Free Angel in the Parlor by Nancy Willard Page B

dogs.”
    He drew up a kitchen stool and sat down.
    â€œYou can wait here till doomsday,” snorted Helen. “No girl will look at a man who can’t make a decent wage for himself.”
    Caleb smiled. He’d seen plenty of girls looking.
    â€œI make a decent wage. I got my own place now too. A little cabin behind Mount Holly. No water except for a stream. No electricity. No cops.” And then he added as if it had just occurred to him, “Why doesn’t Penny want to go out with me?”
    â€œBecause you’re no good,” Helen said vehemently. “What woman wants to sit up with a man on Mount Holly? A woman likes to be comfortable.”
    â€œPenny said that?” asked Caleb, surprised.
    â€œMother said it,” admitted Helen.
    I knew it was all over now with Mrs. Malory. Caleb’s revenges were swift. When a Mercedes nosed his old Ford out of a parking place, Caleb came back to let all of the air out of the tires and stole the hubcaps. He sent snakes to those who spoke ill of him; Reverend Peel’s wife received one in a teakettle, sent anonymously, which slithered out of the spout the first time she filled it with water.
    â€œWhat do you do on Mount Holly?” I asked him.
    â€œI watch for forest fires and make shoes.”
    â€œShoes?” exclaimed Etta. “Who taught you how?”
    â€œI taught me. When I’ve learned everything there is to know about leather, I’m going out to the West Coast to make me a fortune.”
    A thin wail brought Helen to her feet.
    â€œThe baby wants his bottle,” she said brusquely, and hurried out.
    â€œIf you ever need a sitter,” Caleb called after her, “I’m available.”
    Etta snorted, but Caleb paid no attention and turned instead to Galen.
    â€œI’ve got a little present here for Penny.”
    And he bent down and began searching through the pockets of the coat he’d thrown on the floor. A couple of quarters spun out on the linoleum. A key ring with a medal on it plunked at his feet.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s Jude, Saint of the Impossible,” he answered, pocketing it and still searching.
    â€œBut you ain’t Catholic, are you?” said Etta.
    â€œNo, I’m not Catholic. I got it from a buddy in the army.”
    â€œDo you believe in God?” persisted Etta.
    Caleb shrugged. “When I was an altar boy in Sioux City, I wanted to be a preacher.”
    â€œYou! A preacher!” shouted Etta, turning red. “The way you drink!”
    â€œChrist drank,” said Caleb quietly.
    â€œAnd running around with women!”
    â€œChrist ran around with a lot of women.”
    Etta was speechless. She wanted to walk out on him, but she could not take her eyes off what looked like a couple of leather bandages he was unrolling across his knees. Black leather, painted with flowers, the toes tooled with leaves, the cuffs studded with nails and, unmistakably, silver garters at the top.
    â€œWhat beautiful boots,” I told him.
    â€œThese are stockings,” he corrected me.
    â€œLeather stockings?” exclaimed Etta, astonished. “I never heard of leather stockings.”
    â€œWell, now you have,” smiled Caleb.
    He picked one up and stroked it like a cat, then laid it across the kitchen table. For the first time I noticed he used only one arm. I nudged Galen and whispered: see, one arm.
    â€œHow did you hurt your arm?” asked Galen loudly.
    I saw Etta close her eyes.
    â€œJumping down Niagara Falls when I was young.”
    Etta opened them again.
    â€œHow old are you?” I asked.
    â€œTwenty-three.”
    This saddened me. Anybody over nineteen was, in my mind, old enough to be my grandmother. As Caleb was leaving, we heard Helen tiptoeing down the stairs. Waving to us, he called over his shoulder.
    â€œI’m going to church, ladies. And if Penny is with anybody else except her mother and