The Sleeping Night (31 page)

For an instant, Angel was shocked. Then it took all she had to keep from laughing out of nervous reaction. There was no doubt at all that these two had been part of the vandalism at her store, that they were both mean as skunks before spending years and years getting meaner in war.

At the gathering thunder in Tom’s face, Angel jerked hard on Gudren’s arm. “Let’s go.”

But Jake pushed her, “Nobody told you to go yet. You still haven’t properly introduced us.”

From behind them came Mr. Cox’s voice. “Tom and Jake, where the hell are your manners? Get outta that doorway right this minute. You wanna come in, come in, but don’t stand there blocking the ladies’ way.”

“Ladies?” Tom echoed. But he stepped aside.

Angel pushed by them, the back of her neck rippling. Even out on the street, she didn’t slow until her feet gained a path that led to the river. There, under the heavy shade of an oak tree, she shuddered and shook her limbs like she’d been covered in spider webs. “Ugh!”

Gudren said beside her, “Angel, I am sorry, I lost my temper—it was—”

“Don’t apologize, please, Gudren.”

“But I acted foolishly.”

Angel gave her a wry glance. “Where did you learn to swear like that?”

With a grim twist of her mouth, Gudren said wearily, “You would be surprised at what I know. Much of it, I wish I could forget.”

Angel met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Neither of them spoke for long moments. Angel felt her fear slipping into the soothing sound of the river as it swished over rocks and eddied into pools. She took a long breath. “I’m so ashamed of them for calling you names like that. After everything that has happened, you would think .
 . .”

“I knew about America, Angel.”

“What do you mean?”

Gudren pursed her lips, her gaze trained on the opposite bank of the river. “There was a woman with me, in the camps. She was a German Jew who escaped Europe on a ship that sailed to America.” Gudren plucked a long stem of grass, her voice almost completely flat as she continued, “The ship was filled with Jews running away. A thousand or more. It sailed the length of North and South America. No one would let them in.”

She repeated, “No one would let them in. So,” she said with a bitter smile. “The ship came back to Europe.”

The story left a hollow sensation in Angel’s gut. “I do wonder where God was through all of this.”

“God must have human hands, yes?”

“Yes.” She sank down on the grass, and Gudren joined her. “Will you stay here, Gudren?”

“I thought I might,” she said. “But I do not think so. I had hoped that we—my mother’s sister and I—could go to Palestine together, but I think she will not live so much longer. So I will wait and then go alone.”

The sudden thought that Mrs. Pierson, too, would be gone from Gideon gave Angel a thrust of sadness. It must have shown on her face, for Gudren reached over to cover her hand. “Will you come to supper before you go, you and Isaiah?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask him.” But disturbed, she looked back to the river, unable to shake the sense of impending threat Tom and Jake had lit within her.

Something was afoot.

September 10, 1945

Dear Isaiah,

I guess you aren’t going to write any more letters to me. Haven’t had one since July. I keep hoping I’ll get another one, get your new address, but I haven’t got anything yet, so I asked Mrs. Pierson today what the address was where she was writing you.

It’s a good thing, what you’re doing for her. We’ve been hearing all the horrible stories, seeing all the pictures that are coming out of the war zone, all the wretched things the Nazis did. I can’t even imagine how that hurt your heart, Isaiah. I’m so sorry. I don’t hardly know what to say, it’s been so long since your last letter maybe you don’ t want to write any more. I understand that, but Isaiah, if you could come home just to see my daddy before he dies, it sure would be a good thing.

Your friend always,

Angel

PS He’s really sick, Isaiah.

Exhausted from the long night and the week he’d spent working from sun up to sundown, Isaiah slept most of the day. It wasn’t something he had intended to do, but his body took over when he settled on his bed to rest. He didn’t awaken until late afternoon sunshine streamed through his window and in his face. For a long moment, he was disoriented. His head ached vaguely and his shoulder was sore, but he couldn’t remember quite why. Had there been a battle?

No. Home. He was home.

He swung his feet off the bed and his left ankle shot a vicious protest through his leg into his hip. He’d fallen, twisted the damned ankle in the rungs and sprained it good. Rubbing his face, trying to clear the muzziness from his brain, he remembered the fall—slamming his shoulder, bumping his head—

Angel.

A fresh flood of love and heat washed through him as he remembered her plump mouth and fragile, strong body, the fury with she had met his lovemaking. And he remembered the strange, glowing light that had surrounded them in the darkness as they had joined, finally, after so many long years of denial.

Have mercy
.

He had loved her a long time. In childhood he admired her will and sense of humor and lack of fear. In adolescence, her slim young body had been the focus of every raging man-thought he dreamed. No matter who slaked the edges, it was always Angel he wanted. As an adult, he thought he had learned to control himself and his unsuitable wishes; thought that he’d learned that nobody in this life got just what they wanted.

God, he loved her. So deeply, so completely, so mindlessly it was like a thing apart. It had only been a few hours since he’d left her and he was already so starved for her company that he could barely stand it.

The aching wish for her propelled him to his feet, and he made his way to the kitchen where his mama kept a rag drawer. The movements made him a little dizzy, and he had to practically drag the foot behind him. He collapsed on the chair near the drawer. There were no scissors there, or anywhere else he looked, so he tore long strips of ancient cotton sheets and wrapped the sausage-swollen ankle tightly. It helped.

He washed up and changed his clothes, and only then thought of his mother, who would soon be coming home to find him gone again. His conscience slammed him with a vision of her worn face and the worry it would show. Her eyes this morning had been filled with a terror Isaiah had never seen. She’d tried so hard to keep from showing it.

Wouldn’t take long to fix her up some supper and leave it warming on the stove. Fighting the sense of urgency he felt to get to Angel, he fried potatoes with onions and bacon, and whipped up a stack of pancakes to leave in the oven. She’d always liked breakfast for supper and supper for breakfast—made her feel like a girl, she said. And it was the one thing she hadn’t been able to enjoy when she cooked for her husband.
A man,
she used to say in a low voice supposedly imitating Isaiah’s father,
got to have meat in the evenin’.

As he baked flapjacks in a heavy skillet, it struck him that he’d always had a very strong, clear picture of his father. That was his mother’s doing. She kept Jordan alive in Isaiah’s heart by telling him over and over what his father had done, and how, and when, making of him almost a legend. He’d been a hero in France, fighting with a French battalion, then came home to battle for the poor and downtrodden in Gideon. He could shoot a deer right through the eyes at 400 paces and skin a catfish clean in about five seconds flat. She had loved him and kept his memory alive for his children with a thousand stories.

This morning had been the first time he’d ever heard even a hint of bitterness. “Talk,” she said. “Lord he could talk.”

When the supper was finished, he left the pan on the back of the stove and put a note on it that said only,
Don’t worry, Mama.

He headed out through the back door and toward the river, which had gone down considerably since this morning. Truth was, across the river to the Corey store was about a three or four minute trip and, aside from snakes and the odd flood season, it wasn’t much of a crossing. Down the road and across the bridge was close to a mile.

The water loosened his bandage and he found himself limping hard on the opposite side of the bank, even with the help of the stick. As he reached the thicket of cottonwoods and pines that hid the store, the fogginess in his brain suddenly cleared.

What the hell was he doing?

I never thought I’d see the day you let them kill her.
As the back of the Corey house and store came into view, he kicked something. A tin can, pierced with a bullet hole.

Where love had been shimmering through him, a harsh fury now burned—fury at himself. This was no game. Texas wasn’t England or France, where there might have been frowns him loving this woman—and most of those from his own countrymen, not the locals—but no danger to speak of.

This was bloody, bloody Texas. Where the dark forest was filled with the ghostly cries of those who had been punished with beatings and lynchings and worse, for real and imagined infractions of the careful class system that had been so grimly erected here. His daddy had been killed in this very forest. His own nearly-deadly beating had taken place here, and that one over Angel smiling at him. Just smiling. If Edwin Walker knew how much more Angel had now done, there would be no stopping his rage and violence, and this time, it wouldn’t be Isaiah Edwin would punish.

There were things worse than dying.

His mind filling with brutal pictures, Isaiah paused, staring in despair at the worn shingles of the old store.
Have mercy.

The door opened, and Ebenezer flew out, squawking out a litany of complaint and dire scolding. Isaiah stepped backward in to the trees, waiting for a glimpse of Angel before he took himself back across the river. The throaty sound of her laughter rang through the stillness, and she stepped outside on the back porch. Her dress was pale green with a white collar, the same dress she had worn the day she made pineapple upside down cake because she’d known he couldn’t resist it. He remembered how hard he had fought that afternoon to keep his eyes from her mouth, from her legs, bare and slim beneath the dress.

The bird flew in the pitiful circles it could manage, chirping, and whistling and almost cackling with laughter, then flew right for Isaiah in the trees, shrieking out a greeting. Caught now—and hadn’t he wanted to be caught?—Isaiah lifted his arm. With a tiny scratch of claws, Ebenezer landed and scooted up toward Isaiah’s shoulder, nuzzling against his face like a cat. Isaiah laughed softly. “You funny thing.”

Angel hadn’t moved from the porch and, feeling absurdly shy, Isaiah finally had to look at her. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her face was a mask of uncertainty.

But in her eyes was the same love he felt burning within himself, so deep a longing that a hundred years couldn’t possibly quench it. Before he knew he would do it, he stepped forward, drawn by that expression. At the bottom of the steps he paused, giving her a faint, knowing smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” In a calm voice, she said, “I have something for you inside.”

“Is that right.” He smiled, very slowly, and he limped up the steps to follow her inside. She closed the door behind him and turned to fling herself into his arms, standing on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth, her eyes glittering, her breasts and belly hard against him. Isaiah let go of the cane, hearing it clatter to the floor as he grabbed her closer to him, threading his fingers through her hair to hold her scalp so that he could fit their mouths together more tightly.

Drowning. He was drowning in joy.

Angel broke away and tugged him into her bedroom at the back of the house where they fell on the comfort of the bed, and there were no thoughts then, only mouths and hands and skin, only soft cries and fierce nips and the ancient rhythm of sex.

A long time later,
Angel felt Isaiah shift away from her. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.” He reached down to pull the sheet over them. He bent his head and kissed her neck before settling next to her again, propped on one elbow. When he grinned, the dimple in his left cheek gave him a boyish expression. “That was really something you had for me.”

She stretched against him, rubbing her shoulder up against his chest like a cat. “I thought I just might fade away waiting to see you again. I didn’t expect you tonight.”

“I didn’t expect to be here.” He brushed her hair away from her face, eyes growing serious. “I stood out there in the trees thinking about all the things that could happen to you if Edwin finds out about this. It’s dangerous, Angel. We should figure out how to get out of here, where to meet, and then just stay the hell away from each other until we get there.”

“I know. I spoke with Mrs. Pierson this morning. She is going to take the store as an investment and find someone to work it.”

“Good. Meantime, we just won’t even talk.”

“That scares me. What if we miss each other somehow?”

“We won’t.”

“All right. But let’s not talk about it right now.” She nuzzled her face in to his neck, smelling the familiar scent. “Not now.”

“Look at me.”

She sighed and fell back on the pillow.

“You can’t run now into one of your books—and you got to be clear about what you want.”

“You know what I want.’’

He shook his head, curling one hand around her face. “You have to tell me.”

The light in the room was dim and smoky-colored. Angel tugged the sheet around her more closely. She shook her head. “You’re still underestimating me, Isaiah High.”

“Am I?” His face was sober, and more vulnerable than she had ever seen it, and suddenly she thought of him at six, reading to her on the front porch, so proud and pleased, doing it to impress her. “No matter what, it’ll never be an easy life.”

She touched his jaw, vast tenderness spreading over her ribs. “You want to make sure I know what I’m getting myself into, don’t you? That I love you enough for that.”

“You don’t how ugly people can be.”

She lifted her eyebrows, “What? Somebody might call me a name, or spit in my face or something? Somebody might threaten me or someone I love?” She pressed her lips together. “We’ll be on the outside, never inside.”

“Always,” he rumbled, and traced the line of her collarbone. “Won’t be easy to make friends, not for us, or—” He cleared his throat. “Any babies we have. D’you ever think of that?”

She thought of her dream, just before he came home, a beautiful girl child with black curls and chubby hands. The longing for that child slammed her so hard that she had to close her eyes, tears rushing up through her so fast she could stop them. In a cracked voice, she said, “Yes, I have.”

He bent to her, pressed his head against hers. “Does it scare you?”

A thousand answers twisted around themselves. “Yes,” she said. “And no. I wish it wasn’t going to be like it is.” She bit her lip and glanced outside to the falling twilight. “I used to get mad at my daddy sometimes, when I was a little older and nobody wanted to be friends with me because of him, where we lived, how outspoken he was about everything. I used to wonder why he couldn’t just shut up for five minutes and let everybody think he was down here exploiting the colored folks like anybody else.”

He laughed.

“I’m a naturally friendly person, Isaiah. I like to be with people and talk to them and know what’s in their minds. It’s always been a tiny bit hard to be always on the outside like I am.”

“I see that.” His hand moved on circles over her belly. “Go on.”

“I wish it didn’t matter.” She touched his springy hair. “I wish there were all kinds of beautiful, all kinds of loving, room for everybody. I wish hate and bombs and Hitlers would just stop.”

His hand was still. “But that ain’t gonna happen.”

“I know. It won’t happen. And I’m going to love you until I die, no matter who likes us or our children or don’t like us. So we might as well just make the best of it. Not like I don’t know how to live on the outside.”

He tugged her close. “There’s a place for us. We’ll just keep looking till we find it.” His arms were tight around her, his big leg lassoing both of hers. “Are you gonna have some babies for me to hug and kiss?”

“As many as you want,” she said softly, “but we better hurry up, cuz I’m not getting any younger.”