The Sleeping Night (4 page)

She stopped for one minute behind him, putting her head against his back. “Boy, I missed you more than I can even tell you.”

“I know, Mama,” he rumbled. “Me, too.”

They talked all through supper,
and he told her stories—safe stories, funny stories, not the dark or ugly ones—then Isaiah cleaned up the supper dishes. Now, his ribs straining after the huge meal, he squatted against the south wall of the house, smoking a Chesterfield. The sound of the river swishing and splashing mixed with the copper-edged notes of a steel guitar in the juke joint—Harry’s—not far away.

Texas weighed in the air like blood. Isaiah smelled the faint rot of growth on the riverbank, smelled cornbread and bacon fat and somebody baking a chocolate cake. All of it was familiar, the signposts of his childhood. Once, he had taken pleasure in the view of the sky through the branches of cottonwoods that lined the river and clogged the sewers around lower Gideon, had felt his heart pumping in joy at the sound of the music playing down yonder.

Tonight, he could barely breathe. His nose had learned other scents—lavender and heather and death. Gideon had become like one of the places he’d read about as a child. Real, surely, but without meaning.

The man he had become could not bow under the weight of this old Gideon. One way or the other, it would kill him if he stayed. His plan had been to see his mother and sister tonight, then head out tomorrow, maybe west to Colorado or California. He meant to pause at the Corey store only long enough to tip his hat before he jumped back on that train and took himself out of Texas. He wasn’t a man that needed lessons taught more than one time.

But now he’d learned that Parker Corey was dead, had been buried only a few days before. Whatever he said to himself, he knew he’d pay his respects, both to Parker and to his daughter, widowed by the same war that had spared Isaiah.

Flicking away the butt, he straightened—and started as a figure appeared in the trees beyond the house. He frowned, trying to make out who it was.

His sister strolled into the light—but not the child he’d left. “Lord have mercy,” he said, shaking his head, for she was six feet tall and broad shouldered, with a ripe, lush figure beneath her worn dress. He whistled, low and long, in admiration. “Honey, you did some growing while I was gone.”

She whooped and ran toward him, up the steps to throw herself into a back breaking hug, bringing with her a scent of whiskey. “So did you,” she said, and broke away from him saucily. “But while I got better, you just got uglier.”

A little bit tight, Isaiah thought as she flung herself upon the porch rail. Something tense and wound and hard inside of her. He propped a foot up on the rail and shook a cigarette out of the pack toward her. “That’s all right, honey,” he said with a lift of his eyebrows. “I got all I need.”

“Little easier to find it someplace else,” she said, dipping her head to the match he held. “Men get to run away. A woman’s always stuck behind.”

“You wanted to go fight Germans, Tillie?”

“Bet I’m as strong as most the men you fought with, bigger than most.” She spit a bit of tobacco from her tongue. “Don’t see why I couldn’t have learned to fire a rifle.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t no adventure.”

She jumped off the rail restlessly, and moved a few feet to stare into the dark. “Maybe. Maybe not. All over now, anyway.”

He thought of the rubble in the cities, the empty, blasted fields. It would be a long time before Europe forgot. But he didn’t want to talk about the war. “I hear you broke my record for picking cotton.”

“I sure did.” She grinned, showing straight white teeth and the same dimple Isaiah had. “Mama tell you?”

“Angel wrote me about it.”

Tillie stared at him for a minute, smoking, her long, exotic eyes unreadable. “She wrote you letters?”

He nodded. “I think she wrote every soldier in town.”

“I don’t know about all that,” she said quietly. Then, “You heard Parker died, I guess.”

“Mama said it wasn’t but a few days ago. Can’t believe I missed him by so little.”

“It was a blessing, Isaiah. You better off remembering him the way he used to be. It’s a wonder he lived as long as he did.” She shifted and smiled in memory. “
He
didn’t think it was so silly I wanted to be a soldier. Told me I’d be a good one—and I would’ve been, too.”

Isaiah smiled back. “I reckon you would have. Probably better than me—I didn’t like it.”

“Someday,” she said wistfully. “Maybe I’ll have a granddaughter goes to war someday.”

He touched her shoulder. “Maybe it’d be better if we didn’t have no more wars instead.”

“Yeah.” She snorted, then ground her cigarette beneath her heel. “Give me a hug. I gotta get me some sleep before I fall over. I’m glad you’re home, ’Saiah,” she said, hugging him tight. “I really missed you.”

In the morning, Isaiah went
by Mrs. Pierson’s as he’d promised. She tried pressing money on him, and he refused—she’d already sent him a bundle, and he had money saved from his pay through the war. He didn’t need it.

She offered him a job, rearranging her considerable yard. He gently turned that down, too. “I’m not staying, Miz Pierson. I’ll spend a few days with my mama, then I’m on the next train out.”

“I reckon you’ll want to pay your respects to Angel Corey at least.”

He bowed his head. He’d been thinking maybe he could skip out. What difference would it make?

As if she sensed his hesitation, Mrs. Pierson said, “Her father—”

“I know,” he said curtly, hands laced together. “He saved my life. I owe him.”

“I was going to say her father loved you like a son.”

Which just shamed him that much more.

After leaving her big house, he cut toward the river where it ran through town and followed it north to the cemetery where Parker had been laid four days before.

It was an old, old graveyard, the ground uneven with the roots of trees buckling the earth, knocking headstones a kilter in the oldest areas. In the midday sunlight, the air was still and green and quiet, broken only by the twitter of finches fluttering in the branches. He paused, feeling the peace of it ease down his neck.

As he stood there, wondering if he really wanted to visit a grave or just go on home, Angel Corey came from the town end of the graveyard by herself.

Isaiah stepped backward, hiding himself beneath the low hanging arms of a pine tree. She came slowly, weaving through the headstones in her ambling way, wearing a simple white dress with a wide collar, legs bare, feet stuck into a pair of slides. She was slight beneath the vastness of the Texas sky, and the pale, fine hair just skimmed her narrow shoulders, straight as if she’d used a ruler to cut it.

She was older, too. Skinnier. Not a beauty, never that, but still pretty as she’d ever been.

At Parker’s grave, she knelt, brushing that hair out of her face with an impatient hand, and placed a handful of flowers on the freshly turned earth. Then she stood and let her hands hang at her sides. Isaiah thought she might be talking, but he was too far away to tell for sure.

She looked so damned alone. Lonely. And it was no illusion. Her husband had been torpedoed in the Pacific three years before and, with her daddy gone, there wasn’t going to be anybody else in Angel’s corner.

Sure as hell couldn’t be Isaiah.

What he should do was go on and get it over with, he thought, give her his condolences and get himself on out of Gideon. But he couldn’t seem to make himself move forward. Or away.

As he watched, she lifted her face to the sunshine and closed her eyes. Little as she was, he thought she looked strong. He swallowed the thickness in his throat, then turned away and walked back toward home the way he’d come, a thousand memories of her presenting themselves to him. Angel as a little girl, and a teenager, as a widow writing him letter after letter, keeping his spirits up. He hadn’t told her he was coming back, either. He’d stopped writing to her once the war was over. It had been time to create some distance again.

Along the way through the woods, he found himself plucking wildflowers. When the worn roof of the Corey store came in view, he left the dimness of the forest to put the flowers on the step, where she’d be sure to find them when she came back home. For a long conflicted minute, he wondered if he ought to just wait for her.

Tomorrow, he thought, crossing the bridge to lower Gideon, maybe tomorrow he’d be ready to talk to Angel Corey. Face to face, without thousands and thousands miles between them.

And then, he’d just go on to California, far away from Gideon and Angel and the whole sorry mess that began when he started writing those damned letters.

November 25, 1942

Dear Angel,

I heard from my mama about Solomon and I’m just writing to tell you how sorry I am. He was a good man, and I can say that in spite of everything that happened between him and me. I’ve been wishing I could have told him I understood why he had to do things the way he did.

He loved you better than anything on earth, which I think you knew. When my mama wrote me about y’all getting married, I knew Solomon had to be crowing from the rooftops, even if he did have to go to war so soon after. He’s wanted to marry you since you were twelve. So I’m glad (and you should be, too) that he got what he most wanted out of life, even as young as he was when he died.

Knowing you, you’re trying to think of ways you could have done better with him, married him sooner or worn your shoes like he wanted, or maybe had some children to remember him by. Don’t think of the sad things, Angel. Think of the good ones.

Sincerely,

Isaiah High

“You just aren’t thinking with your right mind, Angel,” her aunt Georgia said. “Now your daddy’s gone, you can’t stay down here by yourself like this.”

Angel slid down on the worn chair, smelling the night air. Beyond the porch, pines bristled up against the east Texas sky, trees that stretched clear into Louisiana from this little store. A three-quarter moon washed out the light of the stars and she could smell the river. “Listen to all those creatures out there, would you?” she said, ignoring her aunt. “You always forget how noisy the summer is until it comes again.

Georgia sighed. If there had been a table to clean, she would have done it. As it was, she had to content herself with straightening the lavender-sprigged skirt of her dress. “You never have listened to a word anybody said. Just like your mama.”

Angel thought longingly of the cigarettes hidden away in her bedroom. “I wish,” she said quietly, “you’d just let it alone, Georgia.”

“How can I? You’ve got every tongue in town waggin’. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“It isn’t everybody in town, first of all. It’s the Walkers and a few others.” A lot of others, probably, if she was honest with herself. “I need the work. You’d think some those women would be standing up for me, anyway, instead of gossiping behind their hands about me all the time.”

“Oh, no one’s gossiping. It’s just natural conversation. Your daddy’s gone, Angel. It’s natural people will talk about what’ll happen to you now.”

“I’m not a child. I’m a full grown woman, a war widow. I’ve earned the right to make a living for myself.” She crossed her legs and wiggled a foot impatiently. “And I know it’s not like up North, but a lot of these women worked hard during the war.”

“That’s different, Angel, and you know it.”

“It isn’t different—I’ve run this store almost by myself for last two years. Why is it that I’m supposed to be helpless now?”

“The men need the work.”

“So does a woman alone,” she returned wearily.

“You’re alone by choice.”

Angel laughed bitterly. “No, I’m a widow.”

“Well, it’s been over three years. How long you gonna keep everybody at arm’s length?”

“Maybe always.” She shot a sharp glance at her aunt. “You can’t honestly expect me to even consider Edwin Walker.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’ve never even
liked
him, for one thing. That seems reason enough to me.”

“You set your standards too high. Edwin Walker’s got medals and money, and you can’t tell me he’s not a good-looking man.”

“He’s also been crazy as a mad dog as long as I can remember.” Angel crossed her arms. “And I frankly don’t see that war did him a whole lot of good.”

“You’re strong. You could turn him around.”

“Aunt Georgia, stop it. I don’t want to. No.”

“Well, you could probably catch the preacher if you had a mind to. He’s a good man.”

“Yes, he is. And I like him. I don’t want to be the preacher’s wife, either. I’m not interested in having some man tell me what do all the rest of my life.” All she really wanted right this minute was a little peace and quiet, some time to have a wailing good cry and maybe start thinking about what was next in her life. “I just want to be alone for a while.”

“That’s unnatural, child. People are meant to be in families, in pairs. Don’t you want to be a mama?”

Angel stretched her neck back and closed her eyes. The night swirled over her face like a lover, bath-water warm and soft as talcum. “I’ve lived in this house since I was born—it’s all I know. I really can’t believe you want me to sell out and give up everything, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “My daddy hasn’t even been gone a week.”

“Oh, honey. It isn’t the store.” Now Georgia had something to do. She reached over to hold Angel’s hand. “I’m just worried about you living here without a man in the house.”

“What you’re afraid of,” Angel said distinctly, yanking her hand away, “is that some colored man is gonna come in here and ravish me.”

“Angel!” The retort was sharp and shocked and scolding all at once.

“Well, it’s true. That’s what you’re all afraid of.” Angel sighed. “Georgia, do you think you could listen to me for just a minute? One minute?”

“If you’re gonna talk like that, I don’t want to hear it. Makes me sick.”

“I’m not going to talk like that. That’s just the point.” Angel pulled her aunt’s hand to her face. “I want you to really hear what I’m saying. Please?”

Georgia relented, smoothing the fine pale hair from her niece’s face. “Go ahead, baby, speak your mind.”

“I know every single person that comes in this store, and their mamas and sisters and brothers. They’re as familiar to me as you are. Nobody’s gonna hurt me.”

“You never had to be out here all alone.” Her voice dropped. “You can’t trust these people, no matter what your daddy told you.”

Angel felt a thick stirring in her middle and she pushed Georgia away. “He was your brother. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Don’t start throwing that in my face, Angel. Of course it does.”

“He wanted me to stay here.”

“Angel, honey, you’re just grieving. Maybe you’ll be able to think a little better when you’ve had some time—”

She jumped up. “I’m not giving up this store. Do you hear me?”

“Your daddy ruined you, Angel Corey.” Georgia rose, patrician in her tidy cotton dress. Her silver-streaked chestnut hair shimmered in the moonlight, and the little buttons on the front of her dress winked furiously as her considerable bosom heaved. “If you had
any
sense at all you’d marry Edwin Walker and have yourself some children, try to make yourself a normal life, instead of livin’ out here like some crazy spinster.” She moved toward the steps, but Angel knew there was more. “You know where to find me. I hope to God I don’t see you at my door in the middle of some night.”

Angel rolled her eyes, but she stayed right where she was as her aunt walked to the car. The ignition grated, then the engine caught and with a thunk of gears the car pulled out with a little spit of gravel.

Leaving her alone. Which was what she thought she wanted, but now the darkness moved close, pressing in with loneliness. Georgia, bossy and prim, was her only family, and Parker had always been there to intercede. “You gonna have to take care of things now, Angel,” he said when he got to the end. “Just remember you’re not ever really alone.”

But she felt alone, even in the coffee-rich Texas night—her life summed up in a long line of “withouts.” Without her daddy, a mama, a husband, children.

That was one thing Georgia had right. Angel mourned her lack of children. She had imagined she would have several by now. And tonight, in the gulf left by her daddy’s death, a child would have helped heal this emptiness, a child warm in her lap on this lonely night.

With a flap of wings and a strident squawk, a blue jay landed on the porch railing. He rattled off a series of whistles and chirps and screeches in a dizzying whirl.

Angel laughed. “Well, I didn’t mean I was totally alone,” she said to the bird. Ebenezer, mollified, meowed. Angel held out her hand and he flew to her, blinking. She stroked his neck. “You’re such a pretty baby. My sweet little companion.” He preened, his crest high, his feathers catching shimmers of moonlight.

“I reckon I could just go read,” she said. Ebenezer chirped and leapt to her shoulder. She gathered the ice tea glasses and carried them inside, her feet bare on the wooden slats of the store. She walked through the aisles and through a door to the living quarters. Five rooms, if she counted the bathroom; kitchen, living room with a radio, two small bedrooms. The kitchen table groaned with cakes and tiny white rolls curled in baskets. In the icebox was enough ham for an army, and big pans full of fried chicken and potato casseroles, all gestures of condolence from lower Gideon, who had loved her father.

In the very center of the dazzling array of food rested a crystal vase full of wildflowers, left this afternoon on her doorstep. She touched the petals with the tips of her fingers, then turned off the light and went to bed.

The rain started the next morning,
early. Started slow, a soft gray rain pattering on the trees and the gravel road in front of the store. Likely no one would arrive in such weather, so Angel turned on the radio for company and set about putting things in order.

She’d been nagging Parker for months to change things around. The bolts of cloth oughtn’t sit where the sun could get to them, and the cosmetics were scattered so hurry-scurry you couldn’t find a blasted thing. She lined up bottles of Breck and tubs of Dixie Peach pomade, ribbons and barrettes and combs. Toothpowder and brushes went with deodorants, cough drops and headache powders nearby. There were a few bottles of perfume in dusty boxes and some lipsticks in colors nobody would ever buy, even if they had the money. But she polished them up and left them, just in case. Some young girl might get a yen.

The bolts of fabric took longer, mainly because Angel couldn’t resist fingering them, imagining how this one would fall in a skirt, that one in a blouse. There was a long piece of gauzy green muslin that wanted somebody to do something. Be a pretty summer church dress, good for her eyes.

The rain started pounding hard by noon and the road out front puddled up. The leak in her bedroom at the back of the house dripped into a pot that she left in there for rainy days, and another leak in the bathroom dripped right into the bathtub. It turned into a waterfall before two. A spot in her daddy’s room started dripping like it did in the heaviest rain, so she carried a bowl in there, too.

Ebenezer flew from the store in the front to the rooms of the house in back, heading straight for the waterfall in the bathroom. Even over the pounding of the rain and the drops thunking into metal pans, Angel heard him fluttering and flapping under his shower. She peeked into the room. “Havin’ a good time, baby?”

He whistled.

By three, the rain had not let up and new leaks were springing open in the roof almost faster than Angel could find them. She moved her bed over and put another pot in the bathroom.

In the store, it was harder. A bad place opened up too close to the stock along the east wall, and then three spots dripped through the ceiling over the counter.

Laboriously, she moved the magazines to the kitchen table, then piled sacks of flour and sugar and beans into a pile in the middle of the kitchen floor, which by some miracle stayed dry. No miracle, she thought, glancing out the window. A tree, planted to shade the kitchen from the hard west sun in the late afternoons, had protected the roof as well.

At five, she ran out of containers to catch the water. She dumped all of them, then rearranged them so that the largest pots were placed below the worst leaks. Then she put on a sweater and escaped to the front porch.

Where, naturally, it was dry as a bone. Figured. Just beyond the protection of the shallow porch roof, the rain fell in torrents—a sheet of impenetrable gray. A fine spray of it touched her face and hands. The road had begun to run like the river that coursed past the back of the house. In the field east of the house, Angel could tell the garden she had planted a month ago had turned into a lake.

She sank into the familiar rocker and huddled into her sweater feeling like an island cut off from all humanity. The roof had been bad for a couple of years, but there’d been no materials to fix it.

How in the world would she fix it now? All her money had gone to the doctors and to medicines and to various and sundry other needs. Exhausted, she slumped forward on to her arms, crossed over her knees, and let go of a heavy breath. There were no tears, much as she would have welcomed the relief, only an engulfing, crushing loneliness.

“Now what, God?” she said aloud. “I’m worn out. You’re going to have to be very plain.”

The answer could not be Edwin Walker. She didn’t believe God wanted her to be miserable the rest of her natural life.

A dozen yards from her back steps, the river rushed by in swollen thunder. She wondered how her neighbors in Lower Gideon were faring. It looked like the river might flood.

All through the night, she stood sentry, wearily empting pots and mopping up the overflow as often as necessary. Her shoulders burned, and her eyes grew gritty, but finally the rain stopped just before dawn. Most of the stock was safe, and the furniture. The living room couch would have to be scrapped, but nobody ever sat in there anyway. Life had always been lived between the kitchen, the porch and the store. With grunts and heavings, she shoved the sofa onto to the back porch to dry, where at least the smell of the old stuffing wouldn’t stink up the rest of the place.