In the weeks following the bazaar, Elise never once mentioned his failing, never once suggested that she teach him to read, but somehow to Janson that only stressed the differences between them, only stressed that she was William Whitley’s daughter, and that he was nothing more than one of her father’s farmhands. In some ways they had grown only closer over those weeks, even as Janson had fought to keep her at a distance in his mind. He knew he could never have her, could never love her, as he wanted to, and that dreaming of her was the one sure way to destroy all that he was—but still he could not stop loving her, could not stop wanting her, no matter how hard it was that he tried. She was somehow part of him in a way he could not explain, in a way he could not fight, and, as the days passed, he was growingly coming to understand that he did not want to.
He sat on the steps leading up to the rear veranda of the Whitley house that first Sunday afternoon in July, staring out across the wide yard, past the kitchen, and to the woods beyond. He was waiting for Elise, waiting for her to finish Sunday dinner with her parents and with J.C. Cooper, waiting for her, as he had been waiting for more than half an hour now. He toyed with a blade of grass he had pulled from the smooth lawn, staring out toward the woods where he knew he would feel more at home than he did waiting here behind this great house—he had promised to spend the afternoon with her, had promised to take her for a walk in the woods, had promised even to teach her to weave a basket from white oak splits later if she wished—but now he knew he would have to break those promises, would have to break them, just as he had been forced to break so many promises to her lately. And he knew she would not understand.
Laying by had finally come that year, bringing with it the long waited-for rest from the before dawn to sometimes long after dark work of the sharecroppers and farmhands on the place. At last there was time to court and socialize, to visit kin or tend their own gardens, to attend the revival meetings at the bush arbor set up at the edge of town, or the all-day singings held on Saturdays at the little Holiness church out in the country—but Janson did not have those hours free, though the cotton fields now stood lush and green, and there was little work left to be done there until the bolls would burst open and the back-breaking work of picking the cotton would begin. Whatever hours he found free from the plowing, chopping, and poisoning of the cotton were quickly taken up by the bootlegging operation, by the making and hauling of the corn liquor that gave him the money he could put away in the back of the old chifforobe in his room.
The Fourth of July celebrations coming up had only increased the demand for corn liquor throughout the area, and William Whitley was determined to meet that demand, claiming more and more of Janson’s hours for the stilling and distribution—and putting a distance between Janson and Elise that not even their differences had been able to. Elise wanted to spend time with him, wanted to go for picnics and walks and drives in the country, wanted to sit with him in the back parlor and listen to programs on the radio, or just spend hours talking about the thousands of things they could find to talk about, claiming his hours sometimes almost as if she were his girl and they were courting—but he knew they were not courting. Never again had she flirted with him as she had done that day; his temper had ruined that, his temper and his pride. He knew she had flirted only because he was a man, and only because it was in her nature to want every man to be a little in love with her—but he could often not help but to wonder what might not have happened that day if he had not lost his temper, if he might not have gotten a kiss on the cheek, maybe even on the lips, before she had come to her senses.
But it did not do to wonder about such things. It had not happened, and it never would. She was going to marry J.C. Cooper; Janson knew that, though she herself had never spoken of it. J.C. had taken again to calling at the Whitley house, being invited to dinner after church on Sundays, or to big family suppers at mid-week; and Janson had even overheard Whitley telling someone that the wedding would take place within a matter of months—but Elise never mentioned it, and Janson could somehow not bring himself to, not wanting to think of her married to someone else, to anyone other than himself. And he knew that would never be.
All she wanted was his friendship, time they could spend together; but time was the one thing he could often not give her, and it was the one thing he could never explain—how could he tell her there were things he had to do, places he had to go, that he could never tell her about. Instead, he gave her excuses, lies, reasons why they could not be together, even as he saw the disbelief in her eyes. She could never know that he was involved in a bootlegging operation, that her father was running a bootlegging operation, even though he knew the lies were only forcing a growing distance between them. She knew that he was lying, knew that he was involved in something more than he would tell her, for he could see the knowledge in her eyes—but it was a truth she would be better off never to know. He knew what he did could not matter in the slightest to her, but still he could not be the one to shatter the image she held of the father she had loved all her life. She could never know that it had been bootleg whiskey to buy her father the big house and the fancy cars and all her pretty clothes—little girls were entitled to their dreams after all, entitled to their dreams, even after they had become women.
He sat staring out across the back yard, hearing the sound of J.C. Cooper’s car start up in the drive before the house, and, after a moment, drive away. He wondered if Elise had kissed him goodbye, wondered if she had been in his arms for a moment, but forced the thought away, knowing it was better that he never know. He tried to think of what he would tell her, what excuse he would give to explain why he could not spend the afternoon with her as he had promised he would. It had been only a matter of hours before when William Whitley had stopped by his room on his way to church that morning, had stopped by to tell him that there was a truck load of corn liquor to be delivered to Buntain that afternoon—a daylight run of bootleg whiskey across the County line was a dangerous thing to take on, but Whitley had left him with little choice. Janson would either have to make the delivery, or get the hell off Whitley land—and that was something he could not do, not so long as Elise Whitley was here, not even if she were going to marry someone else.
Through the open windows of the great house behind him, he could hear Elise’s voice calling to her mother somewhere within the rooms, and a pang of guilt went through him that he would have to disappoint her again, lie to her again, as he had lied to her so many times in the past weeks. He stayed where he was on the steps of the rear veranda, knowing she would find him here when she was ready, for this was where he always waited when they were to meet.
The rear door of the house creaked open behind him, and he stood to meet her, feeling another stab of guilt at the sight of her, and at the disappointment that came to her face at the first sight of his expression. “You’ve got to go somewhere,” she said, not even waiting for him to speak. “We’re not going to spend the afternoon together.”
For a moment he could think of nothing to say, no excuses to give her, as he stared at the set and disappointed look on her face. Finally he managed, “I’m sorry,” but could say nothing more.
“What is it this time?”
“Work, your pa—”
“Work, what kind of work?” she demanded. “Today’s Sunday, Janson, and it’s laying by. What kind of work could you have to do today?”
“Jus’ work,” he said, turning away, his voice short as he fought to control his temper—it was for her own good anyway. Damn her, why could she never leave anything alone? Why could—
There was a peculiar note in her voice as she spoke again: anger, irritation, and something more. “If there’s someone else you’d rather be with, you can tell me outright, you know. I’m not a child—”
He turned back to look at her. Her chin was set as she met his eyes. “Somebody else I’d rather be with?”
“Yes—don’t you think I know you’ve got a girl in town? If it wasn’t something like that, you’d tell me. If it wasn’t—” Then she suddenly seemed to note the amusement that came to his face, which seemed to irritate her all the more. “Don’t you laugh at me, Janson Sanders! I am not a naive child who has to be protected from the world, no matter what it is you seem to think! I know you’ve got a girl in town—why else would you go off at all hours of the day and night, and never be able to tell me or anyone where it is you’re going! Well, you don’t have to tell me fairy stories to cover it up any more. I know that there are things that you—that a man—that—” Suddenly she seemed at a loss for words. She stared at him for a moment longer, her mouth still open, then her face flushed and she looked away.
Janson laughed outright at the look on her face, unable to stop himself, and her eyes came back to him angrily.
“I ain’t got no girl in town,” he said, trying to keep from smiling. “It ain’t nothin’ like that.”
“Then, what is it? Where are you going?”
“I cain’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I jus’ cain’t, an’ it don’t really matter. There’re jus’ things sometimes that a man’s got t’ do that he cain’t tell nobody about—” he said, and she looked away again. When she looked back there was accusation in her eyes. “I done told you, it ain’t nothin’ like that—”
“Then what is it?” For a moment they only stared at each other, neither speaking. “Sometimes I feel like following you just to see—”
“Don’t you ever do that!” His voice, in his surprise and agitation, was harsher than he had intended it to be—Elise, stumbling onto the bootlegging operation. Elise, finding out that he and her father were involved in selling bootleg liquor. Elise, finding out—
He watched her chin raise defiantly, her eyes determined. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
He crossed the short distance between them, going to where she stood near the closed rear door of the great house, then stopped to put his hands on her arms and stare down at her. “I shouldn’t ’a yelled at you. I’m sorry—” Why was one or the other of them forever saying ‘I’m sorry’—“An’ I’m not tellin’ you, I’m askin’—you cain’t never follow me. You’ve got t’ promise me that.”
For a moment she only stared up at him. “Why? What is it you’re involved in?”
How could he tell her? How could he explain—“You’ve just got t’ promise me.”
She searched his eyes, standing so close for a moment that he could have bent to kiss her—then she moved so that his hands fell from her arms and walked a few steps away, to stand with her back to him, staring out across the wide back yard. He could read a stubborn determination in the set of her shoulders—she would know what it was that he was hiding, no matter the cost to herself. No matter—
“Promise me, Elise—” he said, moving to stand just behind her, unable to touch her again. “You got t’ promise me—”
When she turned to look a him, there was distrust in her eyes.
“Promise me—”
She was silent a moment longer, and then her voice came, quiet, reluctant, carrying with it a note of that same distrust. “Okay, I promise.”
He smiled, relief flooding him. The words had been pulled from her against her will, perhaps even against her better judgement, but she had given them, and she would not go back on them now. She was safe from finding out about him, about her father, about—
“I suppose you’ll have to ‘work’ all day tomorrow as well, Fourth of July or not?” she asked, stressing the word as if it were a curse.
“No, I ain’t got t’ work.”
“Then, can we spend part of the day together tomorrow at least?”
“I thought you were goin’ t’ th’ big picnic outside ’a town with your folks—” Somehow he could not mention J.C. Cooper, though he knew J.C. had been invited to share the day, and the picnic, with the Whitleys during the big Independence Day celebrations in the meadow clearing just south of town the next day.
“Yes, but afterwards, as soon as I can make my excuses?”
“Sure, we can spend some time t’gether.”
“The entire day, just as soon as I can get away from my father and J.C.?”
Janson found himself smiling—she wanted to spend the day with him, with him and not with J.C. Cooper, or with anyone else. “Sure, th’ whole rest of th’ day, if you want t’—”
He left her shortly there on the back veranda, not wanting to end the time with her, but knowing that he had to. He cut around the corner of the house and across the wide front yard toward the clay road, then across the fields toward the barn where the loaded truck waited for him. The false bed of the truck seemed all too apparent in the daylight, the cases of corn liquor hidden beneath it all too easily discovered by some sheriff or revenue agent if he were to be stopped and questioned. How would he ever be able to explain that to Elise—I couldn’t spend the Fourth of July with you as I promised I would because—
That was one explanation he hoped he would never have to make.
As he made the long trip into Buntain over the rutted clay roads that afternoon, one thought kept coming to him, one question—had that really been jealousy he had heard in Elise’s voice when she had accused him of having a girl in town? Had it really been jealousy, and not just her irritation at believing he was treating her as if she were a child—how embarrassed she had been when she had managed to tangle herself up in her own words, how flustered, when he knew that she could not even understand what it was she was accusing him of, for an unmarried girl her age should not even know of such things. Could Elise really be jealous? She had wanted to spend the day with him tomorrow, with him and not with J.C. Cooper or even with her own family. Could Elise really be—
His mind was so filled with possibilities that he could give little thought to the increased risks he was taking on by making the daylight run, the risks of being found out, arrested, and jailed in violation of the Prohibition laws. He made the delivery, then started for home—could Elise really have been jealous? To be jealous of some other girl she thought he was carrying on with, she would have to care about him, and care about him as more than a friend. Was it really possible that Elise—
As he sat over his solitary breakfast in his room that next morning, he could not stop thinking about Elise, about the things she had said to him the day before, the way she had behaved—and about the dreams he had lived in through the night. He had dreamed they were married, that he was taking her back home to that white house on those red acres in Alabama, that he had held her and loved her for hours on a creaking rope bed in one of those long-familiar rooms—how beautiful she had been, part of him then even as she was not now, sharing with him, touching him, telling him that she loved him. Somehow those dreams did not seem an impossibility now as they had just the day before. Somehow he could let himself think, let himself wonder, if she might not really—
There was a knock on the rickety door to his room and he got up to answer it, smiling to himself, somehow happier in that moment than he had been since that day years before when a fire in a cotton field had begun the destruction of all that he had loved. He swung the door inward, telling himself that it might be Elise—but William Whitley stood glaring at him from just outside the open doorway, a look of anger, of impatience, on his jowled face. And Janson knew this day would be nothing as he had imagined it might be.
Less than an hour later, William Whitley stood behind the old barn on his property, not far from where the lean-to room sat attached to the structure. He shifted the cigar in his mouth and folded his arms across his chest, staring at the man held before him. “Didn’t I tell you never to show your face around here again, boy?”
Gilbert Baskin was struggling against the two men who held him between them. There was a trickle of drying blood showing already at one corner of his mouth, evidence to his reluctance at being asked to accompany the men who had been sent into town to bring him to this meeting. “You don’t own me, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch! I go anywhere I want t’ go!”
William’s teeth clamped down on his cigar. He took a step forward, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “You smart-ass son-of-a-bitch, I own you or anything else I say I own around here. I ran you out of this County—did you think I’d let you get by with coming back here now?” He had thought himself rid of this problem, had never thought the man brave enough, or stupid enough, to ever come back to Endicott County—until Bill had seen him in town earlier in the day. This man had jeopardized the entire bootlegging operation those months ago, had jeopardized everything William had worked so long for—and now here he was back again, an even greater threat than he had been before. Before he had only been a stupid man. Now he was a stupid man with a grudge.
William forced a control over his temper, his eyes moving from Baskin, to the two men who held him between them, touching for a moment on his son Bill, and then finally settling on Janson Sanders. Sanders had been an improvement over Baskin almost from the first moment William had brought him in to take the man’s place in the stilling operation. He did his work without comment, kept to himself for the most part, and didn’t flash his money around, though William paid him quite well. The only real problem with the boy was his friendship with Elise. William had never been pleased with the idea of his daughter making friends with the half-breed farmhand in the first place, especially not since he was using the boy in the bootlegging operation. He had even briefly allowed himself a worry that some sort of romantic interest might develop between the two—but the idea of his daughter and the half-Cherokee dirt farmer had been so laughable that the worry had been short lived. Elise was grateful to the boy for his having fought Ethan Bennett to protect her, and grateful for all he had done to try to stop Alfred the night he had died; she felt safe with him, knowing the boy would not let Bennett or anyone else harm her, for he was one of William’s people, owing his livelihood and his life to the Whitley family—it was nothing more than that.
But it had gone on long enough. In the past several weeks William had done everything possible to discourage the relationship, keeping the boy busy, and keeping Elise occupied elsewhere as much as he could—she spent altogether too much time with the farmhand, and not enough with J.C. Cooper. She had J.C. to think about, after all. J.C., and William’s future.
There was only one thing about Janson Sanders that worried William now. There was still something within the boy that he knew he did not control, something he might never control—there had been a moment’s hesitation that morning, a moment’s reluctance, when William had sent him into town with Bill and Franklin to bring Baskin back to the place. That hesitation worried William—the boy was too proud, too independent. He had to learn once and for all that William was not a man to cross, not a man to anger—and he had to learn what could happen to any man who did anger him.
Just as Gilbert Baskin had.
He brought his eyes back to Baskin, chewing down on the cigar in his mouth for a moment before speaking. “Maybe I should have had you taught a lesson those months ago, boy, instead of just having you run out of the County. Nobody crosses me without having to answer for it—” His eyes moved back to Janson Sanders for a moment. “Nobody.” He nodded his head toward Franklin Bates where he stood nearby waiting. “Teach him a lesson—” he said, stepping out of the way as Bates moved forward. His eyes settled back on Janson Sanders. “Teach him a lesson he won’t ever forget—”
Elise ran down the stairs and into the wide hallway that ran the depth of the main floor of the house, stopping for a moment to admire her reflection in the heavy mirror that hung there between the doorway to the company parlor and that of the first-floor bedroom. She turned first this way then that, smiling to herself, finally giving approval to the picture she made. She had spent all morning getting ready, choosing her dress, crimping her hair, doing her makeup—today was the Fourth of July, Independence Day, the day she was certain her life would change forever. There was to be a picnic in the large meadow just south of town this morning, and a dance in the basement of Town Hall tonight. At least half the County would be turning out for the festivities—but half the County did not matter. What mattered was that Janson Sanders would be there; that he would be there, and that he had promised the day to her.
She had lain awake half the night trying to think of a way out of having to spend the early part of the day with her parents and with J.C., but, try as she might, she could think of no reason that would excuse her from the picnic without also excluding her from leaving the house for the remainder of the day. She would have to spend the morning with them—but, as soon as she could slip away, she would have the afternoon and the evening with Janson. The day was theirs; he had promised her that. There would be no mysterious ‘errands’ for him to go off on, no secret ‘work’ that he could never tell her about. He belonged to her for the day. And to her alone.
She spun happily around, hugging herself. There would be the dance tonight, following the picnic and the hot dogs and the patriotic speeches. A group of young people from the County had made arrangements for musicians to come all the way from Atlanta, over the objections of many of the older people that jazz music, and even the already-outdated Charleston, not to mention bobbed hair and hip flasks and the blatant sexuality of rolled stockings and short skirts, were morally corrupting. Elise had attended dances at the Town Hall before, had often been one of the most popular of the young flappers there, dancing with more of the County boys than did any other girl in attendance—but she had never before looked forward to any dance as she looked forward to the one tonight. She knew she would not be able to dance publicly with Janson, for her father would never permit that—but there was always the chance she might get him off into some quiet corner, or even into the darkness outside Town Hall. He could be so awfully old-fashioned about some things—but still she might talk him into a private dance, just the two of them, alone in the darkness, something old-fashioned and slow, so that he would have to hold her. She could flirt with him—not too much, for she well remembered his reaction the last time she had flirted, and she would not have him think she was not behaving like a lady again. She would let him know that she did care about him, was interested in him as a man, without ever having to say a word. Once the music was playing, soft and low in the background, and she was in his arms, close against him, she knew it would have to happen—he would lean to her and kiss her and—
And after tonight he would forget all about that other girl in town.
No matter what it was he said, she was certain he had a girl, someone he would not tell her about—what else could take him away at such peculiar hours and times? What else would he not be willing to tell her about?
But she refused to think about that today. Today he belonged to her, and only to her, for this one day alone. She would make him forget that other girl, all other girls—she knew they were meant to be together, and he would know it as well before this day was through. He had to love her; she could feel it—women always knew such things, she told herself. Janson had to love her, and that other girl, whoever she was, was nothing more than a diversion because he did not believe that Elise felt exactly as he did. But, tonight, once she was in his arms—
Her father would be furious, but she would not let herself think about that now. She and Janson would be married—how that could be, in the manner of those who have had all they have wanted in their lives, she did not consider. She wanted Janson, and she was determined to have what it was she wanted.
She smiled happily at her reflection in the mirror, thinking of all the days ahead, thinking of the green of Janson’s eyes, the curve of his jaw. She felt she could never wait an hour or more to see him, to begin this day that she would remember forever—if she could just steal a few moments with him now, under the pretext of telling him where and when to meet her later. He would be in his room, getting ready for the picnic—it would be so easy, just slip out the back and over to the barn. Just a moment with him, to renew his promise that his day belonged to her today. Just a moment—
She slipped down the wide hallway toward the door that opened out onto the back veranda, glancing back once to make sure that her father was nowhere within sight. She went through the door and closed it quietly behind herself, then crossed to the steps that led down into the yard—her father would have a fit if he caught her. He had seemed so strange earlier when he had told her not to leave the house until time to leave for the picnic. But seeing Janson even for a moment would be well worth the risk. Her father might scream and yell, but even he could not ruin this day for her. This was her day, Janson’s day, and nothing would spoil it. Nothing.
With that thought in mind, she slipped quietly around the edge of the house, across the yard, and toward the barn, knowing this day would change her life forever.
There was a sick feeling in the pit of Janson’s stomach as Franklin Bates stopped before them. Gilbert Baskin was struggling in his grip now, struggling, not out of defiance as before, but in fear, a film of perspiration beading over his upper lip. Bates took a step forward, flexing his massive hands before knotting them into fists, and Janson turned his eyes away, the sickness rising to his throat for he knew what was about to happen.
William Whitley stood just a short distance away, his back turned toward the work about to be done on his order, a thin wraith of smoke rising from his cigar as he finally lighted it. Janson stared at him, realizing for the first time how dangerous the man could be—he was a man who could do anything, anything at all, if he were only pushed far enough. Janson’s eyes moved back toward Bates, and then to Gilbert Baskin who dragged at him as he tried to back away—and then he caught sight of Bill Whitley, and a cold chill moved up his spine. The man was smiling, a cold, hard excitement in his eyes—he’s enjoying this, Janson told himself. My God, he’s enjoying this.
The first blow almost collapsed Gilbert to the ground, his knees sagging beneath him. He dragged at the two men holding him, struggling to free himself. His words were incoherent now, pleading, begging, all defiance gone—but there was no use. The second punch collapsed his knees beneath him, almost pulling Janson and Bill down as well. A trickle of fresh blood appeared at the corner of his mouth from where he had bitten his jaw to keep from crying out—this isn’t right, some part of Janson kept saying. This isn’t—
Franklin knotted his fists for another blow, his face absolutely impassive, business-like—this has gone too far, Janson thought. Gilbert was shaking his head back and forth, spittle drooling from his mouth and down over his chin—too—
“That’s enough!” Janson heard his own voice over the sound of Gilbert’s near-incoherent pleading. Franklin’s eyes flicked to his for a moment, and then moved toward where William Whitley stood at a distance, Bates hands still tightened and ready before him.
Whitley had turned back toward them, surprise, something near disbelief, in his eyes as he took the cigar from his mouth and stared at Janson for a moment. “What’d you say, boy?”
“I said he’s had enough.” There was anger building inside of Janson—there were many things in this world he would do for money; but this was not one of them.
“You goddamn coward!” Bill Whitley said, his voice filled with anger and hatred from where he stood just at Gilbert Baskin’s other side.
“Shut up, Bill!” Whitley snapped, but his eyes never left Janson. “I’m the one who’ll decide when he’s had enough, boy—” he said, clear threat in his words.
“He’s had enough.” Janson kept his gaze locked with Whitley’s as he supported Gilbert Baskin’s sagging body. He knew he was walking a thin line; one misstep and he could meet with what Gilbert had received—or even worse. Whitley was no man to provoke; he had well learned that this morning—and he knew he might have already gone one step too far.
Whitley’s jaw clenched, his eyes filling with anger as he stared at Janson. “Boy, don’t nobody—”
But a shocked female voice cut through his words, silencing him as quickly as a slap. “Oh—dear God—!”
Janson turned quickly in that direction—but he already knew. Elise stood at one corner of the barn, her eyes taking in the scene before her, and then settling on his own. He felt he could never take the weight of that gaze, and of all that it said. There was accusation there in her eyes. Accusation, and a sudden, horrible understanding.
Elise felt as if she herself had been delivered a blow, so great was the shock—her father, Bill, and Janson—oh, dear God, Janson—Gilbert, looking so battered, so hurt. What she saw said everything—what kind of men were these, to be able to hurt another human being so easily, so without feeling. Her father, her brother, the man she loved—Janson, her Janson, holding another man for a beating—
“Oh—dear God—!” was all she could say, staring at him.
“Elise, go back to the house!” Her father’s face was set, drained of color, as her eyes came back to him.
“No! I won’t! What in the name of—” Her voice was pleading, demanding—it could not be as it seemed. Not her father, not Bill—not Janson. Her eyes moved to Gilbert as he was released, as he sagged to the ground—no man could have deserved this. No man. “What are—”
“Go back to the house!” Her father’s voice rose in anger.
“No!”—please, God, let me be dreaming, she begged. Let this all be a nightmare—but this was no nightmare. It was all too real, in all its ugly, glaring truth. And suddenly she understood—all the times Janson had left her, had gone places he could not tell her about, done things he could not tell her about, had been times like this, times when he had done terrible things for her father just for the money it could bring him. Just for the money. Her eyes moved back to Janson, and she stared at him in disbelief—Janson, hurting someone, helping her father to hurt someone. Janson, but not the man she had known, never the man she had known. A stranger inside of him, a stranger who wore his face and had his voice. A stranger who mocked and angered and frightened her. “Why? Daddy—Janson—how could—”
“I said, go back to the house, goddamn you!”
“No!” She screamed at her father for the first time in all her life, feeling as if she wanted to cry—but the tears would not come. They stayed locked inside of her, hurting far worse than any she had ever shed.
The color returned to her father’s face in a rush. His cheeks reddened, and he clenched his hands into fists angrily at his sides. Janson’s eyes seemed to dart quickly to him, and then back to Elise. His voice suddenly came, even more commanding than her father’s had been.
“Get back t’ th’ house, Elise!”
Her chin rose, defiance suddenly flaring within her, defiance stoked by shock and hurt—how dare he not be the man she had thought him to be. How dare he present her with this mocking stranger behind the face she had loved so well. How dare he—
“Get t’ th’ house!” His voice rose, a stern look in his eyes that allowed no disobedience. “Now!”
Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to get away, away from this place, away from her father, away from Janson. She needed to be alone, needed to think, to sort it all out in her mind. She felt as if she had been slapped cold, hard in the face by something she had not been prepared for, something she could never have been prepared for. She turned and ran—toward the house, toward the shelter of her room, toward the comfort and safety she had always known. Her mind was filled with Janson, a Janson she had never known before, a Janson she did not like—and a Janson she did not want to love.
But into her mind crept the one thought as she ran toward the road, the fields, and the house beyond, momentarily crowding out all others, and bringing with it a stab of bittersweet pain—there had been no other girl in his life. The days he had been gone from her, days so secretive and mysterious, had been days such as this—days spent doing wrong and unpleasant things for her father, not days spent in the arms of another woman. He had been hers more completely than she had ever known, and the hurt of that knowledge learned too late ached inside of her, for she hoped nothing more now than that she would never have to see him again.
Janson strode up the steps and onto the wide front veranda of the Whitley house less than an hour later, his heavy shoes making dull, thudding noises on the wooden flooring beneath him—he had to find Elise. He had to find her and make her understand before she could say or do something that might push her father too far—and it might already be too late. If Whitley had come here directly after leaving the barn, he had been home now for over three-quarters of an hour—three-quarters of an hour in which Elise could have confronted him, could have said or done anything that might have set him off. Janson had never before believed that Whitley might actually harm his own daughter—but this time he could not be certain.
The man’s temper had been at the breaking point already after Janson had stopped the beating, and then Elise had shown up. Janson had known from the look on her face that she had to be gotten out of there before she could say or do one thing too many—it had torn him apart inside to watch her run away, knowing what it was she had to think of him now after what she had walked into.
And now she had been here in the house with her father for over forty-five minutes. With her temper, with how quick she was to speak without thinking, with her pure cussedness, Janson knew she would have confronted him by now. Forty-five minutes—
He caught sight of himself in the frosted glass panes set into the wide front doors—he was dressed in a new pair of dungarees, his best Sunday shirt, and the only pair of shoes he owned. His straight, black hair, so neatly combed back and pomaded earlier, was now tousled and disheveled—he had been so careful with his appearance this morning, had taken time as never before, because he had known he would be spending the day with her. He had wanted her to notice the care he had taken, had wanted her to be totally unashamed to be seen with him on this day, had even allowed himself to dream—
But that was all gone now. After what she had seen, after what she had walked into, after what she must believe of him now—
But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was that he had to find her, make sure that she was all right, and that he calm her temper and still her questioning before she could push her father too far—if it was not already too late. He knew she could never be told the truth, never be told that Gilbert Baskin had simply become a threat to her father’s bootlegging operation—no, she could never be told that. He had hoped earlier that by getting her away from the barn as quickly as possible, by putting that distance between her and her father, that both tempers would have time to cool before they could confront each other. He and Franklin had been sent into town to put Gilbert on the first train out of Endicott County, to warn him one last time that to ever show his face within the County line again might mean his immediate death—as they had driven away, he had seen Whitley start for the house, an angry look on his face. Forty-five minutes ago, and anything could have happened by now. Anything.
The place seemed deserted, too quiet, neither Whitley’s car nor Bill’s parked in the curve of the drive before the house. There was no sound of the radio playing from within the front parlor, or of the Victrola, or even of voices—Janson pounded on the heavy wooden door until the frosted glass pane rattled in its frame, waited a moment, then pounded again. “Goddamn it—answer—” he swore aloud, clenching both fists at his sides.
One of the heavy doors swung inward almost in response to his curse, and he found himself staring down into the surprised face of Mattie Ruth Coates. He pushed past her and into the wide hallway, looking toward the staircase that rose to the floor above. “Where’s Elise?”
For a moment she did not answer, staring up at him with clear disapproval in her eyes. “She’s done gone—”
“Gone—gone where?”
“T’ th’ doin’s in town, with th’ family.”
“An’ her pa?”
“He went with ’em, made her go. She didn’t much want t’—” But the remainder of her words were lost as he pushed past her again and out onto the wide veranda. “Where’re you goin’?” she yelled after him from the open doorway.
“Int’ town,” he said, not stopping or looking back. “I got t’ find Elise—”
The gawky Ford rattled down Goodwin’s Main Street as it neared the picnic grounds at the far end of town that morning, finally rolling to a stop beside the collection of cars, wagons, and trucks already parked there at the edge of the meadow. Elise sat staring out the car window, unmoving, her eyes set on the growing crowd of picnickers, until her door was yanked open and she looked up to find her father glowering down at her. She got out of the car quickly and moved a few steps away, wanting only to distance herself from him—but she felt a sudden rough hand on her arm, drawing her up short, turning her to face him.
“You listen to me, Elise—” he said, his tone hushed, angry, his brows lowered, his eyes dark and furious still as they stared down into her own. “You keep your mouth shut about things you don’t know anything about; do you hear me?”
For a moment she did not answer, but just stared up at him, the anger and rage growing inside of her again—she had not wanted to come here in the first place, had not wanted to spend the day acting just as if she had seen nothing, just as if she had learned nothing as she now wished she had never known.
This had been his idea, his demand, when he had returned to the house—she would forget what she had seen, what she had walked into. She did not understand what had happened, he had said, or the reasons for it—but she understood enough; she understood there was something her father was involved in, Bill was involved in, even Janson was involved in, that she had been meant to know nothing about. They were doing something wrong, wrong perhaps both in the sight of God and the Law, and Gilbert Baskin had somehow gotten in their way—she knew Gilbert had left the place sometime during the months she had been away at school, sometime during the months when Janson had first come to the place; but now Gilbert was back, and they had beaten him, perhaps even meant to kill him if she had not interfered. No man alive could have deserved what they had done to him, what they had intended to do; her father, Bill, Franklin Bates, Janson—how she despised them now for what they had done, what they were capable of doing. They somehow frightened her, enraged her, for they were none of them the men she had thought them to be. None of them, not even her own father or brother. Not even Janson, who she had wanted to spend her life with—how much she had thought she loved him, and what a fool she had been. What a fool.
Her father yanked at her arm, hurting her, demanding her attention. “You just keep your mouth shut—” he said, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Do you hear me?”
Elise yanked her arm free of his grasp and took a step back to glare up at him. “Oh, I hear you all right, Daddy.”
He looked around quickly, at the others getting out of the car, at the picnic baskets being unloaded, the festivities being prepared for, then he looked quickly back to her, his eyes growing only darker. “You forget what you saw, or what it is you think you saw. You don’t know a goddamn thing—and I’m getting tired of your smart mouth. All you’ve got to worry about today is J.C. Cooper, and being nice to him. That’s all you’ve got to worry about from now on—do you understand me?”
Elise stared up at him, realizing for the first time in her life that she did not know, or even really like, her own father. “Yeah, I understand you, Daddy,” she said. “Maybe for the first time in my life, I understand you.”
By the time Janson reached town that morning, there was already a sizeable gathering of people at the meadow, some already sitting down to picnic dinners, others only now just arriving. He had caught a ride toward town on the wagon of one of the Whitleys’ sharecroppers, sitting on the back in silence, his legs dangling down, the ride seeming to him to take forever to cover the distance. The farmer had taken him to within a mile of the edge of town, and he had walked the remainder of the way, his steps determined, single-minded—he had to talk to Elise, whether she wanted to see him or not. He had to talk to her, make sure she was all right, and then make certain that she forgot forever what it was she had seen today, not for his sake, or for her father’s, but for her own. She could never know about the bootlegging operation, but she had to understand enough to know that she could never confront her father again about what she had seen, never take the chance of pushing him too far—Janson had known before that William Whitley could be a dangerous man, but he had never realized how dangerous, not until today, not until he had seen that beating take place, that beating that he had known had been as much for his benefit as for Gilbert’s own. It had been a message, a clear warning, that he should never let himself become a threat as well.
He made his way past a group of small boys shooting off firecrackers at the edge of the picnic grounds, past a group of men heatedly discussing politics, and several young couples walking arm-in-arm over the newly mown grass, his eyes searching the area for Elise. It seemed as if most of the County had turned out for the celebration, for the picnic, the speeches, and the dance and fireworks that would come later. There were families already sitting down to picnic baskets, elderly ladies gossiping beneath the shade of nearby trees, and young people courting away from the eyes of meddlesome mothers. Janson caught sight of Stan Whitley standing at a distance of about half-way across the meadow, J.C. Cooper nearby, and he started in their direction, knowing that Elise would be somewhere not too far distant—then he saw her, kneeling at the edge of one of the blankets her family had spread out, both she and her mother helping to unload the picnic dinner that had been brought in the many baskets surrounding her. She seemed to lift her eyes and see him at the same moment, appearing surprised at first, then flustered; then she hurriedly got to her feet and started away, toward the far side of the picnic grounds, putting an even greater distance between them.
Janson started toward her, pushing past a group of men near the edge of the meadow, stepping around picnickers, almost knocking one man off his feet in his rush to reach her—she would have to listen to him; he would give her no other choice. She would have to listen to him, and then—
And then only God knew.
Elise did not know where she was going, and she did not care. She only knew she had to get away, away from Janson before he could reach her, away from her father and the picnic grounds and all the people who did not know that the world had forever changed on this day. She saw the woods ahead of her and she headed in that direction, knowing somehow she would never make it to their cover before Janson could reach her side.
She felt his hand on her arm, gently but firmly drawing her up short, putting an end to her flight, and she turned to him, rage filling her as she tried to jerk free. “Let me go, goddamn you!” she demanded, struggling against him, only to have his free hand close over her other arm as well. For a moment his eyes searched her face, and she felt herself weakening, then she shoved hard against him again, determined to not lose herself to the lies she knew that lay behind those green eyes. “I said, let me go!”
“Quit fightin’ me, Elise, before you hurt yourself—”
“Isn’t that what you intend to do, Janson Sanders, beat me up as well?” she demanded, finally stopping her struggles only to stare up at him.
His hands fell from her arms and a hurt look came into his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t never hurt you—”
“But you hurt other people, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been doing all along, isn’t it, all the times you left and told me lies about where it was you were going and what you were doing—you and my father, you’re involved in something you don’t want anyone else to know about, something that’s wrong, something that’s illegal. That’s it, isn’t it—he’s got you doing terrible things for him, hasn’t he, just for the money. Just for the—”
“Leave it be, Elise—”
“Hasn’t he!”
“I said leave it be! You don’t unders—”
“Oh, I understand enough, and I hate you for it. You’re not the man I thought you were, and I can never forgive you for that, never!”
For a moment he only stared at her. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I mean!” she said, clenching her hands into fists at her sides, her entire body shaking now with fury. “You’ll do anything for money, won’t you? Anything—”
“But, you don’t—”
“Why did Daddy have you do it? Why did he have you beat up Gilbert—you, Bill, Franklin—”
“Leave it be, Elise. He’s got his reasons. It ain’t my place t’ say—”
“Well, maybe my father will say!” She turned and started away, back toward the center of the picnic grounds, back toward her father and her family and the picnic dinner she knew she would never be able to eat, but suddenly he had her arm again, turning her to face him, holding her still before him. When he spoke his voice was low, firm, something unreadable in his eyes.
“You listen t’ me, Elise Whitley. You leave your pa alone; don’t you go askin’ him no questions.”
She tried to jerk free, but he would not release her, his hands holding her only more firmly, his eyes never once leaving her face.
“You just stay outta this, you hear me? Don’t you go messin’ in things you don’t know nothin’ about—”
“You sound just like my father!” She spat the words at him, unable to stop herself.
“Maybe I do, but you listen t’ me. You stay outta this. Don’t go messin’ with him; he ain’t nobody t’—”
Suddenly he seemed to realize he had said too much. She stared at him, realization slowly coming. “You actually think he would—Janson, he’s my father! You can’t really believe he would hurt me!”
“I ain’t sayin’ he’d hurt you, but it’s best that you forget you ever saw anythin’ t’day. No matter what it is you think about me, or about anythin’ else, don’t go sayin’ nothin’ more t’ him about it.”
She took her arms from his grasp, and this time he released her willingly. She took a few steps away to stand with her back to him. “You really believe he would—” but her words trailed off. After a moment she spoke again. “He has you doing something illegal, doesn’t he?” she asked, but he did not respond. “Damn it, answer me!” She turned back to face him. “I have the right to know! He’s my father, and you’re—” but she could not finish.
“He’s got his reasons for what he does, Elise. Just leave it be—”
“I will not leave it be! And I don’t care what his reasons are! I see you helping to beat a man half to death, and my father—what is it you’re involved in?”
“I said leave it be!”
Something of the urgency in his voice cut through her. She stared at him, an awful understanding coming to her. “My father, he could turn on you like that, couldn’t he?” she asked, but he would not answer. “What happened to Gilbert, it could—”
“Elise—”
“Answer me!” she demanded, her voice rising. “It could happen to you, couldn’t it?”
“Your pa don’t do nothin’ unless he’s got a reason.”
“But, if he had a reason, he could hurt you, have someone else hurt you, maybe even—”
“I ain’t givin’ him no reason—”
But she knew. She stared at him, realizing fully what it was her father might be capable of doing. “Janson, you’ve got to stop whatever you’re doing for him, quit it now, before he—”
But he cut her words short. “I cain’t do that—”
“Why not? Is the money that—”
“Th’ quickest way for me t’ end up like Gilbert Baskin is for me t’ quit doin’ what your pa says—is that what you wanted t’ hear!” he demanded, and then seemed to realize what his words had done to her. “Elise, I—”
But she turned away, her voice hushed as she spoke. “My God, what kind of man is he—”
“Elise, it ain’t important. Just forget—”
“Do you really think I can forget?” she demanded, turning to him, knowing suddenly that she was going to cry. “Seeing you hurting someone, and my father—how did you ever get involved in something like this?”
“I do what he pays me t’ do—”
“Even hurting people!”
“I ain’t hurt nobody.”
“I saw you! You were helping to—”
“An’ I put a stop t’ it when it went too far—” But she only stared at him. He sighed and shook his head. “That don’t matter now,” he said after a moment. “Th’ only thing that matters is that you leave your pa be. Don’t go askin’ him no questions.”
Elise stared at him for a moment, and then turned her eyes away, looking toward the throng of picnickers, toward people she knew she would never be able to see in the same way again. When she brought her eyes back to him she found him watching her, a look in his eyes once again that she could not understand.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment, his eyes never once leaving her face.
She nodded, looking away again.
“Your pa, when he came back t’ th’ house, he didn’t—”
“No, he didn’t,” she answered, not letting him finish, not wanting to hear the words.
“You an’ me, I don’t guess you’ll ever—” but his words fell silent. When she looked back at him there was pain in his eyes.
“I’ll ever what?” she asked.
“After t’day, I don’t guess you’ll want anythin’ more t’ do with me again.”
She could only stare up at him for a moment. “You’re still my friend,” she said finally, her words quiet.
“You said you hated me.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I should never have said that.”
“But, do you?”
“No, I couldn’t hate you.”
He was silent for a long moment, his green eyes moving toward the nearby picnickers, and then coming back to rest on her again. There was a longing in him she could almost sense, that she could see in his eyes, and she knew that he had not been a lie, that he had never been a lie, no matter what it was she had seen today. “Before, you said that you wanted t’ spend part ’a th’ day with me. You don’t have t’ now, not if you don’t want t’—”
For a time she could only stare up at him, letting the realization of all she had learned sink into her, the realization of all that she still did not know. Then she suddenly found herself smiling, and she reached up to place a gentle hand on his cheek, knowing somehow that she would love him anyway, no matter what else it was she might learn. “Yes, I still want to spend the day with you, as soon as I can manage to get away from my family.”
A slow, reluctant smile touched his lips, and he reached to place a warm hand over her own. For a moment she understood, knowing more certainly than ever before that he did love her. Then his face sobered. “Elise, you just remember what I said. You forget what you saw this mornin’. Don’t say nothin’ more t’ your pa about it.”
But she would not answer.
“I mean it, Elise, don’t you go pushin’ him—”
“You just be careful,” was all she would say. “Just be careful—”
William Whitley stood beneath the shade of a large water oak at the edge of the picnic grounds that morning, never once taking his eyes from his daughter and Janson Sanders—they looked more like bickering lovers than merely friends, he kept telling himself. They looked more like—
Somewhere inside of himself he knew that he had made a mistake. He should never have allowed the relationship to go on this long, to have become this close. He should have put a stop to it much sooner—but it was not too late even now. Elise might be making a fool of herself and William as well here in a public place with half the County watching—but it was not too late.
Elise was far too headstrong, and she could be trouble enough on her own—and now it seemed as if Janson Sanders might present a problem of himself as well. The boy had already shown a streak of defiance that day, sticking his nose in where it did not belong, trying to put a stop to what Gilbert Baskin had rightly earned for himself—and William did not like defiance, especially not out of a farmhand, and most especially not out of one he was using in the bootlegging operation. The boy was forgetting his place, and William knew that could be dangerous, considering what the boy already knew, and also considering how close he was becoming with Elise. Janson Sanders was a normal, healthy young man, and Elise was a pretty and naturally flirtatious girl, with more daydreams than she had common sense—yes, William should have put a stop to this long ago. Elise had J.C. to think about, and William had no intention of letting the half-breed Sanders make more of a problem of himself than he already was.
William folded his arms across his chest and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth, watching as Elise smiled up at Janson and reached up to touch his face—William’s teeth clamped down hard on the cigar. That gesture said too much. There was an intimacy to it, a caring. It said too—
“Is there something wrong, Daddy?” his son Bill asked from where he stood nearby, but William’s eyes never once left the young couple.
“Could be,” William answered, squinting in spite of the shade of the tree beneath which they stood. “Could be you’ve been right about Janson Sanders all along. He might have to be taken care of before he can turn himself into a real problem.” He watched them for a moment longer. “He just might have to be.”