been pleased, so pleased to see him, out away from people where they could talk. But his only response to her cheerful hello had been a single, searing glance of purest hatred.
Angel had backed away, wounded but wiser. To make matters worse, her daddy had yelled at her from the back porch with a hard note in his voice, like she was five years old and poking holes in flour sacks to watch the white stuff flow out in a tiny stream.
“Get your bottom in here, girl,” he’d hollered, words rough with fury.
Now, so many years later, Angel knew it had been Isaiah her daddy had been worried over, worried sick that he’d get himself killed somehow. On that sunny afternoon, all she’d felt was a vague, thudding guilt.
A vestige of it lingered. For as she’d heard Isaiah offer to answer her prayers for a new roof, her first thought had been that her daddy wouldn’t be there, that there were times no customer would be shopping and Isaiah would be up on her roof, bristly and grown into his anger, and there was no place, no way for them to meet as friends.
— 9 —
March 10, 1943
Dear Angel,
I see you all over the place here—in the rain and the castles and the fog, in the girls who look like you with their soft complexions. If somebody asked me what place was made for Angel Corey, I’d have to say England.
It was real good to get your letter. Sometimes, even with all that I hated about it, I miss home, miss seeing all the people that know me without me having to say a word. I miss playing chess with Mr. Parker and visiting with the preacher and hearing the music from the juke joint come up river on the night wind. Funny. Big ole Isaiah High, homesick as a little boy.
[Never mailed.]
March 12, 1943,
Dear Angel,
It was good to get your letter. Thank you for all the news. Sometimes, a body does get homesick.
You asked me to tell you about England. It’s different. The weather, the people, the way things look and feel—all of it. I expected it to be like the States, but it ain’t.
I remember how bad you wanted to come to London. Well, that place sure isn’t the same place it was, I can tell you that. There’s big holes everywhere from the bombing, and all kind of buildings looking like they might fall down any minute. You probably seen the newsreels, but it’s something to see it in person.
There’s a lot of shortages of everything here, too, but you said you heard it was worse, and you were right. There’s just nothing, but people just go on and do what they usually do, only in smaller ways. They invite you to tea and go dancing and try to pretend nothing is different, much as they can.
Here’s something you’ll like—people have yards around their houses, but they call it a garden. I kept looking for some vegetables, but it’s just the yard. There’s a lot of flowers (not this time of year, naturally) and you’d like how people take it seriously, the flowers around their places. Course now everybody is growing vegetables, too, even right in the city. On my days off, I’ve been helping some folks in one neighborhood get the soil tilled and ready to plant. Most of them are old, cheery, and all they young people are soldiers and nurses and suchlike.
The people themselves are kind of funny. Like they have this thing about never being surprised, but I know I run into people who never saw a man as black as me in their lives, but they act like it’s natural. And they seem to like Yanks, as long as the soldiers (white or colored) don’t mess too much with their girls. Course, no Yank’s ever quite as good as a Brit. Funny.
I’ve made friends with an old lady who shares her tea with me when I can get there. I felt bad at first, cause she don’t have a lot and I didn’t want to take her share, but one time I said no and you could see she was crushed. So I go. What she wants is somebody to talk to and tell her stories to. Her husband was in the Foreign Service and they traveled all over “The Colonies”
Angel had backed away, wounded but wiser. To make matters worse, her daddy had yelled at her from the back porch with a hard note in his voice, like she was five years old and poking holes in flour sacks to watch the white stuff flow out in a tiny stream.
“Get your bottom in here, girl,” he’d hollered, words rough with fury.
Now, so many years later, Angel knew it had been Isaiah her daddy had been worried over, worried sick that he’d get himself killed somehow. On that sunny afternoon, all she’d felt was a vague, thudding guilt.
A vestige of it lingered. For as she’d heard Isaiah offer to answer her prayers for a new roof, her first thought had been that her daddy wouldn’t be there, that there were times no customer would be shopping and Isaiah would be up on her roof, bristly and grown into his anger, and there was no place, no way for them to meet as friends.
— 9 —
March 10, 1943
Dear Angel,
I see you all over the place here—in the rain and the castles and the fog, in the girls who look like you with their soft complexions. If somebody asked me what place was made for Angel Corey, I’d have to say England.
It was real good to get your letter. Sometimes, even with all that I hated about it, I miss home, miss seeing all the people that know me without me having to say a word. I miss playing chess with Mr. Parker and visiting with the preacher and hearing the music from the juke joint come up river on the night wind. Funny. Big ole Isaiah High, homesick as a little boy.
[Never mailed.]
March 12, 1943,
Dear Angel,
It was good to get your letter. Thank you for all the news. Sometimes, a body does get homesick.
You asked me to tell you about England. It’s different. The weather, the people, the way things look and feel—all of it. I expected it to be like the States, but it ain’t.
I remember how bad you wanted to come to London. Well, that place sure isn’t the same place it was, I can tell you that. There’s big holes everywhere from the bombing, and all kind of buildings looking like they might fall down any minute. You probably seen the newsreels, but it’s something to see it in person.
There’s a lot of shortages of everything here, too, but you said you heard it was worse, and you were right. There’s just nothing, but people just go on and do what they usually do, only in smaller ways. They invite you to tea and go dancing and try to pretend nothing is different, much as they can.
Here’s something you’ll like—people have yards around their houses, but they call it a garden. I kept looking for some vegetables, but it’s just the yard. There’s a lot of flowers (not this time of year, naturally) and you’d like how people take it seriously, the flowers around their places. Course now everybody is growing vegetables, too, even right in the city. On my days off, I’ve been helping some folks in one neighborhood get the soil tilled and ready to plant. Most of them are old, cheery, and all they young people are soldiers and nurses and suchlike.
The people themselves are kind of funny. Like they have this thing about never being surprised, but I know I run into people who never saw a man as black as me in their lives, but they act like it’s natural. And they seem to like Yanks, as long as the soldiers (white or colored) don’t mess too much with their girls. Course, no Yank’s ever quite as good as a Brit. Funny.
I’ve made friends with an old lady who shares her tea with me when I can get there. I felt bad at first, cause she don’t have a lot and I didn’t want to take her share, but one time I said no and you could see she was crushed. So I go. What she wants is somebody to talk to and tell her stories to. Her husband was in the Foreign Service and they traveled all over “The Colonies”
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