above the high slant of broad cheekbones, glowed briefly with a pale white light. His square, smooth chin lifted. She remembered there was a dimple deep on one side of his mouth, but it didn’t flash now.
“All right,” she said suddenly. “Thank you.”
He nodded, glancing at the boy. “I reckon we better get back before they eat without us.”
Angel wiped a palm on the skirt of her dress. “Well.”
“I’ll come by to look at that roof tomorrow sometime.”
“Fine.” Feeling paper crackle in the pocket of her skirt, she shook off her surprise at Isaiah’s sudden appearance. “Oh, Paul, wait a minute.” She smiled at the boy, the ginger-haired grandchild of Maylene McCoy, a four-year-old with a crooked smile and mischievous eyes. His mother had gone north a few months before to find work. “I saved this for you, and was going to give it to your grandmamma tomorrow, but you can have it now.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt for an assortment of cut-outs of disciples, left over from Sunday school.
At the sight of the sheet, he looked puzzled. “What is it?”
“Just paper dolls. Look, here’s Paul.”
The child flashed his impish grin. “Thank you, Miss Angel.”
“You are so welcome.”
“See you.”
As they turned to go, Isaiah paused. “Miz Pierson asked me to tell you to come see her when you have a spare minute.” He cleared his throat. “Said this afternoon might suit her well, since the store’s closed.”
“Thank you.”
Isaiah nodded and walked away, the boy in his stead. Angel went inside to pour herself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher, and drank it with a deep thirst, hoping the cold would wash away the discomfort laying heavy in her chest. She stared out the kitchen window, watching sunlight play over the shiny leaves of a cottonwood, trying to tie the man Isaiah with the child she had grown up with.
Isaiah. She closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her cheeks.
Even without speaking a word, he bristled with presence. That wasn’t new. At sixteen, seventeen, the bristling had been anger, and had scared Parker half to death. Grumbling that history would not repeat itself, not as long as he had two legs, Parker had talked himself blue until Isaiah reluctantly joined the Army, one step ahead of the war.
She poured another glass of tea. As a boy, he’d always been quiet. Saw everything with those big dark eyes and showed nothing. That was after his daddy died. Before—Angel reached back, back to evenings on the porch of the store, when she and Isaiah had played hide and seek or tag while the grownups traded stories and took some time off from their hard weeks to chat. In those days, Isaiah had been sunny and laughing, full of riddles and jokes and surprises.
She smiled suddenly, remembering the mysterious gift of wildflowers. Isaiah must have left them. Some of the small boy was mixed in there, then. And some of that bristling older boy, too. And something else, found in battlefields and faraway lands.
A flat red tin in her bedroom held the dozens of letters that chronicled his war days, some quick little notes, written hastily as he waited for duty, others long, pages and pages and pages of people and thoughts and comments on the lands he visited.
Real, she thought now. In his letters, he’d been himself. Outside a few minutes ago, she hadn’t been able to find a cornerstone upon which they could meet. Not in childhood or in the letters they’d traded. Now he was like the seventeen-year-old Isaiah who had avoided the store at all costs unless his mama forced him to come help her carry purchases of one kind or another. On those rare occasions, Isaiah mumbled replies to Parker’s questions with his eyes lowered, his mouth sullen.
One afternoon when they were teenagers, Angel had been hanging out the laundry and had come around the side of the house to rinse her washtub at the pump in the garden. She’d surprised Isaiah sulking against a tree and she’d
“All right,” she said suddenly. “Thank you.”
He nodded, glancing at the boy. “I reckon we better get back before they eat without us.”
Angel wiped a palm on the skirt of her dress. “Well.”
“I’ll come by to look at that roof tomorrow sometime.”
“Fine.” Feeling paper crackle in the pocket of her skirt, she shook off her surprise at Isaiah’s sudden appearance. “Oh, Paul, wait a minute.” She smiled at the boy, the ginger-haired grandchild of Maylene McCoy, a four-year-old with a crooked smile and mischievous eyes. His mother had gone north a few months before to find work. “I saved this for you, and was going to give it to your grandmamma tomorrow, but you can have it now.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt for an assortment of cut-outs of disciples, left over from Sunday school.
At the sight of the sheet, he looked puzzled. “What is it?”
“Just paper dolls. Look, here’s Paul.”
The child flashed his impish grin. “Thank you, Miss Angel.”
“You are so welcome.”
“See you.”
As they turned to go, Isaiah paused. “Miz Pierson asked me to tell you to come see her when you have a spare minute.” He cleared his throat. “Said this afternoon might suit her well, since the store’s closed.”
“Thank you.”
Isaiah nodded and walked away, the boy in his stead. Angel went inside to pour herself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher, and drank it with a deep thirst, hoping the cold would wash away the discomfort laying heavy in her chest. She stared out the kitchen window, watching sunlight play over the shiny leaves of a cottonwood, trying to tie the man Isaiah with the child she had grown up with.
Isaiah. She closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her cheeks.
Even without speaking a word, he bristled with presence. That wasn’t new. At sixteen, seventeen, the bristling had been anger, and had scared Parker half to death. Grumbling that history would not repeat itself, not as long as he had two legs, Parker had talked himself blue until Isaiah reluctantly joined the Army, one step ahead of the war.
She poured another glass of tea. As a boy, he’d always been quiet. Saw everything with those big dark eyes and showed nothing. That was after his daddy died. Before—Angel reached back, back to evenings on the porch of the store, when she and Isaiah had played hide and seek or tag while the grownups traded stories and took some time off from their hard weeks to chat. In those days, Isaiah had been sunny and laughing, full of riddles and jokes and surprises.
She smiled suddenly, remembering the mysterious gift of wildflowers. Isaiah must have left them. Some of the small boy was mixed in there, then. And some of that bristling older boy, too. And something else, found in battlefields and faraway lands.
A flat red tin in her bedroom held the dozens of letters that chronicled his war days, some quick little notes, written hastily as he waited for duty, others long, pages and pages and pages of people and thoughts and comments on the lands he visited.
Real, she thought now. In his letters, he’d been himself. Outside a few minutes ago, she hadn’t been able to find a cornerstone upon which they could meet. Not in childhood or in the letters they’d traded. Now he was like the seventeen-year-old Isaiah who had avoided the store at all costs unless his mama forced him to come help her carry purchases of one kind or another. On those rare occasions, Isaiah mumbled replies to Parker’s questions with his eyes lowered, his mouth sullen.
One afternoon when they were teenagers, Angel had been hanging out the laundry and had come around the side of the house to rinse her washtub at the pump in the garden. She’d surprised Isaiah sulking against a tree and she’d
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