Earthly Vows (28 page)

“Wasn’t there a gang robbery in Ardmore?” said Fern.

“Was the girl in your care then?” asked the deputy.

Jeb hesitated.

“She was out shopping,” said Fern. “Not always with us.”

“Your girl could be in a world of hurt, Reverend, or completely fine, never know.” He closed up his book and asked for the
telephone number of First Community Church. Jeb gave it to him, but asked, “What do we do now?”

“What you do best, sir. Pray for your little girl.” The deputy left.

“My head is swimming,” he told Fern. “This can’t be true, not of Angel. She’d never follow after that kind, not her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know.”

“What if she does?” Had she slipped completely away this time? “What happened at Claudia’s place?” asked Fern. Jeb helped
Fern to a chair. “I learned this from little John, mind you, not Claudia. Claudia was dating some hoodlum. He tried to make
a move on Angel and she took off. How she hooked up with this Foster fellow, I can’t say. Claudia has no telephone, and little
of anything else to keep together body and soul.”

“I’m staying at Sybil’s this weekend,” said Fern. Jeb nodded. He didn’t know what else to say.

Nash stayed in a boardinghouse, a brick two-story surrounded by a dying garden. The interior was sectioned off by a staircase,
a maze of halls, and many rooms, all rentable on either a long-term or a short-term lease. His room, as he said, offered two
clean beds, one against one wall, the second near the window; there were stiff, crisp linens, white from thorough bluing.
Angel slept near the window, at times startling awake to see Nash sleeping as he had promised, not finding his way into her
bed. When she roused at dawn, Nash was already gone. The proprietor, he said was a woman named Ruth Levy. Don’t let her know,
he told her, that you slept here, only that you know me and I said she might give you some work. He left an uncle’s address
on the nightstand for her use. The plumbing was often warmed up by sunup, was another thing she ought to know, since the guests
were early risers. Nash got the lucky draw. His room had its own private toilet and bath. Angel slid into the warm tub, water
up to her chin. She pulled up her knees and there was the bruise on her thigh. It was deep purple, a crescent moon yellowing
on one side. She borrowed the bar soap left on the sink, soft and white and smelling of lilac. The lathering felt good, a
coarse cloth rubbing her torso and legs, washing away yesterday.

A key rattled in the outside latch. She rinsed quickly and yanked the stopper. A white towel, thick and soft, hung on a hook
on the bathroom door. She wrapped up in it. A young woman’s voice called out, “Anyone here?” The voice was expectant, familiar.
The bathroom door opened. An Asian girl stood holding a stack of towels. Angel surprised her.

“I sorry, I sorry,” she kept saying, a trite curtsy, her knees slightly bending.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” said Angel, keeping the towel around her, the water dripping from the strands of her hair onto her
shoulders. “You brought those for Nash. I’ll take them.” She held out her hands, but the girl wouldn’t let go of the towels.
“I put away. My job, not your job,” she said. Her words spilled out rhythmically, coming out from between her throat and nose,
ringing almost. Nearly fearful.

Angel stepped around her, into the bedroom. She asked the girl her name.

“Guan-yin. And you are?”

“Angel.”

“Where is the young man?” Guan-yin asked.

“Gone to work.”

She backed toward the door. Her body was thin, moving like silk, nearly weightless, so that she slipped out of the room more
quietly than breath.

Angel hung up the towel to dry and dressed. Her hair was damp at the ends, so she combed it off her face. She would need Nash’s
notes, the proprietor’s name, and Uncle Bill, was it? She’d need his address and the room key. All lay on the nightstand.

The doors in the hallway had all been painted black, a white number nailed into the wood. Nash’s was an upside-down 4. The
wainscoting in the staircase, the banister, the curving balustrade, were white, but the steps were black like the doors. A
man passed her as she descended, but he did not speak, even after she said, “Good morning.” The smell of fried eggs lured
her into the room to the right of the staircase. Two men sat at a long dining table, the remaining chairs either vacated already
or not yet claimed. A maid gave them their utensils and a napkin each. Angel’s belly rumbled. Mrs. Levy was easy to pick out.
She poured coffee for the two guests, but where the serving maid wore a dark short-sleeved dress and white apron, Mrs. Levy
sported a long-sleeved dress and a necklace string of large red beads. No apron. She was short and thick, her sleeves barely
containing her arms. She gave the maid the coffeepot and then crossed the room the minute she laid eyes on Angel. “You looking
for someone?”

“Mrs. Ruth Levy,” said Angel. “I’m Nash’s friend.”

She was unmoved upon hearing Nash’s name. The guests were given sausage with their eggs and a red sauce made up of tomatoes
and something green.

“He said I might find work here.”

“Already hired a girl two days ago. Chinese. If she doesn’t work out, who knows, maybe.”

A cold draft seeped in. Nash had not left her a note telling her to put breakfast on his tab. Angel had Mrs. Abercrombie’s
last two bits upstairs in her pocketbook. Enough, she thought, for a breakfast.

“Someone must have left the back door open,” said Mrs. Levy. “Thanks for coming by. If I need you, how can I reach you?”

Angel said, “I’ll stay in touch.” Biscuits were set out.

Mrs. Levy left, heading for the back of the house beyond the staircase. When she was out of sight, Angel headed back up the
stairs to dig out her money. Guan-yin passed her coming down the hall and scowled. “You Mr. Nash’s girlfriend?” she asked.

Angel shook her head.

Guan-yin smiled.

The door was standing open at room number 4. Nash was filling his open suitcase, thrown on the bed near the wall. “Come in,
fast,” he said. “And then shut the door.”

“Mrs. Levy has no work for me, Nash,” she said. “Have you eaten?”

“Pack up. We’re moving out,” he said.

There was a faint rap at the door.

Nash told her, “Ask who it is.”

“Who’s there?” asked Angel.

“It’s me, Nash, Guan-yin.”

Nash closed up the suitcase. He opened the door. “Guan-yin, what do you want?”

“Are you mad at me?” the maid asked.

“What are you pulling? For crying out loud! I don’t have time,” he said.

“Is she why you not talking to me?” She pointed to Angel.

“Angel’s a friend, Guan-yin. That’s all. I don’t live here. You know I can’t stay.”

Her cry was like a small bird’s. Nash put his arms around her and said, “I’m sorry. I have to leave. You go. And stay away
from room seven.” He wiped her face. Guan-yin left.

Angel shoved her clothes into her bag. Nash led her out of the house, out the back way.

Jeb gave Rowan a folder of invoices and instructed him to prepare pay envelopes for them. “I’m leaving early,” he said. Fern
waited in her car. He would follow her to Sybil’s house.

The Blooms, both Sybil and her doctor husband, Rodney, came from Ardmore, like Fern, but unlike her, settled in Oklahoma City,
Fern said. The bungalow, spread low and wide over the neatly trimmed lawn, had a sleepy look.

Sybil met Fern on the porch. She held open the door after Fern passed inside, waiting for Jeb to make it to the door. “Nice
of you to drop by, Reverend,” she said. She apologized to Fern for the way she looked. There was no color to her face and
her hair was pulled back into a scarf. Fern kept apologizing for dropping in unexpectedly.

“Sybil, can Fern stay here the weekend?” he asked.

“You don’t even have to ask,” she said. “Fern, you have your things?”

She did.

It was settled then. “I’ll come after supper, though,” said Fern.

“There’s extra for dinner. Both of you join Rodney and me. We love company,” she said.

“Jeb has to get home to see about Willie and Ida May, and I ought to cook them something,” said Fern.

“How old are the children?” asked Sybil.

“Willie’s eleven and Ida May’s nearly nine, old enough. But Jeb still keeps watch over them.”

“How about you eating here and then I’ll fix two plates to take home?” asked Sybil.

She was so insistent, Jeb finally told her they would stay. “You’ve kept body and soul together for us since we got here,”
he said. Half-meals sat in the parsonage icebox.

Sybil instructed the Latino woman that helped around the house to stay over to help fry up catfish. Jeb invited Fern back
out to the porch. “There’s a swing,” he told her.

“You warm up the swing,” she said. “I’ll check to see if Sybil needs kitchen help.”

He left her jacket on the sofa back. Chilly air moved in over Oklahoma City. The clouds partially overtook the sun cooling
the air even more than the morning. Jeb swung, closing his eyes, listening to the women laughing over the stove, dipping fish
into egg, and then cornmeal, as they schemed in the absence of men. Sybil’s voice rose higher, the longer she spoke. Fern
was a good listener, adding to Sybil’s prattle, tossing in a “sure” or a “you don’t say” between her tightly packed content.

“Have you met my friend Anna Baer?” she asked.

His toe dropped, stopping the swing’s movement.

“She’s Senator Baer’s wife. I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Fern.

“We both attended the university in Oklahoma together, in Norman. That’s where she met Walt. He actually introduced Rodney
and me.”

Jeb kept the swing perfectly still to quiet the rusted chain.

“We were silly back then. But when Walt set up his law practice and Rodney his doctor’s office here in the same city, well,
you can imagine. We were like sisters. Still are.”

“She’s sick, I hear,” said Fern.

“I take her a meal every night. Walt’s so busy at the capitol. She lives two blocks from here.”

“How sick is she?” asked Fern.

“Cancer.”

There was no noise at all, only the knifing sound the Latino cook made chopping potatoes.

“Sybil, I’ll go with you tonight,” said Fern. “I’m not doing anything else and I need to make myself useful. Between this
wedding and this girl of ours gone missing, I’m a mess.”

“What girl, Fern?”

Jeb came up off the porch swing. Surely, Fern did not mean that she would go to Walton Baer’s home. He was not principled.
If he were, he’d be seeing to his wife and not so dependent on Sybil. He wouldn’t have followed Fern up on the roof of the
Skirvin Hotel. He was not a man to be trusted. Jeb went inside. He found the women still talking about Angel.

“I’m sorry, Jeb,” said Fern, her tone light and rather cheerful. She told Sybil, “I was supposed to meet him out on the porch
swing.” She and Sybil giggled.

Jeb said, “Fern, I’m starting to worry about Ida May. You know she’s distraught over her sister and I’m thinking you and I
ought to go home and see to her.”

“Angel is Ida May and Willie’s sister. I understand now,” said Sybil.

“We’ve already got supper started, Jeb,” said Fern. “Willie is plenty old enough to look after her anyway. She’ll be fine.”
Fern dried her hands. She walked Jeb back into the living room out of Sybil’s hearing. “Are you all right? You wanted me to
be here tonight, didn’t you?” She was smiling at him, tugging at the apron Sybil gave to her.

“Of course I want you here,” he lied.

“I think it’s getting too cold out for porch swinging. Why don’t you take a seat by Sybil’s fireplace? I’ll bring you coffee,
you’ll relax. You look tired.”

He sat near the fireplace. Fern joined Sybil back in the kitchen. She was making do the best she could, he thought, and he
wasn’t making it any easier. The thought came to him that he had called this arrangement heavensent.

N
ASH BROUGHT TWO DRESSES FROM THE
rack, holding one in front of Angel as she looked into a mirror. After they checked out of the motel across the street, he
stopped to fuel up. Inside the filling station was a ladies’ dress shop, “Madam’s Bouteek” by name. The outdoor sign overhead
read M
ISTER’S
F
UEL
.