Janson stared through the side window of William Whitley’s truck that next morning, his eyes fixed on the tall, straight pines that passed alongside the road—he was uneasy, ill-at-ease, as he sat beside Franklin Bates. There was something in the man’s manner, something about the look in his eyes, or the set of his jaw as he steered the truck over the rutted clay road, that made the hairs along the back of Janson’s neck rise. He had been at the stills earlier, getting ready for a run of corn liquor with Tate, when he had turned to find Bates there.
“Mr. Whitley wants to see you, boy—right now,” Bates had said, that peculiar look in his eyes.
Janson had gone, but not before he had exchanged one quick look with Old Tate—there had been concern there in the old man’s eyes, worry. He knew, just as Janson did, that Franklin Bates was no messenger boy.
The truck turned in the drive before the Whitleys’ big house, then rolled to a stop only a few feet short of the front veranda. Janson’s eyes searched the tall windows for sight of Elise as he got out of the truck—the night before seemed now almost a dream to him. But it had been no dream; it had been real. He had held Elise Whitley in his arms, had kissed her—he had awakened this morning knowing she could love him, if not now, then someday. She would never have let him hold her, kiss her, as he had done, if she had not at least felt something for him, if it were not at least possible that—but, as he entered the house behind Franklin Bates that morning, she was nowhere to be seen. And last night seemed very far away.
He followed Bates through to the library, entering the imposing room just as he had on that first night he had come here those months ago. It was all still there—the books, the brocaded settees, the desks and reading lamps, just as he remembered it. William Whitley stood now across the room, his back turned to them, his hands clasped together behind him, his eyes staring out one of the tall windows at the smooth lawn and the green cotton fields beyond. Bill sat at the rolltop desk, a sheaf of papers in his hands, his eyes rising to meet those of Franklin Bates as he and Janson entered the room.
Janson heard the heavy wooden door close behind them. He could hear the ticking of the mantle clock, and, in the silence, he fancied he could hear the breathing of each of the men in the room. He waited, staring at Whitley, feeling the imposing presence of Bates where the man stood just behind him. It seemed a very long time before Whitley turned—and, when he did, Janson felt the cold knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He had seen that look in Whitley’s eyes only one time before, had felt its presence—it was the same look he had given Gilbert Baskin just before he had ordered the man beaten.
Janson took a deep breath and prepared himself for what he knew was to come—Whitley might order him to be beaten, for whatever real or imagined sin, but the man would have no satisfaction from it. Janson would not beg for mercy as Baskin had done; he would not plead to be spared—Whitley would kill him first.
He lifted his chin and returned the man’s stare. He was not afraid.
William Whitley stared at Janson Sanders for a long moment before he spoke—the boy’s face was unreadable, but his eyes held strength. There was no fear there, not even a hint of subservience—the boy looked at William as if he thought he were his equal. And William wanted nothing more than to kill him for it.
He had waited until this morning, had waited until he thought he could control his temper before he had the boy brought to him. But now it seemed as if the wait had been for nothing. The anger returned, the outrage, just as strong as it had been the night before, and he fought again to control it. The image of his daughter and this half-breed filled his mind—but the boy would die before William would allow that to happen. He knew now that he could never allow the relationship to continue, not in any form—William Whitley had no intention of having dark little grandchildren with one-quarter Cherokee Indian blood in their veins as well as his own, and no intention of having Elise make any greater fool of herself than she already had. He would sooner kill the boy now than ever to allow Elise near him again, even in friendship, for friendship could so very easily become so much more. It would end, or the boy would end. It was as simple as that.
“Bill, Franklin, leave us—” he said at last, his voice low and controlled, his eyes never once leaving Janson Sanders’s face. Franklin moved immediately to obey, but Bill delayed. “Leave us!” The carefully held control threatened to break, and William fought again to maintain it as he heard the door at last close behind Bates and his eldest son, leaving him alone with the farmhand.
I want to kill you—William thought as he crossed the library rug toward Janson Sanders, seeing the proud, defiant look that remained on the boy’s face—I want to kill you, for the feeling I see in my daughter for you, for the feelings I see in you for my daughter. I want to kill you, but I can still use you. I want to kill you—and I will, if it does not end here. The friendship is over—if I ever see you near her again, your life is ended. I will kill you with my own hands.
“You and me need to have a talk, boy,” he said, trying to force his nature under control. The boy did not respond, but the green eyes never left William’s face. The pride there made William want to hit him—but he clamped a tighter rein over his temper instead, clenching the cigar in his mouth only more tightly between his teeth. He knew that if he let go now he would kill the boy—but he could not afford to do that, not unless he had to. Janson Sanders was too valuable an asset to the bootlegging operation for William to allow himself to get rid of him in a fit of rage—how long it had taken William to realize that in the hours since he had first begun to see what this farmhand and his daughter were starting to feel for each other. He needed the boy to haul corn liquor across the County line for sale, and he needed him in the stilling itself. There were too few men who could be trusted, too few men who could keep their mouths shut, when the law and the revenue agents were constantly out to put a man out of business and into jail if he were caught. Janson Sanders had proven himself valuable over the past months, and he could prove himself valuable far into the future—but not at the expense of William’s daughter, or of the plans he had made for her so long ago. William would not give up the Whitleys’ good name, or his family’s standing in the community. Elise would marry no farmhand—but neither would William give up a key man he needed in his bootlegging operation just because of the foolishness of a girl. It had taken most of the night, but William had at last found the way—after today there would be no more chance of a romance between Elise and this half-breed. No chance at all.
“Sit down, boy.” He motioned to one of the settees, and, after a moment, the boy moved to sit down. He had not once spoken since entering the room, and his silence was somehow unnerving to William. The green eyes stared up at him—proud and defiant, William thought as he stood over him. “There’s no other way to say this, boy, than to just come out with it,” he said. “Elise came to me this morning and asked me to talk to you. I don’t know what’s been going on between you two, and at this point I don’t want to know, but she wanted me to tell you that she wants you to stay away from her from now on.” He told the fabrication easily, and watched the boy’s expression change—he had hit a nerve. It was evident on the dark face; and he knew he had acted none too soon. “She’s afraid you’re starting to feel things for her that you shouldn’t be feeling—now, you believe me, boy, I’d kill you right now if I thought you’d ever tried to take any liberties with her. I don’t think you would, and, if I ever find out differently, I’ll break your neck with these two hands myself, do you understand that?” He stared at the boy for a moment. “Elise is worried that you’ve taken a fancy to her. It’s understandable if you have, boy, because she’s a pretty girl, but you’ve got to realize, like she has, that she’s a cut above you. She’s grateful for what you did that night to save her from Ethan Bennett, and she feels sorry for you, but she just let it go too far. You’ve been taking up too much of her time, and you’ve been interfering between her and J.C. She’s afraid you’re forgetting who and what you are, and that you’re starting to think you’re just like the rest of us, when you’re not. You’ve been getting too familiar with her, and too attached to her, and she’s worried that you’re starting to think she’s feeling things that she could never feel for someone like you.”
He felt a moment of inward triumph—there had been a flicker of pain in the boy’s eyes. William had gotten through that wall of pride and strength, and had actually managed to hurt him.
“Elise will be getting married soon, and she thinks it would be best if you stayed away from her from now on. She’s afraid people will start to talk about her, considering who and what you are, and she’s right about that, so I’m telling you myself to leave her be. I’ll tell you one other thing, boy; if she had taken a fancy to you as well, I’d kill you first before I’d see the two of you together. Elise is my only daughter, but I’d see her dead as well before I’d see her with the likes of you—but I don’t have that to worry about, do I, boy, because she’s going to marry J. C. Cooper. She’s got her future to think about, so you just stay away from her.” He watched the agony he fancied going on inside the boy for a moment. “You understand me, boy?”
Janson stood, surprising William, who took a step backwards. “I understan’.” The boy spoke for the first time since entering the room. His voice was low, controlled, the green eyes now masked, showing nothing. But a muscle clenched in his jaw. “You through with me now?”
William stared at him. “Yeah, boy. You can go.”
Janson Sanders turned and left the room, his eyes fixed straight ahead as the heavy door closed behind him. William watched him go, relief coming to him. The boy was hurt and humiliated. He would stay far away from Elise from this day on—and his pride would never allow him to speak to anyone, least of all to Elise herself, of what had happened in this room on this day. He would simply end the friendship, the relationship, before it could have the chance to go any further—and he would do it because he believed it was what she wanted. She would never know what had happened. She would be confused, even hurt; she might even try to question the boy—but Janson Sanders’s pride was his undoing. In his mind, Elise wanted nothing more to do with him. In his mind, she was afraid that her reputation would be soiled by association with someone so far beneath her—as it would have been. In his mind, she felt sorry for him, and, to Janson Sanders, that would have been the worst insult of all. He would never face her with the truth of what he had been told, because his pride would never allow it. If she forced her presence on him, he would simply walk away; his pride would allow him to do nothing else. She would never know what her father had done for her, and might be so adrift after the loss of the friendship that she could even be easier to handle, more pliable to his will, as a daughter rightfully should be. He would tell her some story as well, that the boy had come to him, asked him to speak with her—she would be no more difficult to handle than Janson Sanders had been. Her own pride would never allow her to confront him either once William was through with her. Pride was the one characteristic the two of them had in common. The only one.
And, still, William had managed to salvage a man valuable in the bootlegging operation. He had no real concern that the boy might quit now, pack up and leave the place. Sanders might have taken a fancy to Elise, and that could be understandable, for she was lovely and charming and would have to be far above any other girl someone like him would ever have known. His pride might be hurt now, even his feelings—but pride and hurt feelings would mean little to the boy compared to the money William paid him. Janson Sanders had a liking for money; why, William did not know, for he still never seemed to spend any. He was willing to do whatever it took to earn a dollar. Even run a still. Even haul bootleg whiskey—and Elise could not have meant that much to him anyway.
William moved across the room to the mantlepiece, struck a match, and lit up his cigar. Martha might whine and complain later about the scent of smoke in the draperies—but, Martha be damned, this was his home, and he was master of it. He would smoke if he damned well pleased. He would do anything he damned well pleased.
Janson sat on the ground with his back against a tree at the edge of the clearing in the woods a short while later. He did not know why he had come here, to this place they had shared so many times, this place where they had picnicked, had laughed and talked—after he had left Whitley, he had just walked, feeling that he wanted only to escape the words the man had given him. After a time he had looked up to find himself here, and here he had stayed.
At first there had been nothing inside of him. Absolutely nothing. There was just a blankness crowding out the confusion. He sat, staring toward the pines that bordered the clearing, not thinking, not feeling—and then a thought had come: This is life without Elise; and the first wave of almost physical pain had hit him.
Until then there had always been a dream, always even the slightest hope somewhere in the back of his mind that she might learn to love him. When she had allowed the kisses, the closeness, the night before, he had even let himself believe—
But there was no belief left now. No hope. No dream that she might someday love him, might even be willing to marry him, no matter how different they might be. She was going to marry J.C. Cooper.
And she wanted nothing more to do with him.
He looked around at this place he knew so well, remembering the girl he had known, had loved, for months—how could he have been so wrong. How had he spent so much time with her, loved her so completely, and yet never known her at all. He had been her friend, had allowed her closer to him than he had allowed anyone since his parents had died—and now she thought she was too good for him, so much better than he was. She was afraid that people might talk, afraid that he felt things for her that she could never feel—when she could never know how he had felt, how he had loved her. Last night she had let him kiss her, had let him hold her in his arms, had let him believe—
But today she wanted nothing more to do with him. Today she felt sorry for him. And lacked even the courage to tell him so herself. She was no lady. She was nothing at all.
There was no reason to stay here now. No reason. He did not want to see her, could never see her, look at her, knowing what it was she felt. Knowing—
Suddenly he found himself longing for the red hills of Alabama as he had not for many months, longing to see his grandparents again, longing to see the small white house where he had grown up, and to visit his parents’ graves where they rested now side-by-side in the little Holiness cemetery in Eason County. But he could not go home. Not yet. He had sworn never to go back; never—not until he had the money to buy back his land, the money to buy back his parents’ dream, and his own. Something so small would mean nothing to someone like Elise Whitley—but it was all he had left now.
He got to his feet and took one last look around at the tall pines, the red earth, the blue Southern sky—so like home, and yet—
But he could never stay here. Never, not knowing now how it was she really felt. He would go some other place, somewhere where he could earn the money it would take to buy his land back. He had a strong back, two strong hands; he knew how to farm, how to run a whiskey still, and the tricks of hauling corn liquor—he would find work. It might never pay as well as running corn liquor for Whitley had, but he would at least be where he could be a man again. And he would never have to see Elise Whitley for the remainder of his life.
He cut through the woods, toward the fields thick with rows of green cotton plants, and the red clay road beyond. As he broke free of the trees he stopped for a moment to stare back at the tall, imposing structure of the Whitley house where it sat on its slight rise of ground, its wide verandas, white columns, and broad steps shining in the sunlight—rich people deserved each other, he told himself; may they all burn in hell together.
He walked across the yard to the road, going toward the barn and his small room. He tried to comfort himself with the thought of the money he would be taking with him—but it no longer seemed to matter so much. There were no dreams left inside of him for it to buy. There was nothing left, nothing but anger, nothing but a sense of betrayal, nothing but humiliation. Something within him had died that morning, and even the dream he had held for so long, had worked for, sweated for, seen his parents die for, seemed to matter little now. There seemed no reason for dreams now.
There seemed no reason for anything.
The short trip from Goodwin seemed to Elise to take forever that afternoon. She sat in the rear of the big Studebaker, staring out through the side window glass, eager for the sight of home. It had been a wasted morning, spent in town with her mother, Titus, and her brother Stan. She had not wanted to go in the first place, for there were too many other more important matters on her mind to allow her to enjoy shopping, or even trying on the latest styles—but her father had insisted. There was an important package coming in for him on the 11:40 train from Atlanta, and he wanted it picked up immediately. They could go in early, spend the morning in town, do some shopping, and have dinner at the drugstore before returning home. Elise had known that it was little like her father to insist that she and her mother go shopping, for he was usually much too tight with his money to do that—but he had said the package was important; and, besides, she had told herself, he was just trying to buy his way back into her good graces, considering what she had seen the day before, and what she had learned.
But now she was worried.
The train had come and gone. There had been no package on the 11:40 from Atlanta—and her father did not make mistakes like that.
She sat on the edge of the seat, willing Titus to drive faster. The morning was wasted, the boxes of new dresses and shoes and underthings too little payment for the time she had lost. She might have been able to see Janson already this morning if she had not gone into town, might even have been able to spend the day with him—but it was not too late now. As soon as she reached home and got her new things up to her room, she would go find him—and she would say at last the words he had stopped her from speaking the night before. She would tell him that she loved him.
Nervous butterflies were flitting about in her stomach—what would he say when she told him? What if he laughed at her—he was little more than three years her senior in age, but he seemed so much older, seemed to know so much more about life and the world and—could he really love her? She was months past her sixteenth birthday now, but, until last night, he had never before really treated her as if she were a woman, had never tried to kiss her or—but he had to know she was no child. The memory of his arms around her, the way he had kissed her, the way his body had felt against hers, had told her that he knew she was a woman. That he—
But had she been too forward? He could be so damnably old fashioned about so many things—could she have ruined everything by being too pushy, by having been the one to have done the luring out into the darkness behind Town Hall, by having been too easy to let him kiss and hold her. Her mother had always said that men really cared little for bold, flirtatious women, except for what they could get from them—for once in all her life, should she have listened to her mother? The modern thing to do nowadays was to be audacious and bold, flirtatious and daring, like Clara Bow and Zelda Fitzgerald and so many others. Women drank now days, even though liquor was illegal; they smoked and went to speakeasies and got arrested just as men did. They wore one-piece bathing suits, even if it did mean the police would get them. They wore rouge and face powder and lipstick; they danced to jazz music and wore short dresses; they bobbed their hair and drove cars and had a good time—but, damn it, Janson often seemed as if he were from another time. He probably did not even think women should have the vote, as they had since 1920, seven years before. Did he now think she was easy, just because she had let him hold her and kiss her—several times. Men never married girls who they thought were easy; her mother had said that as well. Had she managed to lose him even before she had him, by being too bold—damn it, why did he have to be so unlike anyone she had ever known, so impossible to figure out, or understand.
She had kissed plenty of boys before, a fact she would never let her mother know, or Janson—but no one else had ever made her feel as Janson had when he had kissed her. She had felt it through to her soul—that told her he did feel something for her, that he did love her, just as she had always known that he did—but had she been too forward? He had done the kissing, but she had made it obvious that she wanted to be kissed—what was he thinking this morning? Could he really love her as much as she loved him—if so, she could be married in a few months time. Mrs. Janson Sanders—oh, it would all be so wonderful. If only—
At least she would know soon. Nothing could be worse than not knowing, she told herself—but she could be so wrong; she knew that it would be so much worse if she knew that he did not love her. So much worse—but she could not think about that. She would never have the courage to tell him what she had to tell him if she did.
She sat on the edge of the seat, her hands twisting in her lap—almost home. Almost to Janson. The nervous butterflies flitted about in her stomach. Soon she would know. For better or worse, at least she would know.
There was only silence to greet Elise as she entered the tiny room off the barn half an hour later. There had been no answer to her knock at the splintery door, nothing but the overwhelming, lonely silence as a response, drawing her into the room as no greeting ever could.
The aged door hinges screeched in protest as she swung the door inward, and she stood for a moment, looking around, seeing the room clearly for the first time, as she had not those months ago when she had run here on the night her brother, Alfred, had died. Light filtering in through the small, single window, the open door behind her, and the spaces in the ill-fitting walls, threw the room’s sparse furnishings into a canvas of light and shadows—such a small, shabby little room; with its rough, unpainted walls; its tin roof showing rust stains where it leaked in places; its bare dirt floor; its cheap furnishings; was where Janson lived. As her eyes moved about the room, her heart went out to him in pity—how horrible it must be to live in one small, dark little room such as this. How cold it must be in winter, with the wind whistling in through the spaces between the rough boards in the walls, the black stove so far inadequate to heat even the small space on bitter winter nights.
Her heart suddenly ached for him, for all the things he must have had to live without all his life. She had so much, and he so little—it was so unfair. No one should have to live like this. No one should have to do without the things that made life pleasant, or even bearable. For the first time in her life, Elise Whitley had a slight vision of what it was to live without—and she did not like it. No one should have to live this way. No one. Especially not the man she loved.
Her eyes moved about the room, and a sudden, inexplicable chill moved up her spine. There was a feeling of something more than loneliness, something more than poverty, here. There was nothing lying about to tell anything of the man who lived here, no family photographs or Bible, nor even cast-off clothing waiting to be washed in the tin wash tub in the corner; nothing lying about to even show the room had an occupant. It had an air of emptiness instead. Of near desertion.
Suddenly her heart leapt within her—she knew, even before she crossed the narrow room and yanked open the drawers of the chifforobe. He was gone.
Her mind screamed out in protest—it could not be! He would not have left her, not after last night. He would not have—but the chifforobe was empty. There was nothing of his left here. Nothing. She turned and looked about the room, willing it to not be true—but it was true. Everything was gone. Janson was gone.
Her eyes fell on a small book lying in the center of the sagging cot. She moved to pick it up, and then sank down to sit on the straw tick, her knees going weak beneath her. The book—it spoke more clearly than any words ever could. He was gone. And he was never coming back.
She stared at the slender volume, the familiar binding, seeing it, and yet not seeing it. It told her clearly what he thought of her, as he himself had not been able to—Mrs. Browning’s Sonnets From the Portuguese, the book Elise had given him, the book he had kept even when he had felt she had deliberately insulted him, now lay in her hands. He had left it. He had left the one thing she had ever given him. And he had left her.
She wanted to cry, but the tears would not come, the hurt too deep, too new—he’s gone, some part of her mind kept repeating the words to her, over and over again, as if she did not know them already. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.
She stared at the book in her hands, unable to grasp anything beyond that one thought—for beyond that thought was emptiness and pain. Beyond that thought was tomorrow, and next week, and next year, in a life she now knew she would have to live without Janson.
She stayed there in his room for a long time, unable to make herself leave, for to leave would be to somehow accept that he was gone, that he was never coming back. At last she left the small room and made her way across the cotton fields, toward the woods, and the road that led across her father’s land. There she stopped, staring down the red clay expanse to where it twisted between the pines—she knew she would never be able to find him, not even if she followed the road all the way to Goodwin, and even beyond. There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She had caused this; she knew she had. She had caused this—and she would never see him again.
The tears came at last, moving down her cheeks as she tried to wipe them away. She moved from the sunshine and to the shade at the side of the road, stopping to lean against the rough bark of a pine tree there, losing herself to the ache inside. The quiet in the shadow of the woods was almost overwhelming, only increasing the loneliness—so this was alone. She had been alone before Janson had come, but this was somehow different, this awful emptiness inside.
There was a sound in the distance, a car coming along the road, and she turned away, wiping at her tears, not wanting anyone to see her like this. After a moment she turned back, watching as the car moved past her and down the road, watching as it slowed just before leaving her sight to avoid a man walking along the roadside from the direction of Mattie Ruth and Titus Coates’ house, coming in her direction—Janson.
For a moment she could only stare, not believing—Janson, not gone from here forever, at least not yet. He walked alongside the clay roadbed, his shoes slung over one shoulder, a leather-sided portmanteau in one hand. He was still here, and there was still time—
Suddenly movement came to her. She burst from the shade and cover of the trees and ran toward him—there was still time, and there was still a chance. She could make him stay; she could—
He stopped where he was, surprise, confusion, hurt, and anger all passing across his features in an instant. Her running steps slowed, and she stopped a few feet short of him, looking at him—what could she say? She had pushed herself at him and had caused this—what else could it have been? Oh, what a fool she had been last night! He had accused her before of not acting like a lady, when she had done nothing more at the time than flirt with him—she had been so stupid! So very stupid!
“You want somethin’?” he asked a last, staring at her. His words were short, angry, and for a moment she could do nothing but look at him, trying to think of something to say.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, surprised that her voice sounded so calm, so natural, betraying nothing of what was going on inside of her.
“Yeah, I’m leavin’.”
“Why? I mean, I—”
“Why!” The word exploded at her, filled with more anger than she had ever seen in him before. “Hell, I don’t think I have t’ explain anythin’ t’ you—”
She stared at him, feeling almost as if she had been slapped—nothing she had done could have deserved such anger, such fury as she saw now in his eyes. Nothing—
“I’ll say one thing for you, you’ve got even more nerve ’n I ever gave you credit for, comin’ here now—you couldn’t let things go like they was, could you? No, you had t’ go an’ rub my nose in it again—”
“I never—”
But he would not let her speak, silencing her words with a quick movement of his hand. He took a step toward her, causing her to shrink away. “You know, I feel sorry for J.C. Cooper; he deserves better ’n you; anybody’d deserve better ’n you. You ain’t nothin’ but a spoil’t, selfish, stuck-up brat of a girl—you ain’t no lady, an’ you ain’t never gonna be no lady.”
For a moment she could only stare at him, shocked beyond speech, beyond any defense of herself. She opened her mouth to speak—but the look in his eyes silenced her. Dear God, all this from her little flirting, from the few kisses they had shared, from—
“I wish you luck marryin’ J.C., ’cause you’re gonna need it. You’re too much of a spoil’t brat t’ be marryin’ anybody—you with your fancy ways an’ fine learnin’. You didn’t even have courage enough t’ tell me t’ my face that you think I ain’t good enough for you, did you; you had t’ send your pa t’ do it for you—”
Your pa to—Elise stared for a moment, feeling as if all the breath had been taken from her body. Her father had—
“Janson, I—”
But he would not listen to her, turning away, seeming intent to leave her standing there at the side of the clay road. She took hold of his shirt sleeve, moving directly into his path, determined that he would have to listen to her.
“Janson, please, you’ve got to—”
“I ain’t got t’ do nothin’,” he said, interrupting her words, looking at her with something very near to hatred in his eyes. “You Whitleys think you’re all s’ high an’ mighty, but you ain’t no better ’n nobody else—you know your pa even said he’d see you dead before he’d see you with th’ likes of me. That ain’t no kind ’a man, threatenin’ his own flesh an’ blood over—”
“My father said—”
“Yeah, an’ that he’d kill me too before he’d see us t’gether.”
For a moment she could only stare up at him, certain in that moment that—
“That’s why you were leaving, because you were afraid my father would—”
“I ain’t afraid ’a your pa or nobody else. I’m leavin’ ’cause I don’t want nothin’ more t’ do with you, with any ’a you, for th’ rest ’a my life.”
His words hit her almost like a physical blow. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I mean it.” This time he did not turn away. He stared at her as if to make certain that she understood, and this time it was Elise who turned away. “You can go burn in hell for all I care; that’s where th’ lot ’a you are goin’ anyway,” but she could not listen to him. She felt the tears well up in her eyes and spill over, and she tried to wipe them away, refusing to allow him to see what his words had done to her. “You go on an’ marry your fancy J.C. now,” he said from behind her. “That’s all you intended t’ do in th’ first place, no matter how much you played up t’ me. He’s got money an’ a car an’ all th’ fancy things that are what’s important t’ you—”
“I’m not going to marry J.C.; I never intended to marry J.C.,” she said, though she would not turn to look at him. “That’s what my father wants, not me—and I never asked him to say anything to you.”
There was silence behind her—she wished he would just go if that was what he intended to do. Wished he would—
“You didn’t ask your pa t’ talk t’ me?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said quietly, but did not turn to look at him.
“You didn’t have him tell me t’ stay away from you?”
She turned to bring her eyes to him, surprised that he had said—
“My father said that I wanted you to stay away from me?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her own. “He said you were afraid I was feelin’ things for you that I shouldn’t be feelin’; that you were afraid people’d start t’ talk.”
“I never asked him to say anything like that; I never asked him to say anything to you at all.” For a moment she could only stare at him. “That’s why you were leaving, because you thought I wanted you to?”
“I couldn’t stay aroun’ here, knowin’ how you felt, how your pa said you felt.”
“That’s not how I feel.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “How do you feel?” he asked, and for a long time she could only look up at him.
“I thought you knew,” she said, but he only stared at her. “After last night—” Her words trailed off. How could she tell him? How could she, when every time she tried—“How do you feel, about me?”
For a long moment he only stared at her. Some part of her was afraid that he would not speak, that he would not say what she needed to hear him say—but then she realized he did not need to. He reached out to briefly touch her cheek, wiping away the tears still there, then he drew her into his arms—she knew she should feel happy. She knew she should—
But all she could remember were his words—her father would see them dead before they would ever be together. Her father would see them dead.
Phyllis Ann Bennett sat on the front veranda of her home, rocking slowly back and forth, staring out into the yard—it was over. The sheriff had come and gone, as had the men with their somber faces who had taken her father away, and the neighbors with their curiosity and condolences—it was over. There would be no more hurt, no more hate; it was over. And she would never have to be afraid again.
She smiled. “Just defending myself,” she said to the silence around her. Her father would have appreciated that; it was the same excuse he had given when he had killed Alfred Whitley. It had worked for him, and it had worked just as well for her. “Just defending myself—” Oh, yes, he would have appreciated that.
She rocked slowly back and forth, not yet willing to go back into the house, not wanting to face the pain and mourning and grief on her mother’s face. Her mother had loved him—that had come as a surprise; no matter what he had done to her, to them both, Paula Bennett had loved him. She now looked at her daughter with that same mixture of fear and dread she had always looked at him with—I wonder if she loves me, too? Phyllis Ann mused. I wonder if—
J.C. loved her. He had been one of the first to arrive last night, just as soon as he had been told. He had been so pathetic, fluttering about her with his sympathy and his inane condolences. His concern had been genuine, unlike that of the mass of others who had come to do nothing more than satisfy their morbid curiosity. She could act the grieving daughter before them, but not before J.C.. The sad sympathy in his eyes had made her nervous, and so she had sent him away—but he would be back. He would always be back. He loved her, just as her mother had loved her father. No matter how many times she might send him away, he would always be back—poor, pathetic little J.C.; he was her only hope now. She smiled at the irony of that—J.C. Cooper, who she had laughed at and tormented all his life, was all that she had left. And she had gone after him only to get back at Elise.
Elise—her hands clenched into fists in her lap. Elise had it all—a spotless reputation, her family’s name, respect in the community, her virgin whiteness—she had always had it all. She had never once in her life known trouble or pain. Never once—but she would.
Oh, how she would.