26

In the back room, Ralph Angel stared through the darkness, his body aching after the day’s labor and the long walk home, his mind cycling through memories of all that had happened—Ernest, Miss Honey, Johnny at the bakery, the German, Charley—and the more he thought, the more his stomach churned with the fresh waves of bright, cold fury. It might take a while to find what he needed. The punks he met in Tee Coteau, the ones he bought from after that mess with the German, were better than nothing, but they were small-time operators. He might have to leave town to find guys who could hook him up for real, sell him what he needed to stop the darkness he felt within him from spreading. He slid out of bed.

“Pop?” Blue raised his head and reached for Ralph Angel’s arm.

“Go back to sleep.” Ralph Angel dragged the clock radio to the edge of the nightstand. Midnight. He turned it toward Blue. “Don’t move from this bed till you hear the man on the radio say it’s seven o’clock. I mean it.”

’Da’s purse was on top of the refrigerator. Ralph Angel took it down, then cleared a place on the table, his heart bucking as he pulled at the tarnished zipper. Inside: old tubes of lipstick, a packet of tissues, an envelope stuffed with store coupons. Everything smelled like her, the sweet, powdery fragrance he’d known since he was a boy. He twisted the clasp on her pink wallet and it yawned open, but there were only two crumpled bills and a handful of coins.

“Think,” Ralph Angel said to himself and paced the floor. Next door, Miss Marti’s rooster crowed. In a few hours, steel-blue and orange light would bleed through the kitchen window to fill the shallow sink and spill over the lip of the counter.

The Kerns jar was shoved all the way to the back of the cabinet. Ralph Angel untwisted the rubber band, straightened the stack of small bills, and counted them with a bank teller’s speed. One hundred sixty-five dollars. He closed the lid and slid the empty jar back into its place before jamming the roll in his pocket. One hundred sixty-five dollars wasn’t much but it was good for a seven-day run.

On the way out, Ralph Angel paused. Charley’s door was open but the light was off. Holding his breath, he moved closer and saw, through the doorway, Micah asleep on the air mattress. Charley’s bed was empty.

In her room, he swept his hand across the dresser, feeling for any coins or bills Charley had left behind, until his fingers grazed the cool base, the square feet. Ralph Angel paused, considered his next move, then eased The Cane Cutter toward him, mindful of its weight. Charley shouldn’t have embarrassed him the way she had. She always had it so easy. Everything given to her while he’d struggled for the crumbs. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall—the passage came to mind before he could stop it.

On the air mattress, Micah mumbled in her sleep. Ralph Angel froze. He waited. And when all was still again, he slid The Cane Cutter off the dresser and backed out of the room.

Beyond the porch, the street was alive with shadows. On the porch, the Bible passage came to him. Grace in the eyes of the Lord. Ralph Angel paused. Some people believed they were worthy of God’s grace and some people didn’t. Then he stepped into the darkness, stepped back across the line.