Isaiah had seen the way Angel looked at him when Miss Ferris proposed they work together after school. Utter disgust. But he expected no less after all the hell Muggy made him put her through since childhood. Muggy was the root of the problem, absolutely. He glared at him as Muggy walked ahead—one hand emoting his words and the other holding on tight to his unlit cigar. Isaiah was sick and tired of Muggy Little Jr., but Muggy was Greenwood royalty. Without him, what would Isaiah be? Nothing. Nobody. All alone and outcast in their town.
“What kind of square rides around on a bike handing out books?” Muggy asked, breaking the silence. “It’s stupid if you ask me.”
Isaiah stayed quiet, because it wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t stupid at all. Actually, it was brilliant. Square or not square, books changed lives. Books had absolutely changed his. He hid his reading in the same way he hid his poetry, and now, his angel. Hiding his passions from Muggy was becoming a hallmark of their so-called friendship.
“You said no to Miss Ferris, right?” Muggy continued. “It’s stupid,” he repeated. “And why on earth wouldn’t she ask me to join in? I’m as smart as you are.”
Isaiah shrugged without confirming or denying. But of course he’d said yes. What was he supposed to do? Walk around Greenwood with Muggy every day for the rest of his life, chasing girls with nothing valuable to talk about? Muggy was the stupid one, skipping high school, while Isaiah, again secretly, was ranked in the top-tenth percentile overall. The only thing keeping Muggy from being kicked out of Booker T. Washington was his wealthy father, a butcher whose shop customers, both Black and white, traveled far and wide for the very best cuts of meat.
Thankfully, they approached Isaiah’s house before Muggy had a chance to ask again. Isaiah quickly walked to his porch and waved. “See you tomorrow morning.”
He closed the door behind him and let out an exasperated huff.
“I don’t know why you associate with him,” Isaiah’s mother said as soon as the door shut. “You’re better than that.”
Isaiah didn’t know, either.
“Hungry?”
He dropped his satchel in the foyer and followed his mother into their spotless kitchen. The warm smell of caramelized onions filled his nose and made his eyes itch; it was his father’s favorite, beef and onions.
Isaiah wanted to talk to his dad about Angel. His father used to be the town’s authority on such things, listening to everyone’s problems and solving them as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Isaiah loved him. His mother loved him. But everyone who met him, too, even in passing, fell for his quick wit and wisdom. The day he boarded the train for the big war, it seemed as if the entire district waved him on his way. Isaiah could remember the whites of hands as far as he could see, fluttering in their direction. The whole of Greenwood respected his father, and the whole of Greenwood mourned when he didn’t come home.
But he’d been gone a while now. So long, in fact, that Isaiah was starting to kick himself for forgetting the little things about him—his voice, his eyes, his infectious laugh. Most of all, he was beginning to forget his father’s aphorisms. His father could pull the appropriate saying without skipping a single beat, showering wisdom onto anyone who sought him out for it. Some inexplicably branded themselves into Isaiah’s mind—when cobwebs are plenty kisses are scarce, gluttony kills more than the sword, and a friend to all is a friend to none. But Isaiah could think of none to help him with his Angel dilemma.
“Mom,” Isaiah said, watching her spoon generous helpings of beef and onions into two porcelain bowls. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, baby.” She sat across from him and clasped her waiting hands.
“What do you know about Angel Hill?”
He watched his mother’s hands come apart and shoot to the ceiling in celebration. “Angel Hill?” she nearly shouted. “Down the way? My God, he’s asking about Angel Hill.”
Isaiah lowered his head. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you about this. I knew you’d make a fuss.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, but the energy in the kitchen had shifted. She was all bouncing knees and twitchy cheeks, wanting so badly to smile ear to ear. “Just … Angel Hill is…”
“An angel?”
“Well…,” she started. “Yes, as close to one as humanly possible, I’d say.”
She is, he thought, visualizing her spinning in white.
“I’ll never understand how she goes overlooked in this town,” his mother added, shaking her head.
Again, he thought the same. Yet he’d been so very cruel.
“Not just overlooked, Mama. We were awful to her,” Isaiah started before he’d realized. “I was awful to her.”
Isaiah looked up to see the question in his mother’s eyes—why? He decided to answer it before she had an opportunity to ask.
“Because…,” he said, head hung low. “She seemed an easy target, I suppose. No fight in her.”
His mother laughed but not in a humorous way. “Oh, dear boy. That’s where you’re more wrong than you know.”
His mother didn’t have to speak her disdain for him in that moment; a son can read that in shrug of shoulders and tone of voice. Isaiah hung his head so low now that his forehead nearly brushed his dinner.
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Ah,” she said, still angry but slightly softened. “No need to say sorry. You, dear boy, will live. And as you do, you will have to look back to see that the real fighters only open their mouths when it is absolutely necessary. The Muggy Little Juniors speak through their own insecurities and say the wrong damn thing in the process.”
It was the first time he’d ever heard his mother say a curse word of any kind. And it made Isaiah feel like the villain of his own story. He spooned his beef and onions without eating it, knowing full well it was moist and delicious, but he couldn’t take a bite. He disgusted himself.
“I’ve been,” he started. “I’ve been…”
Somewhere between his mind and the world, the words got stuck. He didn’t want to disappoint his kind, delicate mother. She, too, was too good for him. All sweet, no bitter. He’d been cruel to her. Not in the same way he’d been to Angel, but in other ways.
He’d left his mother to cry alone. He’d heard her—night after night—through their thin walls. Once, he’d quietly walked into the kitchen to find her sobbing over the sink. He easily could have placed his palm on her back. Even, dear Lord, cried right along with her. But, no. He’d walked by without a single word or touch, leaving her all alone.
Alone she was, clinging firmly to the thought that she’d see her beloved husband again one day on the other side of heaven. But lonely still. Figuring creative ways to feed, clothe, and house her ungrateful upchuck of a son.
“You’ve been what?”
He wanted to tell her how horrible he’d been over the years. To please Muggy, he justified. To fit in, he could argue. But not really. He had no one to blame but himself for being unworthy of Angel and his mother, too. He couldn’t find the way to say such things aloud, though.
“I’d like to come with you to Sunday school again this week if you don’t mind,” he said as he shoved a heaping spoonful into his mouth. Dinner was even better than he’d expected it to be.