This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Patricia Hickman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Beck Stvan
Cover photo by Hulton Archives/Stone
The Warner Faith name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books.
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First eBook Edition: December 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-55482-4
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Reading Group Guide
About the Author
Read more Patricia Hickman!
PRAISE FOR PATRICIA HICKMAN'S FALLEN ANGELS
“A humorous and poignant parable of how man plans and God prevails. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
—FRANCINE RIVERS, AUTHOR OFATONEMENT CHILD
“I was instantly charmed! No writer can transport a reader to the South quite like Patricia Hickman. Touching, funny, and filled with love, FALLEN ANGELS will be one of the best books you'll read all year.”
—ROBIN LEE HATCHER, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFFIRSTBORN
“A new book by Patricia Hickman is always an occasion for delight. She is a gifted author with a deft touch for all the elements of fine storytelling.”
—T. DAVIS BUNN, AUTHOR OFWINNER TAKE ALL
“Captures the desperate joy and hope-filled sorrow of the Depression era to perfection…. Patricia Hickman's prose rings with gritty authenticity and stark, lyrical description…. A glorious story of grace, told with a skilled pen and an open heart.”
—Liz CURTIS HIGGS, AUTHOR OFTHORN IN MY HEART
“I love Patty Hickman's vivid language and rich descriptions. Her characters pop off the page, and in this latest novel, steal your heart.”
—LISA TAWN BERGREN, AUTHOR OFCHRISTMAS EVERY MORNING
“Hickman's story is as gritty as a plate of homemade hominy—and just as filling, just as sweet, just as true.”
—NORRIS MAILER, AUTHOR OFWINDCHILL SUMMER
“In a carefully and beautifully written story of home and family, Hickman reminds us that even when we hide, love finds a way.”
—LYNN HINTON, AUTHOR OFFRIENDSHIP CAKE
“Only Patricia Hickman could move from humorous simplicity to poignant epiphany on the very same page. FALLEN ANGELS will charm its way right into your heart.”
—BRANDILYN COLLINS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFDREAD CHAMPIONANDCAPTURE THE WIND FOR ME
“A haunting tale of innocence, greed, and spiritual awakening.”
—RANDALL INGERMANSON, CHRISTY AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OFOXYGENANDTHE FIFTH MAN
“A heartwarming read, both humorous and achingly real. A beautiful testimony to the truth of the human condition and the parts we play. Her characters are artfully unmasked to reveal ourselves.”
—KRISTEN HEITZMANN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFTWILIGHTAND THE DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES SERIES
“Inspired and inspiring, FALLEN ANGELS is a kaleidoscope of emotional hues—especially the emotions of laughter and joy. Can a story of the Great Depression lift your spirits? Can a con man teach you truths about life? Read this novel. It will make a believer out of you.”
—JIM DENNEY, AUTHOR OFANSWERS TO SATISFY THE SOULAND THE TIMEBENDERS SERIES
“Patty's innate ability to dish up a captivating tale with authentic Southern flavor is truly impressive!… This charming story is truly unforgettable.”
—MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OFARMANDO'S TREASURE, LOOKING FOR CASSANDRA JANE, BLOOD SISTERS,ANDFINDING ALICE
To my mother-in-law, Gaye Hickman, who reads every word of every book I write and makes me believe I should keep trying. It is for her and readers like her that I, with love and humility, dedicate this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a story set in the Great Depression in Arkansas was as natural to me as breathing. Although the characters from Fallen Angels, in the Millwood Hollow series and the town of Nazareth are fictional, the mood of the period, and the color and pulse of the setting come from the stories told to me as a young girl sitting at my grandpa's knee. It was in my grandparents’ home that I absorbed both the harshness of sudden poverty as well as the love of family that infused the Great Depression years. I am indebted to my family, mother and father, uncles, aunts, and great aunts who, although gone from this life, gave me a peek into a history roiling in change.
In interviewing those still living today who survived this period, I was surprised to find hardly any embittered people, and most lives changed for the better. From strife sprang stories of wonder and courage, faith and tenacity that left me with no fear of what may come. Whatever life may drop on the plains of American soil, always present is the courage to pick up our plows again and be transformed.
I'm thankful to my father-in-law, Kenneth Hickman, for providing the small tidbits here and there that make this story true. I'm indebted to Mrs. Lenny Betts and Mrs. Nelle Jean Dawson of the Camden Historical Society for their exhaustive facts and history of this era and setting in southwest Arkansas. The meticulous care they lend to the history of their hometown is enrichment for the rest of us.
I'm also grateful to Rolf Zettersten and Leslie Peterson of Warner Faith for believing in this project. Also thanks to my gifted editor Lisa Bergren who, so far, hasn't tired of me. Fallen Angels is one of the most rewarding stories I've had the privilege of penning and it is due entirely to the community of friends and family who have contributed from the heart. I hope to pass this heart-felt wonder and love of story on to you, the reader.
He had never been sure but that there might be something to the doctrines he had preached as an evangelist. Perhaps God really had dictated every word of the Bible. Perhaps there really was a hell of burning sulphur. Perhaps the Holy Ghost really was hovering around watching him and reporting.
—SINCLAIR LEWIS, ELMER GANTRY
1
A bit of trouble with attempted murder sent Jeb Nubey over the Texarkana border in the unfortunate direction of hunger. Everybody from the Texas side had gotten the wrong idea about the matter. If he had been a man of means, he would've been thought of as a stand-up guy instead of feller-on-the-run. That was all stand-up men were, he figured—the ones who could stand up with their pockets full of pay-offs and get fellers to see things in a new light. But now none of the itinerant boys—buddies he'd on many nights shared a bottle of the good stuff with—would talk to him. Once word spread of problems with the boss man, they just turned their sorry backs and walked away.
He'd never thought he would hear his name preceded by “no account,” as in no-account scum, no-account filth-of-the-earth. Worthless. Sh
iftless. Twenty-two years after his momma had given him the good name of Jeb, he'd descended to the rank Leon Hampton had awarded him—Leon and his son, Hank, who could never keep a gal on his tight-fisted leash due to his alcohol-infused temper.
The gal, Myrna. The Betty Boop gal. Round hips. Red lips.
“Last night, I nearly killed a man. Maybe I did kill him. Now no one will talk to me,” said Jeb.
“Hank got was coming to him,” Jeb's brother Charlie said. “But you got to hide, lay low until things simmer down in Texarkana. Until Hampton forgets your name.”
Hamptons owned everything in Texarkana, from the burlesque girls no one admitted worked for a nickel a dance down at the Biscuit and Bean, to the banking king who kept his doors open on Black Monday when the other Savings and Loans had closed.
“It's cowardly, Charlie. I ain't a running-away sort,” Jeb said.
Charlie packed up two work shirts along with all the Cash the two of them had earned picking cotton and handed it all to Jeb. “That's why Hank's laying near to death, because you don't run away. He came at you first. We all saw it. But you got them killer fists.” Charlie gave the air between them a hefty punch and then handed him the bag he'd filled with the cash and such. “We don't have no clout in Texarkana. Without clout, you got no witnesses—not none that a-body would listen to.”
Jeb wondered if Charlie had finally lost every bit of good sense. “Hank would have killed you, too, Charlie, if he had caught you with her. Don't give me eyes. I know'd you slept with Myrna, like we all did.”
Jeb had memorized Myrna. Myrna, the girl that pretended she loved him when she loved most of the starving gaggle of sharecroppers’ sons in Texarkana. Sweet skin, like the girls that posed for the better calendars. Paled by the blue of night, her hair spread against the hay bale, flaxen corn silk like the breath of moon and stars. Touched by Jeb. Myrna had her own perfume and the kind of girl's fragrant hair that wrapped her white dewy shoulders with an aroma like petals. Mind fogging. But not worth a killing. “It was you, Brother, that did the doing.”
“I didn't, don't you see.” Charlie's face gentled, faultless. “We never. You know I got Selma waiting for me in Oklahoma.”
“You expect me to believe you keepin’ yourself for Selma? I believe that like I believe we's going to wake up a Rockefeller.”
“Myrna loved you, Jeb. Said you cast a spell over her. Told me that over a bowl of beans. Now if that don't mean somethin’, nothing does.”
Jeb knew the truth. “She never belonged to Hank. Gals like her don't belong to nobody.” He shook out the insides of the bag and stuffed Charlie's money into a leather satchel his grandfather had once toted across the plains. He listened to the bearish sounds of the sleeping itinerant workers, hard sleepers fallen on their cots from a week of picking. Blood dried on boll-torn fingertips perfumed by corn liquor. “You think Hank will die, for real?” He could not breathe himself.
“Either way his daddy's gone after the sheriff. You got to get out of here!” Charlie's face was wet with worry.
“If I leave, they'll believe I meant to do him in. I stay, they at least hear my side.”
“You got no clout.”
“Stop staying that, Charlie, like I got no name!”
Hampton's hound dogs bayed. The moon had a faded paleness, as though a candle inside its glass was melting before sunup.
“I never meant to kill him, Charlie. If he dies, I should be hanged.”
“You listen to me, and you listen like I'm our momma! Give us some time, me and the boys, to talk to the sheriff. Otherwise they could string you up and gut ya before you can even whisper your own name. Hamptons, they got money. That sheriff listens to money. It calls his name. But if we all get to him, before the story gets turned around, blown into more than it was, I'll send for you.”
“I don't know where to go, Charlie! Just where do cowards hide?”
“Find a big place with lots of people. Hot Springs. Little Rock. No, that's the first place they'll look. Best you don't tell me. But after you get settled, write.”
“How you expect me t'do that?”
“Don't put your name on it, like, Here I am, come and get me, police.“ Both of them stared at the floor, locked in place and out of ideas. Disgraceful shame. Good schemers, but between the two of them, kind of low on dependable means. “I tell you what—just draw a big X on the letter. Have the postman stamp it with the town name. Lay low. I'll find you when it's safe.”
The whole desertion mess started in the Rialto Theater in Camden, Arkansas. The warm lap of summer brought out the townsfolk to the dance like they'd been spring-dosed with yarbs. Angel figured the Ouachita's, old ballroom dance hall across the street had lured in the wrong kind of man to draw her Aunt Lana's wandering eye. Lana, who wasn't really her aunt anyway, only a conniving woman, of a mind to do her daddy's errands only so she could keep food in her belly. Aunt, my hind foot, her mother might have said—if she herself had stuck around.
Saturday night at the movies in Camden fed hungry imaginations a front row view of the American Dream. Pin-up girls Iolled poolside on the big screen, California smiles as bright as morning light trickling across the Ouachita River. In the Arkansas movie theater, Angel closed her eyes to imagine the California sun warming her unshapely legs, tickling her calves until they turned heads, brown and never-ending like tall, elegant Sequoias. Forever legs, she imagined. Then she opened her eyes, palely thirteen again and deserted in the Rialto with her little brother, Willie, and her youngest sister, Ida May.
Two kids, a big girl with her younger brother, sat in front of them not in the least bit interested in Barbara Stanwyck or that glamour gal's rendering of a charlatan evangelist. With the movie screen for a halo, the girl turned around in the threadbare chair and stared at Angel and her siblings, curious and bored. The girl, her hair pig-tailed to distraction, pressed another jelly bean between her lips that puckered when she spoke as though she had practiced the Shirley Temple pucker too long at her mirror. She glanced up the aisle and then back at Angel. “Where'd your momma go to?”
“None of your business,” said Angel. She leaned right and slightly cocked her head.
“She ain't our momma. She's Aunt Lana,” said Willie.
Angel gave him a sort of tap in the arm with her elbow. “Don't say ‘ain't.’” She hated being marked an Arkie even though every farmer, bank clerk, and soda jerk in sight fit the type—the kind of people who drift into the middle of the nation, lose their wind, and stay. To Angel, saying “Ain't” was like saying “I give up and can't get no smarter.” But worse was hearing Willie mix Momma with Aunt Lana.
Angel talked about everybody and everything. But not Momma. It was the kind of thing she kept to herself as though some day the secret would bring the two of them closer. Her momma, Thorne, had disappeared into a Ford with two women who traveled to Little Rock to try and find work. Angel had stared after her, held onto her eyes, a pair of exotic browns like the kind that belong to bronzy island girls. Eyes that set off her luxurious hair tendriling out of the window. With her momma had left the only opulence that lingered in Snow Hill. The only hope that Angel would some day be as elegant as Thorne, drove off to Little Rock with a promise to send money.
Lemuel, her father, had too often of late paid more attention to a neighbor divorcee named Lana than his own kin. With Thorne run off to Little Rock, he finally packed the kids all off aimed in the general direction of the town of Angel's oldest sister, Claudia—a place called Nazareth. But of all the foolish ideas Daddy had ever dreamed up, sending them off with Lana took the cake.
“Where is Aunt Lana?” Willie shared his popcorn with Ida May, trying to keep her in her own seat and out of his.
“She's not our aunt. How many times I have to say it?” said Angel. She knew that Daddy thought that if he had the little ones call her “Aunt” her every-other-day appearances at the front door would give her full authority over the youngens. But Angel knew better.
Daddy had underestimated his girl.
“I think she run off with that huckster nosing around the hotel and left us here. If Daddy knew, he'd bean her.” Willie picked Ida May off his shoulder and deposited her on the other side of the chair arm.
“What's a huckster?” Ida May tried to curl up against her brother again.
“A peddler who ain't a bonafide person of worth.” Angel disappeared into the screen again, into the sin of Barbara Stanwyck, The Miracle Woman. The motion picture had finally made it into Arkansas. When Willie tried to speak again, Angel shushed him, a slow hissing that seeped out of her as she followed Miss Stanwyck across the screen.
Angel made them stay until the last credit rolled up and away. The house lights brightened slow and easy, turning the wallpaper red as lipstick.
“Let's try and find Lana,” said Willie.
Angel rolled up Willie's popcorn bag, tucked it under her arm, and herded the others out into the lobby. Once she thought she heard Lana's high, squeaky cackle—the same one she heard at night out on their front porch when Daddy sent them off to bed. But Lana was nowhere to be found.
Across the street from the Rialto a steady stream of couples clambered up the steps and across the mezzanine of the Ouachita Hotel to the grand ballroom, where a live band played. Most of Camden had turned out for the dance. The threesome headed out into the street and searched the crowd for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Angel turned to face the younger ones. The Rialto's neon marquis buzzed overhead. “Let's face it, Willie. Lana's gone. She ditched us.”
Ida May huffed, “Did not!”
“Willie, you stay down here next to this couple. Make like they're our folks until I get back. For safety. Stop looking at me like that. I'll check out the dance.”
Angel sidled up the steps to the landing. It led across the alley to the ballroom. She could see couples swaying across the hardwood floors, but no Lana. She met Willie and Ida May downstairs again and led them to Usrey's Drugstore on the corner of Washington and Adams, where she helped Ida May onto a stool. She made Willie stay with her while she crept past the faces reflecting back at her from the long ornate mirror behind the soda bar.
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