“Like sugar, like those little houses you and your daddy used to make at Christmas—remember’?”
“Gingerbread houses.” Angel smiled. “I haven’t been able to make one since before the war.”
“Maybe this year.”
She sighed, thinking of her lost Sunday school class and her departed daddy. “I really doubt it.”
Isaiah said nothing for a moment, but Angel felt him looking at her with pity. “Why don’t you let the store go, live with your aunt Georgia or something?”
She laughed without humor. “Not Georgia. But I have just been thinking that I’m going to die of pure boredom if I don’t get out of this town. If I have to think about chopping tomatoes and listening to gossip and going to the movies on Saturday afternoon all the rest of my life—” She restlessly moved her shoulders. “It makes my skin feel like it’s too tight.”
“Ah-huh.” He pursed his lips. “And where you headed, girl? Gonna go to California and be in the movies? Or maybe you thought you’d go straight to Paris? Or you got some other place picked out from those books of yours?”
“Stop it,” she said, stung to tears. She blinked hard, glad for the cover of night. “You’re as bad as the rest of them. Not a single one of you sees me when you look at me!” She shook her head, clearing it. “It doesn’t bother me from them, though. It hurts me from you. In your letters you talked to me. You listened. Nobody ever listened to me like that in my life. Then you just quit all of a sudden and now you’re acting like I’m about as smart as a turkey.” She looked away. “It isn’t fair.”
He bowed his head. A whir of cicadas flicked on suddenly, as if to fill the silence, their song a roar in the quiet night. The whirring pulsed and pulsed and pulsed, then just as suddenly cut off. “I quit writing to you, Angel,” he said quietly, “because the war was going to be over and we—” He cleared his throat. “The end was bad, Angel. I didn’t have any words to tell you about it. I didn’t want to put those things in your head.” He looked at her gravely. “I still don’t.”
Angel moved toward him, wanting to take his hand. Instead she nudged his boot with her bare toes. “I know the end, Isaiah. It’s different, knowing and seeing, I know that, too. But you don’t have to make words for things there are no words for.”
“I also knew,” he said and looked at her toes, resting against his boot, “that I’d come home and we’d have to learn how to be right again.” His jaw tightened. “We can’t be friends, Angel. We aren’t children and it ain’t worth dying for.” He straightened. “You go on inside, lock up.”
Angel met his gaze for a long, long moment, then she turned and went inside, feeling his presence as she closed the door and bolted it. There she leaned on the door frame and let the hot tears spill out. Stupid girl tears over stupid lost things, but they burned in her throat and filled her mouth and she just wanted to open the door and ask him to sit down and just talk to her.
She missed his letters, missed them still. He could say whatever he wanted to the contrary, but Isaiah knew her as well or better than anyone in the world, and she had a feeling the same was true in reverse. He was one of the most constant people in her life, as far back as she could remember. There were gaps, naturally, but none that mattered as far as the person inside was concerned. Just now, when he’d talked about the end of the war, she’d known that what he wanted to do was cry. How could you carry the inside of a person with you and not call them a friend, no matter what the rules said?
Stop it, she told herself. She looked through the window, but he was gone.
It’s not worth dying for. In the bathroom, she washed her face with cold water, then went to her bedroom. Unbuttoning her dress, she wondered. Friendship seemed a better cause than what a lot of wars were fought about.
The next day, the sense of other places dogged Angel as she did her chores. When the magazine man came, bringing his weekly load of periodicals, they seemed to all be filled with things Angel had never seen, lifestyles she’d never know. All the restless straightening in the world wouldn’t change that.
As the afternoon grew hot, she had her brainstorm. “Come on, Paul,” she said to her small charge, “let’s go inside. I have a great idea.”
Always game, he trailed her into the kitchen, watching soundlessly as she pulled a stoneware teapot from a high shelf in the pantry and washed it off. She set water on the stove to boil, then opened a loaf of bread and had Paul trim the crusts off with a butter knife. There was no watercress, of course, and she wasn’t entirely certain what a scone was, but she made tiny sandwiches with pimento cheese, and peanut butter and jelly, then put them on a pretty platter. In a basket lined with cloth, she placed a handful of cookies, then put Paul to work setting the table neatly. When the water had boiled, she dropped tea bags and mint in the tea pot and set out her prettiest cups. When it was finished, she grinned at Paul, waving him into his chair grandly. His eyes glittered.
“A long, long way away from here,” she said, putting her napkin on her lap, “there’s a place called England. It’s a very, very old country—people have lived there for thousands of years.”
His eyes widened appreciatively, and he draped his own napkin over his slim legs in imitation of Angel.
“Well, if you lived in England, every afternoon, you would have a snack like this.” She waved a hand at the offerings. “If you were rich, servants would bring it to you in the drawing room.”
“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 tho
se 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.
— 23 —
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.
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