The Sleeping Night by Barbara Samuel

company up there, chattering away.”
    “He can’t fly very far, but he likes to be up high.”
    “He sat on my shoulder,” Isaiah said in some wonderment, then extended his arm to give him to Angel. Ebenezer skittered up Isaiah’s arm to his shoulder, where he made soft, cooing sounds into Isaiah’s ear.
    “Why, Ebenezer,” Angel said with her hands on her hips, “you traitor! See if you get the chicken scraps tonight.”
    Isaiah laughed again and the sound moved through her very bones, settling in elbows and knees. She wrapped her arms around herself, cradling joints in the palms of her hands.
    As Ebenezer cooed close to Isaiah’s ear, he ducked away. “Figures a woods gal like you would tame a bird.”
    “Always wanted a squirrel. Never thought about a jay really.”
    “You tamed enough critters for a zoo.”
    “And my daddy always made me take them back.” She found she could meet his eyes when they were smiling. The unease in her chest softened although it didn’t fade entirely. For a minute, everything was normal, as it had been in their letters.
    Before he abruptly stopped writing. She wanted to ask him why, but of course she would not.
    He cleared his throat, looking back to the roof. “It’s going to take me a couple weeks to do this properly, but I can get it fixed up for you.”
    “It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
    “I’ll get some paper and tools tomorrow.”
    “Fine, Isaiah. That’s just fine. Thank you so much.”
    “I’ll take Paul home with me now, then, and see you sometime tomorrow afternoon.” He didn’t meet her eyes again as he gently took hold of Ebenezer and set him on the ground.
    “Tell Mrs. McCoy she can leave Paul tomorrow, too, if she needs to.”
    “I’ll tell her.” He took Paul’s hand and led him away.
    Angel whistled at her bird, forcing herself not to look after them.

— 13 —
     
May 16, 1943
Dear Isaiah,
I’m writing this from my favorite place, the tree house you built. Stands just as strong as it did the day you hammered in the last nail—how long ago now? Must be ten or twelve years. Seems more like a million sometimes.
Anyway, it shows what a builder you are, this little tree house in the woods. I hope when this war’s all through you’ll think about that again. God gives a man a talent for a reason, and if I ever saw a man who could build things, you’re him.
From up here in the trees, everything looks so peaceful. It’s just past suppertime and I can hear the river. Some birds in a tree next door keep looking at me suspicious-like, but I think they finally figured out I’m not gonna bother them. They’re singing a little. I worry sometimes about the birds over there, in the war. It must scare them when the bombs come.
From where I’m sitting, all there is to see is tree branches and sunshine coming low through the leaves. The cottonwoods are glittering like Mrs. Pierson’s gold-button earrings. It’s a little hazy because it’s been raining. It’s so beautiful it makes you imagine those trees could be hiding a magic kingdom or a deserted isle, just like we used to pretend. (Poor Solomon—he never did have an inkling of our games. Nobody ever read to him. We were lucky in that way, at least. Or maybe not—I don’t know, maybe it’s easier not to know anything).
Yes, it shimmers out there and I wish I could still play pretend.
Because under those trees is only Gideon. Three telegrams in the last week about boys killed. I go see their mamas and wives because I was the first one to lose anybody, and I probably know a little something about how they feel. It doesn’t help very much. Mrs. Allen said yesterday that she just can’t stop thinking about her Jim’s bottom when he was a baby—a little soft bottom, pink and white. I don’t know what that’s like. How can I say anything?
    And without war, there’s the mean little uglies no-body likes to talk about. Somebody probably told you about Mabel Younger. Nothing but a child,