Free The Sleeping Night by Barbara Samuel Page B

remember, she’d awakened to the twitterings of blackbirds in the cottonwoods. Alone in the deep quiet of morning, she’d dress and slip outside to the front porch, waving to those first early travelers on the road to town. It had only seemed natural to go ahead and open up the store. And sometimes, someone would buy thread or a length of cotton or some such thing for the day ahead, but mostly they stopped for the comfort of friendly faces.
    The first customer this Monday morning was Clara Jackson. She came in just as the coffee was finishing, a short, rotund woman with shiny black skin. “Mornin’, Angel,” she called in a high, sweet voice.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Jackson.” She poured a thick ceramic mug full of coffee. “Let me run and get the milk out.”
    “Take your time, honey. I’m in no hurry.”
    Angel filled the pitcher and returned, putting spoons on the counter. Mrs. Jackson took one to stir sugar into her cup. “Hear the rain put some new holes in your roof.”
    “I had buckets all over the place,” she commented, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “How’d you do?”
    “Well, it ruined my garden, of course, but we sit up kinda high. Nothin’ else was hurt.”
    “It drowned my garden, too. I’m thinking I might try planting again this afternoon.” She stirred milk into her cup. “I never liked growing vegetables, but it got to be such a habit during the war that I can’t imagine a summer without it now.”
    Two other women came in, Geraldine High, Isaiah’s mother, and Maylene McCoy, Paul’s grandmother, with Paul in tow.
    “Good morning, Clara,” said Mrs. High. “Mornin’, Angel.”
    “Mornin’.” Angel poured two more mugs of coffee and looked at Paul. “What’ll you have, sir?”
    The boy beamed, crawling up on a stool. “Coffee.”
    Angel glanced at Mrs. McCoy, who nodded. “He drinks half coffee, half milk. Can you do that? I’ll pay for the extra.”
    “Oh, don’t be silly. I can spare a little milk.”
    Maylene looked tired, Angel thought, her beautiful walnut skin pulled taut around the eyes, her mouth drawn. “Are you feeling ill this morning, Mrs. McCoy?”
    The older woman shook her head and sipped her coffee.
    Geraldine High spoke. “She’s had to take Paul with her to work for a week now.” Isaiah’s mother met Angel’s eyes. She was nearing sixty but it didn’t show. Her bearing was straight, and behind her spectacles, her deep brown eyes were clear and sharp. Not a single wrinkle marred the skin, a fact that Angel marveled over again and again—especially since she had begun to notice a few on her own face.
    “Last Friday,” Geraldine continued, “Paul accidentally broke a crystal vase and there was considerable fuss.”
    “Why do you have to take him?” Angel asked.
    “Anybody that might keep him is in the fields for the planting right now. They was about to get done, but now with that rain .  . .” she trailed off.
    While they talked, Paul had leaned over the counter to grab a handful of straws kept in a tall glass. Angel shook her head, holding out her hand for the straws. He placed them in her palm with a sheepish grin. She winked. “Why don’t you let me keep him here?”
    “Oh, that’s kind, but I can’t impose like that.”
    “In case you never noticed, I really like children, and I like this one here in particular. He won’t be any trouble.” When she saw Maylene still hesitated, she added, “You don’t have to pay me anything, if that’s your worry. It’s been lonely around here and I’d like the company.”
    Maylene’s face softened. “We all miss your daddy, honey. No doubt about it.” She frowned at her grandson. “If I let you stay here, are you gonna mind Miss Angel and stay out of her way?”
    “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m always good for Miss Angel.”
    Clara nudged Maylene. “Go on. Ain’t no sense in you losing your place.”
    “All right then. You know,” she said to Angel, “that I sometimes don’t get