loved him with her whole heart and soul, but how could she stay with a man who didn’t trust her, didn’t respect her? Didn’t believe in her integrity and honesty? He’d accused her so vilely of wantonness.

  She’d never been with any man but him in an intimate fashion, didn’t he know that? She felt that he wanted to isolate her, to rob her of her spirit. It hurt that he hadn’t ever discussed with her his feelings, but instead had lashed out at her, hurling cruel, terrible accusations.

  Tears coursed down her face, and she felt sick to her stomach. Difficult as it would be, she would rather be alone than suffer his suspicions and insults. She didn’t want a man who treated her as if she was his property, who wanted to control her every move. She picked up Granny’s charm and dropped it in the drawer under her handkerchiefs. She’d get through this, get over him, and somehow go on with her life. The trouble was, she thought as she went to bed, that she couldn’t quite see how.

  She cried herself to sleep.

  The next morning, she forced herself to go to church. Joseph wasn’t there, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Perversely, she longed to see him and at the same time she dreaded it.

  After the service, Belinda invited her over to see the fashion plates in her latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book, and Emma went, grateful for Belinda’s empty headed chatter. It was a distraction from her agony and it filled the long, dismal afternoon.

  Monday she began a major stocktaking. With frantic energy, she moved goods, rearranged shelves and counted everything in the store. It took an entire week and exhausted her so that at least she could sleep.

  With the warmer weather and longer days, she opened the store earlier and closed it later, and slowly the anguish inside of her dulled a little, enough so that she could once again smile at her customers. It seemed, however, that her natural, inborn gaiety, her joy in life, was probably gone forever.

  May arrived, a wet and dismal May, that seemed to mirror the lingering pain in Emma’s heart. She and Joseph gave each other a wide berth, though it was impossible to avoid each other in the small town. Joseph stopped coming to the store, sending a young boy for supplies when he needed them. Emma would fill his order and then have the boy deliver the satchel. At church, she make certain to sit as far away from Joseph as she could get. In the street, she ducked into a shop if
she saw him coming. It seemed childish, but she simply couldn’t face him. Her hurt was too deep.

  Joseph tried to bury himself in his work, but for the first time ever, medicine failed to either occupy his mind or bring him satisfaction. Worse still, he couldn’t summon up the patience and forbearance that had been an integral part of his nature.

  When Lazarus Weatherby finally took one drink too many and went quite mad one night in the tavern, Joseph heard himself lecturing the other patrons on the evils of drink, sounding like some puritanical fanatic, even though he knew quite well most of them were honest, hard working farmers and loggers enjoying a rare and well deserved pint.

  In his office, he was curt and preoccupied. He no longer had the tolerance to sit and listen to long, involved stories from his elderly patients. He cut them off and hurried them out.

  He told Lewis, one of the barbershop quartet, that his piles would be much improved if he found something more worthwhile to do than sit on his backside ten hours a day.

  “Yer gitten’ a mite big fer yer britches, ain’t ya?” Vernon grabbed his decrepit old hat and plunked it on his head, glaring at Joseph. “I knew yer daddy well, young Gillespie, and he’d be mortified if’n he heard ye talking to yer elders that way.” He stomped out of the office. “Young whippersnapper. Call yerself a doctor, humph!”

  The mention of his father brought a rush of agonizing memories. Emma had asked him once about his parents, but he’d told her only about the happy days of his childhood. He still couldn’t speak of the agony their loss had brought. And he’d never told her about Ruth.

  Damn Emma, for worming her way into his heart. Damn himself, for allowing it to happen.