Whisper Town Read Free Page B

mother into the shadows.
    Stillness eventually blanketed the woods and Jeb closed the window shades, satisfied that peace prevailed in spite of women’s
     rumors.
    Jeb stared at the ceiling from his bed until the soft yellow of lunar light trickling through his window allowed his eyes
     to adjust. He felt startled awake, as though someone had shaken him out of his slumber. But he heard nothing outside that
     would justify such a thing. An owl hooted and then fluttered off its limb to chase dinner. Jeb’s eyes closed slowly. Then
     he heard a noise, like something soft and padding quietly through dewed-over grass. He bolted upright. Stumbling across the
     floor, he thrust one leg into his trousers and then the other. The children slept. He crept so as not to bring them spilling
     out into the hallway. Halfway up the hallway and out of his stupor, he mulled over the fact that he had not grabbed his hunting
     rifle. He stopped at the edge of the parlor entry and peered across the room. Only a tree limb shadowed the front window.
    Jeb threw on the light switch, illuminating the naked bulb outside near the door. The churchyard was nothing but evening shadows.
     He reached for the table lamp, but his hand froze over the lampshade.
    A cry came loud, harsh.
    Jeb threw open the door. He took one step and his toe bumped against a basket. He knelt and pulled back a jumble of cloths.
     He fell backward and then came seated on the door’s threshold, assessing the matter before him, a child—an undersized baby,
     it seemed—lying in a laundry basket. He dragged the basket inside, out of the chill.
    The baby wailed again, its eyes squeezing out tears like a ripe lemon. Jeb lifted the child from the basket, handling it awkwardly,
     the same as when he’d pulled a bass from White Oak Lake last Saturday.
    He came to his feet, holding out the squirming bundle as though it might bite him, and looked through the door glass, hoping
     to see movement in the woods or a lantern light. All was still and quiet as though the night hardened like iron in the cooling
     shadows.
    Jeb held the baby close, pulled out the waist of the diaper, and said, “She’s a girl.” He studied her round eyes, full lips.
     Her skin was soft like peaches but tawny and her eyes stared out like two of Willie’s prize marbles.
    “What’s going on?” Angel appeared in the doorway, her thin legs showing through her translucent cotton gown.
    The baby girl threw back her head and cried again. Jeb held her out to Angel.
    “Where’d you get a baby this time of night?” Angel stretched out her arms and yawned like a boy, ignoring the outstretched
     bundle. She even kept back a ways, creating some distance.
    “Someone left her out on the porch. Look through the basket, Angel, and see if she’s got a bottle tucked in her things.”
    Angel rummaged through layers of blankets. She pulled out a note. “It says, ‘We heard you was a preacher who takes in kids.
     Baby’s name is Myrtle Sapphira.’” Angel’s eyes lifted to study Jeb’s reaction, almost like she half-expected him to say it
     was all a big middle-of-the-night joke. She continued reading the note. “‘We give you all the things for her care. She was
     born recent.’”
    “And, of course, they didn’t sign it,” said Jeb.
    Angel shook her head. “Here’s her bottle.” She held it out to him by the nipple. “She don’t look like a Myrtle. More like
     a June bug thrown on its back. Good night.”
    Jeb did not want the bottle. “Maybe you should give it to her.” He tried to surrender Myrtle to Angel, but Angel kept her
     arms folded in front of her.
    “Just hold her close to you in your right arm. Feed her with the left.” She stuck the baby’s bottle in the crook of his arm.
     “I’m going back to bed.”
    “You’re not leaving me alone with this baby!” said Jeb.
    “She ain’t mine to care for.”
    “Babies don’t like me, Angel. Maybe if you made her a bed next to