Fallen Angels by Patricia Hickman Page A

feeble, the elderly, listening to songs of elbow's complaint and gout. Once the visitation had wound down then Sunday would roll around. People would gather in the Church in the Dell with expectant grimaces, scrutiny making their eyes shine like the mad. Jeb had not called on higher powers before. It made him itch to consider it.
    He had to leave before Sunday. He didn't know what kind of church to expect. Some congregations meld coolly into their pews, nursing silent, inward pain—biding the time until the final amen. He'd heard tell of how others heated up, roiling in a lather of brimstone-scalded judgment before marching away into the community to warn the sinners of their coming doom.
    Searching back in the soft tendons of his childhood memories, he tried to recall the traditions of church. Jeb's mother had dragged him by the ear every Sunday until she was too sick to bother. He'd seldom paid attention to her prayers… until she got sick. Then he would've walked over coals if the Power from on high would just let her live. He figured it was him that caused the final curtain to drop on Pearl Nubey's life. Jeb felt cool metal against his lips. Something soothed his brow, like the young fingers of the sweet, plump girl in Texarkana, and then he tasted gin. He allowed it to slip over his uneven lower teeth and down-the velvet length of whiskey-weakened tongue. Martyrs needed their sedative. He drank until his eyes turned back beneath red sun-parched lids, a calling toward sleep seeping through him.
    His hand fell limp in his lap. Slumber drew him into rivers that swept over him, baptizing-him in gin and fire. A bad sort of music faded in and out then turned into a grating rhythm as irritating as the clanking of chains and ankle irons.
    “Angel, what's a sanatorium?” Ida May breathed out the words on her soft pillow. She wound her pointer finger around the lacey, embroidered edges of the pillowcase as though she stroked harp strings.
    Angel could see the church ladies’ handiwork all around the room—knitted dolls with pink and turquoise skirts. Plaid curtains with hand-sewn tie-backs. Embroidery tipping every gingerly sewn edge like delicate fingernails dipped in color. No one color dominated the room, but each item fought for attention. Loops of gold draped the plaid curtain; white and pink doilies battled a tablecloth of pale green. The Scottish monkey lolled next to a poodle made of dyed cotton bolls, all toys made from ragbags and dresses that could take no more mending.
    “Angel, you hear me?” Ida May whispered.
    “A sanatorium is a place where people rest. So let's play sanatorium, how about?” Angel rolled over and felt the fringe of the handmade quilt tickle her nose. It smelled of mothballs and something sweet.
    “I'm tard. You two be quiet or I'll holler for Jeb,” said Willie. “Nice to have a man around the house again.”
    “Don't get used to him, Willie. I have a feeling he won't be around no longer than Lana. People like that drift in, drift out. One day, they just gone. Nobody ever hears from them again.” Angel listened for Willie's reply but heard only the soft sawing of his snores.
    Ida May made a soft moan, turned to press her face into the pillow as though she expected it to kiss her good night.
    Angel ran her hand across her sister's fingertips and watched out the window until the stars turned to a hazy glass. She closed her eyes and prayed that God would tie Jeb to his bed until morning.

5
    J eb allowed Evelene and Mellie to treat the Welby children to an ice-cream soda inside Fidel's Drugstore while he worked out the details of the mule and wagon with the banker.
    “The mule, she's ten hands high and likes a good race so just watch yourself around other folks in wagons. Not too many on the road except for Ivey Long, who thinks automobiles are of the devil.” Horace Mills ran his hand along the mule's flank. “I call her Bell. The kids gave her that name when she was a colt. We had