Fallen Angels Read Online Free

whenever she lied, a habit her daddy had always called her on. Angel was not a name to give a girl who told her kind of lies. But anyone in her situation had to have resources or resort to invention. Through the storefront window she saw a Ford truck parked near the door and she noticed the decent set of tires, like Daddy always did. “My father is, well, he's the right-hand man to Henry Ford.” The apple counter stopped her counting and stared at Angel. Angel spoke more quietly. “Matter of fact, Henry Ford's my uncle.” She noticed how the man's eyes thinned, two rinds. He assessed her tattered green dress, the loose braiding at the yoke. She pressed the loopy part against her chest with one finger. “Our better clothes are at the hotel being—warshed.”
    “You're staying at the hotel?” Sweet Eyes asked.
    The key was still in Angel's pocket. She held it up. “The Ouachita, of course. Nothing but the best, Daddy says. Anyway, Daddy sent us ahead to visit relatives and, truth be told, our mistress done got herself sick with the flu. Flu's been going around like nobody's business. Poor lady.”
    “What relatives?” asked Sweet Eyes.
    “Our older sister, Claudia,” said Angel. That was not a lie.
    “She's married with a kid or two. Old enough to take us in, I reckon.” Willie stood holding his hat. As though coached by Angel, he hung his head. Ida May bit her lip. She had been on the very edge of bawling all morning. So her lip quivered just by the very act of anyone looking at her.
    “We're stranded as can be, but we got the money to pay our own way. If you think you could give us a ride to a place called Nazareth, we'll pay.” She held out a single crisp dollar bill, considering Willie's caution that two dollars was too much.
    “I don't know what you got for an angle but I'm traveling alone and I don't have any place to put kids.” Sweet Eyes glanced up at the Ford pickup loaded with food and supplies. “Besides, if your daddy works for Ford, you should give him a call and tell him you're in dire need of his assistance.” The man's crackling voice rose in pitch. His attention drifted, and then he lost interest altogether.
    “Excuse me. Did I hear you say you're traveling to Nazareth?” A woman in a shapeless dress hovered near the apple crates, listening to everything Angel had said. Her skin had a pink cast blending into whiter eye sockets with feathery white brows for a topper. “I'm Winifred Mock. I'm a retired schoolteacher and I'm on my way to Bluff City. Appears to me Nazareth is a rock's throw from Bluff City. You say you'll pay for the ride?”
    Angel held up the dollar.
    “There's three of you?” She counted them with her nose.
    Angel pulled out the second dollar.
    “There you have it. A ride with a retired schoolteacher,” said Sweet Eyes. He jerked a crate up and arched his back to brace the weight of the flour and sugar bags.
    Angel watched him pay and leave. “We need to find a place to eat,” she said to Winifred. “My brother and sister need some breakfast and then we'll be ready to leave.”
    “Best to grab some bread and apples then here at the store. You can eat in my car on the way, ‘long as you mind not to clutter it up.”
    Small relief spilled over and Angel said, “I told you I could take care of us, Willie.” She gathered a whole loaf of bread, a half dozen apples, and laid them on the counter, a paying customer.
    Winifred Mock whirred in a monotone. She droned instead of conversing and it occurred to Angel the woman had a terrible way of talking. She strung her syllables out, running words into other words until the whole of her sentence became a sticky lump of tedious slurs.
    “How long did you teach school?” Angel finally asked her.
    “Twenty years.” Only it sounded like “twennyers.” Winifred pulled a cigarette from her cumbersome black purse, a bag so deep it reminded Angel of Doc Campbell's medical bag in Snow Hill. Inside, beside a pair of red