of her and opened the dictionary. She felt the warmth of the toddy suffusing her body, spreading outward from her stomach. Like a girl, she crossed her legs and tucked her feet underneath her bottom, placed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and bent her head to the papers in front of her.
On a piece of stationery, she wrote, Opusculus Noctis . She turned to the Os in the dictionary. She wrote, little work , then scratched that out and wrote, little book at the top of the piece of paper. Turning to the Ns, she looked up Noctis , which seemed familiar to her. She began to write in earnest now. When she was finished, she grinned again, pleased with her work. She drank the rest of the toddy in a gulp, keeping the glass to her lips, letting the dregs of honey in the bottom of the glass slide down the incline and to her mouth, and then looked back at the paper in front of her.
The Little Book of Night , it read. And underneath it she had written, Or The Little Night Book , which looked queer to her but charming. Calmed, she opened the pamphlet and began writing, a smile hovering around her lips.
Chapter 7
E ngland didn’t look like Ingram had pictured it from the movies.
As he drove the coupe into the little farm town, a billboard by the grain silos broke the monotony of the flat fields announcing that KENG was the “King of England, Heartbeat of the Delta.” To Ingram it looked just like any of the countless farm towns he’d driven through since leaving Lonoke earlier that morning, maybe a little flatter, a little greener, the low-slung buildings passing like Indian burial mounds in the hazy, late summer air. It was Friday, and the town’s main street bustled with women, young and old, shopping for the weekend; buying groceries, browsing new clothes, getting their hair and nails done.
This was the normalcy Ingram had fought for, his men died for, but he’d been left behind. So far removed from this world of bright feminine things, humdrum domestic life, from families and holidays and birthday parties and barbecues, he felt much the same way he’d felt entering the Tulagi jungles at the head of his squad, a monstrous thing skulking into the island interior like some Grendel bearing a BAR.
That morning, he’d woken in the church’s parking lot not quite knowing where he was, mouth dry, sweating in his dirty, rumpled clothes. The day was hot already. In the coupe’s mirror, he examined his bloody face. The long scratches going down his cheeks, away from his eyes, gave him a fierce, tribal appearance. He stopped at a filling station and washed in the bathroom, using paper towels to clean the dry, brown blood from his face.
Once in England, he found the KENG building off Main, on a side street, a very small tower a hundred yards away on the edge of a soybean field. The door jingled as he entered, and a short fat man in suspenders came out of a backroom.
“Can I help you, sir? We’re about to begin our afternoon programming, but—”
“Yes, sir, maybe you can help me. My name’s Ingram, and I’m looking for a man named Early Freeman, supposed to have come through here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Early! I know him well, great fella. Some state troopers came through here saying he was missing, but I haven’t heard anything more about that from them. I sure hope he’s OK. He usually comes through, takes me to dinner, gives us some records to play, you know, colored musicians. But we don’t play a lot of that stuff. Not like KQUI, out near the county line.”
Ingram said, “And you are?”
The chubby man laughed and shook his head. “Sorry. I’m George White.” He took a step closer to Ingram and extended his hand. They shook; Ingram was surprised at how soft the man’s hands felt.
“Did Early come through here a couple of weeks ago?”
“Sure did.” White turned, walked back to a desk, rummaged through it for a bit, then returned with some forty-fives. “These are the records he dropped off.
On a piece of stationery, she wrote, Opusculus Noctis . She turned to the Os in the dictionary. She wrote, little work , then scratched that out and wrote, little book at the top of the piece of paper. Turning to the Ns, she looked up Noctis , which seemed familiar to her. She began to write in earnest now. When she was finished, she grinned again, pleased with her work. She drank the rest of the toddy in a gulp, keeping the glass to her lips, letting the dregs of honey in the bottom of the glass slide down the incline and to her mouth, and then looked back at the paper in front of her.
The Little Book of Night , it read. And underneath it she had written, Or The Little Night Book , which looked queer to her but charming. Calmed, she opened the pamphlet and began writing, a smile hovering around her lips.
Chapter 7
E ngland didn’t look like Ingram had pictured it from the movies.
As he drove the coupe into the little farm town, a billboard by the grain silos broke the monotony of the flat fields announcing that KENG was the “King of England, Heartbeat of the Delta.” To Ingram it looked just like any of the countless farm towns he’d driven through since leaving Lonoke earlier that morning, maybe a little flatter, a little greener, the low-slung buildings passing like Indian burial mounds in the hazy, late summer air. It was Friday, and the town’s main street bustled with women, young and old, shopping for the weekend; buying groceries, browsing new clothes, getting their hair and nails done.
This was the normalcy Ingram had fought for, his men died for, but he’d been left behind. So far removed from this world of bright feminine things, humdrum domestic life, from families and holidays and birthday parties and barbecues, he felt much the same way he’d felt entering the Tulagi jungles at the head of his squad, a monstrous thing skulking into the island interior like some Grendel bearing a BAR.
That morning, he’d woken in the church’s parking lot not quite knowing where he was, mouth dry, sweating in his dirty, rumpled clothes. The day was hot already. In the coupe’s mirror, he examined his bloody face. The long scratches going down his cheeks, away from his eyes, gave him a fierce, tribal appearance. He stopped at a filling station and washed in the bathroom, using paper towels to clean the dry, brown blood from his face.
Once in England, he found the KENG building off Main, on a side street, a very small tower a hundred yards away on the edge of a soybean field. The door jingled as he entered, and a short fat man in suspenders came out of a backroom.
“Can I help you, sir? We’re about to begin our afternoon programming, but—”
“Yes, sir, maybe you can help me. My name’s Ingram, and I’m looking for a man named Early Freeman, supposed to have come through here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Early! I know him well, great fella. Some state troopers came through here saying he was missing, but I haven’t heard anything more about that from them. I sure hope he’s OK. He usually comes through, takes me to dinner, gives us some records to play, you know, colored musicians. But we don’t play a lot of that stuff. Not like KQUI, out near the county line.”
Ingram said, “And you are?”
The chubby man laughed and shook his head. “Sorry. I’m George White.” He took a step closer to Ingram and extended his hand. They shook; Ingram was surprised at how soft the man’s hands felt.
“Did Early come through here a couple of weeks ago?”
“Sure did.” White turned, walked back to a desk, rummaged through it for a bit, then returned with some forty-fives. “These are the records he dropped off.
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