There was nothing but darkness and moisture, a deep, dank pit without sound, sight, or feeling. Confusion and disorientation floated around Janson, touching him briefly, only to move away into the darkness and back again.
Sensation came slowly, the feel of wetness, the scents of earth and moisture, the comforting darkness. There was no thought, only sensation, confusion, and wonder as he struggled to climb above the layers of fog that crowded his mind. He reached above to consciousness only to feel the crushing impact of pain take hold of him and plunge him back down into the fog again, a fog now laced with an inescapable pain.
He fought his way back above, struggling to breathe in spite of the burning that filled his side. The air was stagnant, filled with the scents of earth and moisture, of decay and disuse. His hands went out, contacting the damp clay walls around him, and fear joined the confused mass of emotions already within him.
He looked up, seeing far above him where rays of light slanted into the pit through gaps in a covering. His hands moved over the walls and down into the rising mire around him. Realization came of where he was and why he had been put here, and, with that realization, a fear stronger than any he had ever known before—he was going to die, and this would be his grave—but the fear was not for himself; it was for Elise instead. If they had done this to him, they could have done anything to her. William Whitley might be her father, but, to have done this, he had to be a madman, a madman capable of doing anything.
Janson tried to struggle to his knees, only to be plunged back into the fog again. For a moment the world was dark and he fought his way back to consciousness—Elise, the thought of her stayed in the forefront of the confused mass of thoughts, feelings, and pain within him. She needed him—Elise needed him—was the only clear meaning he could hold to.
He pushed himself to his knees in the rising muck, forcing himself to breathe through the pain that now filled his side. Almost unconsciously his hands sought the sides of this prison, searching for hold, for escape. His hand dug into a slippery foothold carved shallowly into the well side, his foot moving up, pushing, trying to compensate for an arm now almost useless at his side.
The world swam with pain around him, his hands slipping in the damp clay, and he started to lose hold, but caught, a burning sensation stabbing through his right side as it impacted the wall. He gasped as the pain shot through him, trying to force himself to breathe, his eyes moving to the light above—then darkness started to come, but from within him, and he started to slide, his hands losing hold again, his body slipping downwards—
There was one last clear thought of Elise, and then he knew nothing but darkness.
Elise lay curled on her side on the floor at the foot of her bed, somewhere lost in dreams that brought no peace. She had sought sleep as a release from what she knew she could never face in her mind—but sleep this day had brought little comfort. She had closed her eyes knowing Janson might be dead, and that knowledge had only followed her over the threshold of sleep to haunt her dreams.
At first, there had been nothing but the comforting void she had sought, a place where she did not have to think or feel, but soon images and pictures had invaded its sanctity. She was looking for Janson, seeing him at a distance, but never able to reach or to touch him. The baby was there, now born, but taken from her without her ever having been allowed to see or touch her own child—gone, both gone from her forever, and she was alone, so very alone.
The horror of a reality-to-be invaded her dreams, and she fought to escape it, to run to some place far away where she could mourn her loss alone, but everywhere she turned there were faces. Her father, Bill, Franklin Bates, the farmhand—they mocked her with their presence. “I told you . . . his blood’s on your hands.”
—his blood’s on your hands—on your hands—your hands—
She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the words, but still they came, this time from within her mind—his blood’s on your hands—your hands—your hands—
Then a voice, warm and gentle, touched her above the ringing torment in her ears: “Elise—” and she looked up into green eyes and a gentle smile—Janson, alive, holding her in his arms on the sagging rope bed in the old house, the warmth of his body against her; and the haunting, horrible knowledge of death and blame became a distant memory under the feel of his nearness and his love.
“We b’long t’ each other—” he was saying, his body close against hers, “an’ you’re my wife now, just the same as if we was married,” he said, touching her in the gentle ways he always touched her when they were together, “we’re one flesh, just like th’ Bible says . . . not ‘’til death do us part.’ Dyin’ won’t stop th’ way I feel about you; it couldn’t stop it—”
Dyin’ won’t stop—
Elise came awake slowly, fighting desperately to hold the remnants of the dream to herself—she could not leave him behind there in that hazy land inside her mind. She could not—
But there was no choice. Finding herself lying on the rose-colored rug at the foot of her bed, she cried—wanting Janson, needing Janson, as never before in her life. The memories of that day she had spent in his arms, having once invaded her dreams, would not leave her now—“We b’long t’ each other . . . we’re one flesh . . . Not ‘’til death do us part.’ Dyin’ won’t stop th’ way I feel about you; it couldn’t stop it . . .”
“ . . . we’re one flesh . . .”
The thought stuck in her mind, the meaning—if they were really one person, then how could she continue to live if he did not. How could she breathe, and think—how could she live day after day in a world where Janson was no more. He had said his own mother had died of grief after his father was gone—how could she live if Janson was no more. How could she—
But her father had taken that from her as well, had let her live, even as he had taken Janson from her—but what if Janson had still been alive when she had been dragged from the graveyard. He could be somewhere hurt, bleeding, dying even now—
She had to find him. She had to go to him and be with him. Perhaps her father had not been able to kill him. Perhaps—
Janson could still be alive. Janson could be—
She sat up, brushing the hair back from her wet face, certain in that moment that she would somehow know inside herself if he were really dead. He had been badly beaten; she had witnessed that herself, but she could find him and take care of him. She could—
Janson could be alive—
She got up from the floor and stood staring around herself, unsure as to what to do—Janson could be alive. She had to find him. She had to—
Martha Whitley stood on the dimly lit second floor landing of her home that night, carefully balancing a supper tray in her hands. She listened for a moment, almost holding her breath, making sure there was no sound of movement anywhere within the huge old house. Once satisfied, she moved down the hallway, stopping for a moment outside the door to the bedroom she shared with William, listening to the monotonous sounds of his snores—thank God he had retired early tonight, she thought, moving across the hallway to the door to her daughter’s room.
William had forbidden Elise a supper tray, after the one that had been taken her earlier in the day had been left untouched—Elise would learn a lesson, he had shouted, and she would learn it today. “This is the last one of her tantrums I’m going to put up with—just look at what she’s caused!” he had shouted, pacing back and forth in the lower hallway. “I warned her, didn’t I? I told her what would happen—but she wouldn’t listen to me; she never listens! Well, this is the last time! She’s going to learn she’s nothing unless I say she is—and she’s going to learn it now!”
Never before this day had Martha truly known what fear was—but she knew now. The man who had beaten that poor boy before Elise’s eyes, and then had caused her to be dragged away, hysterical with fear, thinking the boy would die for her choice to run away with him, was not the William she knew. He had said that he had never intended to do anything more than frighten the boy and teach Elise a lesson in respect—but Martha knew differently. She knew he had intended to kill Janson Sanders, but that he had somehow been unable to do so—and she could only thank God in heaven that he had not been able to commit that murder, for it showed her there was still at least something of the man she had married left within him.
Never in all her life had Martha dreamed to know a hell such as the one she had lived through today—the sound of Elise’s screams, the girl’s pounding at the locked door to her room, her voice pleading only for Janson Sanders’s life to be spared, and to be allowed to leave with him in peace—but first Bill, and then William, had physically restrained Martha from going to her daughter. Elise had to be taught a lesson, they had said; she had to learn, once and for all, and she would learn today.
The screams and pounding had been horrible, but the silence that had followed had been only worse, a deathly, eerie silence that seemed to fill the house until there was no room left for anything else. Elise had been sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed, staring, unresponsive, when William had allowed the dinner tray to be taken her, and had been in the same position hours later when the untouched tray had been removed—“She can sleep hungry for that!” he had shouted, and had kept a locked door between them for the remainder of the day, not allowing Elise a tray at supper time, or even allowing Martha in to check on her—but now William was asleep, and Martha would do what she had to do. There might be hell to pay tomorrow, but at least she would know that Elise was all right. At least, for now, she would know.
She fumbled with the huge ring of keys, balancing the tray in one hand as she tried to keep the numerous keys from making noise as she searched for the right one. She fumbled with the lock, trying first one key and then another—it was William’s key ring; he had left it in plain sight on the bedside table, just as he left it every night, never once believing she would go against him. But William would learn something about his wife this night, just as she had learned so much about him.
She counted through the keys again nervously, knowing she had tried some of them several times already, and others not at all, and not knowing anymore which was which. A part of her feared what she might find on the other side of that door once she opened it, what state her daughter might have reached in her pain and grief—Elise believed the boy would die for what they had done today, that his life would be forfeit for her choice to run away with him. William—damn his soul to hell—had let Elise believe through this entire day that Janson Sanders was dead, that she had been the cause of his death, even as Martha had begged him to allow her to tell the girl the truth, to spare her at least that one ultimate horror.
But Elise would know the truth now. It was the one thing Martha could do for her daughter. And it might be the one thing that mattered the most.
She fumbled with a key again, inserting it in the lock, thinking that she had tried it several times before—but this time it turned, sliding the bolt back into the wood of the door. Martha glanced down the hallway again, then quietly pushed the door open, steeling herself for what she knew she might find on the other side of—
The door was yanked from her hand, the supper tray almost crashing to the floor as Elise tried to rush past her and into the hallway. Martha grabbed for her sleeve, trying to balance the tray in one hand as she also tried to stop the girl’s escape.
“Stop it!” The words were a shouted whisper, meant to still the girl before the struggle could wake William. “Stop it! It’s only me! Stop it!”
She shook Elise soundly with one hand, almost upsetting the tray again—if William should hear—
“Stop it, Elise! I mean it—stop it!”
The girl at last seemed to realize her mother was alone, halting her struggles with one last desperate look down the hallway toward the staircase that could led her to the first floor. Martha kept a secure hold on the sleeve of her daughter’s sweater, listening, making certain for the moment that William had not been disturbed.
“Help me with the tray,” she whispered after a moment. “We’ve got to get out of this hallway before—”
“You’ve got to help me get out of here. I’ve got to find—”
Martha silenced her with a quick motion. “For now we have to get out of this hallway, in case the noise woke—”
She did not need further words. Elise took the tray from her hands and reluctantly turned back into her own room, turning desperate eyes again toward the door as Martha closed it behind them. “Janson’s alive, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice no less desperate as she sat the tray down on the dresser top and came toward her mother. “He’s alive; Daddy couldn’t do it, could he? He’s alive—”
“Sh—your father—” Martha warned, raising a hand to her lips, trying again to listen to make sure they had not been overheard.
“But, he’s alive! I know he is; I can feel it—”
“Yes, he’s alive—”
“Oh, thank God—” Elise said, relief flooding her features as she turned away. “I knew he was. I knew—”
Martha stared at her for a moment, wanting to go to her, waiting to take her into her arms and hold and comfort her as she had done when she had been a child, but unable to. She did not know what to say to Elise, and knew somehow that she would never know what to say to her again—how did a woman talk with a daughter who was now almost a woman herself?
“Where is he? Where did they take him?” the girl asked, turning again to look at her, causing a stab of pain to go through Martha at the memory of the child she had once known.
“I don’t know where he is, just that William had him taken out of the County—”
“Was he all right? Did you see him? You’ve got to help me get out of here. I’ve got to find him. Daddy beat him so bad; someone has to look after him. I’ve got to get out of here and take care of him. I caused all this—”
“No, you haven’t caused anything. Your father did—and you can’t find him; you don’t even know where to begin to look.”
“But I can’t just sit here while Janson’s only God knows where, hurt, bleeding—I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to—”
“You can’t do anything, not now—”
Elise stared at her for a moment, clenching her hands helplessly into fists at her sides, and then she turned away—but not before Martha had seen the look of pain that had passed across her features. It had been genuine and deep and very real, and tearing the girl apart—damn William, he had done this. Martha could not want her daughter to be the wife of a penniless farmhand anymore than William could want it, but she would rather have had that than the hurt she saw within Elise at this moment. There were no words she could offer, nothing she could do or say that would lessen the hurt or worry that was eating away at the girl. William had beaten the man Elise loved, had beaten him and had forced her to watch, and then had caused her to be forcibly dragged away, believing the boy would die for her choice to run away with him. There were no words that could excuse that, and there were no words that could lessen the torment she saw within her daughter at this moment.
“He looked so hurt—” Elise was saying quietly, turned away from her mother, “lying there on the ground, bleeding—I wanted to go to him, but they wouldn’t let me—” Then she repeated the words again, almost to herself. “They wouldn’t let—”
“I know—” Martha said, interrupting her, as if silencing the words would somehow undo all that had been done this day. She went to Elise and put her arms around her, as if she were still that small child Martha could remember so well. “He’ll be all right. He’s young, and he’s strong; he’ll be fine—” The words sounded empty as she voiced them, but somehow they, or possibly her mother’s very presence, seemed to soothe the girl. Martha led her to the bed and they sat down at its edge, Martha taking the girl’s hand in her own to pat it.
“He has to be all right; he has to be. I couldn’t stand it if—” Elise turned her face away, biting at her lower lip for a moment as her mother watched her. “It’s just that, I love him so much. So—”
“I know you do.” Yes—she knew. Elise was in love with Janson Sanders, very deeply in love. Martha looked at her daughter for a moment. “You were going to run away with him, weren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes—” Elise said, bringing her eyes back to her mother, eyes that were suddenly bright with tears at their edges. “We were going to leave and be married, and go some place where Daddy could never find us again—”
“Maybe it’s better that it happened this way. What kind of life could that have been for you, married to a man without a cent to your names, barely scraping by for the remainder of your lives, raising children without any real hope of any kind of future for them—and he’s only half white, Elise, do you realize what it would have been like married to a colored—”
But there was a sudden anger behind the girl’s blue eyes. She withdrew her hand from her mother’s, then clenched both fists in her lap. “Do you think it matters to me that Janson has Indian blood, that he’s only half white? He’s good and he’s decent and he loves me—and we would have a good life. He’s been working so hard, saving every cent he makes, so that we can buy back the land he lost after his parents died. We’d have our own home; we’d never be rich, but we’d have enough and we’d be together, and we’d be where no one could ever hurt him again or try to tear us apart—and I hope all our children look like him; I hope they all show their Cherokee heritage, because Janson’s so proud of his. We’ll have a good life together; we will—”
Martha stared at her for a long moment—I hope . . . our children look like him . . . We’ll have a good life . . .
Surely Elise could not believe the boy would be back for her after the beating William had given him today. Surely—
“I just hope he’ll be careful—” Elise said, her eyes seeming for a moment to be focused on something far beyond this room.
“You can’t really believe he’ll come back for you now, not after—”
Elise looked at her again, her eyes holding an absolute assurance within them. “I know he will,” she said. “He’ll come back. Nothing Daddy ever does, short of killing him, would ever stop him.” For a moment she looked away again, her eyes seeming distant, looking at things Martha could not see—“And even that wouldn’t keep us apart, not forever,” she said more quietly, almost to herself.
Martha stared at her, for a moment believing her daughter had lost her reasoning in the hell she had lived through today. “Elise, Janson would be a fool to come back for you now, and, if anything in this world, Janson Sanders is no fool. William may not have killed him this time, but he could very well do it the next.”
“I know that, and so does Janson—but that won’t stop him. Nothing will. Nothing—”
Martha looked at her for a moment, seeing the calm belief in her eyes, hearing it in her voice—Elise knew her heart, and perhaps she knew Janson Sanders better than anyone else could. If William had not found them out, Elise could very well have been a married woman by now—her daughter, married to a half-Indian farmhand who hadn’t a penny to his name. Elise, married to a dirt farmer, a boy who was only half white—it still did not sit well.
But, as she looked at her daughter, there was something in Elise’s eyes there was no way around, something that no number of beatings or violent, enforced separations would ever break. Elise was in love with Janson Sanders, and perhaps he was truly in love with her. If that were true, the trouble they had already faced would be nothing compared to the hell they would yet have to fight if they were to be together—that is, if Janson Sanders were really enough of a fool to return for her.
“Your father has no intention of ever letting you marry him. If he comes back—”
“I know—” Elise said, cutting off her words, refusing to hear them. “But, he will come back for me. And, when he does, I’m going with him.”
There—the words had been said. If Janson Sanders came back, Elise would leave with him. There was no question in the girl’s eyes, no doubt.
“Are you certain you want to do this, to go with him if he does return for you? You can’t know the kind of life, all you would be giving up—”
“I do know. I know that once we leave here, I’ll never be able to come back again, and that I may never see you or Stan again for the rest of my life—but it’s what I have to do. I have to be with Janson, and we can’t be together here. We have to go someplace where Janson can be safe from Daddy, someplace where Daddy can never hurt him again. It’s what I have to do.”
Martha looked at her for a long moment. Suddenly it seemed she was already so very far away.
“You’re really certain that he’ll be back for you?” she asked, quietly.
“I know he will be.”
“And, when he does—”
“I’m going with him. I have to,” she said.
Martha looked at her. Knowing. Understanding. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and Elise’s arms were around her, her wet cheek pressed to Martha’s own. “I’ll miss you. I don’t know what I’ll do without you here—”
“I know—” Elise said, looking up at her again, her eyes bright with tears as Martha reached to pat her wet cheek.
“You’re all grown up now; I just don’t know when it happened. I keep remembering my little girl—but you’re almost a woman now. It’s hard to believe you’re almost seventeen, when it just seems like yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time—you’ll know what I mean one day, when you’re a mother yourself. It’s a feeling you never forget, knowing that little person needs you so completely—”
Elise’s eyes left her mother’s for just a moment, the expression in them something Martha had never seen there before. “I know—” she said quietly—and suddenly Martha understood.
Elise was pregnant. There was no doubt in Martha’s mind in that moment. The expression on her daughter’s face was the same she had seen on her own reflection the first time she had known she was with child—but it could not be! Elise was only a baby herself, not even seventeen yet, only a child—what could she know of a man’s needs, or the physical intimacies between a man and woman. Martha had never been able to even bring herself to tell Elise of the intimacies of marriage, had wondered how she would ever be able to tell her—it could not be! The mother within Martha screamed out in protest—but the woman knew. Elise had been ready to run away with Janson Sanders today, ready to run away with him to be his wife, and it was likely they would have been married months earlier if it had been possible. They had been kept from becoming man and wife out of a fear of William, a fear at knowing what he might do to keep them apart, a fear of what he had almost done this day—it was likely that, having been denied a legal marriage, they might have begun to share the intimacies of marriage anyway. Elise could very well be pregnant, and, if she were—dear, God, it could only make matters worse.
Martha stared at her daughter, almost afraid to ask the question, afraid to hear the words that would confirm what she already knew to be true. “Elise, I know you love Janson, and I know you and he have wanted to be married,” she said, reluctantly. “Sometimes things happen that we never thought would happen, things that shouldn’t happen between a man and a woman who aren’t—” Why couldn’t she think of the right words; why was she saying this all wrong. “Elise—have you and Janson become closer than you should have? Have you done things—” Why couldn’t she think of what to say, what to ask. “Elise, are you going to have a baby?”
Elise looked at her mother for a long moment, a moment that Martha thought would never end. When she spoke at last, there was no shame in her voice, only a pride and a dignity in her manner that for a moment reminded Martha so very much of Janson Sanders. “The only way that Janson and I are not married is in name only,” she answered quietly. “And, yes, we are going to have a baby.”
For a moment, Martha could only stare, feeling as if all the breath had been taken from her body. Then breath and feeling seemed to return at the same moment, along with words she could not stop. “That’s why you were leaving today, why you had to be married so soon! Because he—”
“No, we were leaving because it’s not safe for Janson if we stay here; he doesn’t even know about the baby yet.”
“Doesn’t know!—but you’ve got to tell him! You’ve got to be married right away! If your father finds out—” Dear God, if William found out, Janson Sanders would not even live long enough to marry Elise. He was already threatening to kill the boy on sight if he should ever return, and was planning on sending Elise away to school again just as soon as arrangements could be made, to put her in a place where Janson Sanders would never reach her—if he found out now that Elise was with child—
Oh, how Martha wished she had never laid eyes on Janson Sanders! He had come into their lives, had turned everything upside down, and now he would come back to take her daughter away forever. And, if he did not come back—she could not allow herself to think about that, of Elise being sent far away to have her baby, of a quiet arrangement for someone else to take the child in. Elise could never give birth in Endicott County, and she would never be able to keep the child—no, William would never allow—
Elise was talking, and Martha tried to drag her attention back, to somehow hear what her daughter was saying.
“You’ve got to find out where it is they’ve taken him, and how badly he was hurt. And you’ve got to help me get out of here so that I can find him—”
Martha looked at her for a long moment—Elise, a mother; dear God, where had the years gone. “You really love him, don’t you?” she asked quietly. “You’d still marry him, even if it weren’t for the baby?”
“Yes, I would.”
She nodded. There was nothing else she could do. Then she sighed, the sound coming from deep within her. “I’ll help you, as much as I can,” she said, knowing the words would take her daughter from her forever, just as they would drive a wedge between herself and William, a wedge that might never be removed. “But, for right now, you’ve got to eat something.” She got up from the bed to take the tray from the dresser top where Elise had sat it earlier. “It’s cold by now, but—”
“I don’t think I could eat anything. I’m not hungry, and—”
“There’s nothing we can do tonight. You’ve got to eat and get some rest. I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow.”
“But we’ve got to find him before he can come back. Daddy might—”
“I know—” She did not have to hear the words. She knew William might very well kill Janson Sanders on sight this time, without even knowing that the man had gotten his daughter with child. “But we’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, you just think about eating—” She placed the tray over the girl’s lap, then raised a hand to silence the protest she could see coming from her lips. “No—you’ve got to think of yourself and the baby tonight. You’ve got to eat and get some rest; tomorrow we’ll worry about finding out where Janson is—you want to give him a healthy baby, don’t you?” she asked, seeing a touch of William’s stubbornness within the girl. “Now, eat.”
Elise obeyed, unfolding the linen napkin and uncovering the plate of ham, buttered potatoes, snap beans, and biscuits, long grown cold now, and beginning to eat—but Martha knew it was more for the sake of her child that she did so, than for herself. She watched the girl, feeling suddenly so very old, so very tired. All she could remember was a little girl with long, reddish-gold braids and big blue eyes that had forever held the wonder of the world—but here sat this young woman before her now, her own daughter, a woman with child. There was such an absolute faith in Elise’s eyes, such a belief in Janson Sanders, and Martha could only pray, for all their sakes, that her faith was not misplaced. Elise said he would be back for her, and Martha suddenly found herself praying to God that she was right, even though she knew it would mean she might never see her daughter again through the remainder of her days.
She crossed the room to stare out the dark windows at the rain that had slowly begun to fall outside, her mind on the young man out somewhere in that darkness. Janson Sanders had already faced death once to be with Elise, knowing fully well what William had threatened to do should they ever try to leave here together, and Martha found herself praying that he would not be afraid to face death again. If he did not come back for Elise, then the girl’s life would be forever ruined. If he did, it would be forever changed, but it would be the life Elise had chosen for herself long before this day, a choice they would all have to live with now—that is, if Janson Sanders could only survive long enough to make her his wife. William had almost beaten the boy to death this time, and Martha knew there would be no almost the next time. If William saw Jansen Sanders again, he would likely kill him on sight.
A cold, steady rain had begun to fall that night, drowning the windshield before Stan Whitley, and thoroughly dampening the inside of the car. Stan knew he was in trouble already. His father had allowed him to drive the Model T on the condition that he be home by supper—but supper time had long passed now, and Stan knew there would be hell to pay when he reached home. He had gone directly to a friend’s house for dinner after church that morning, and had not arrived at his own home until well into mid-afternoon—when he had asked to use the Model T to take Sarah Pate for a drive, he had never expected that his father would give in, much less that he would give in without a moment’s hesitation. Stan had never been allowed to drive an automobile alone before—he had felt so grown up, so trusted, as he had driven away in the Model T—but it would probably be the last time as well, he kept telling himself, for he should have been home hours ago now.
He turned the Ford off on a narrow, little-traveled road that cut off from the main one. He had been down it only a few times in the past, but knew it was a shortcut home—he was in enough trouble already; getting home now as quickly as possible was the only hope he had left. He took out his handkerchief and wiped at the foggy windshield for the hundredth time, straining his eyes through his spectacles, trying to see the muddy road before the car—why could the thing not have a wiper to knock the rain from the windshield as some other automobiles had. He had never driven at night before, and was amazed at how very little the dim headlamps of the Ford aided in picking out the road ahead. With the darkness and the rain, he was certain at any moment that he was going to end up in one of the ditches alongside the road—his father would wear a belt out on him for that, he told himself, for William Whitley had threatened it often enough. His father would—
For a moment, through the rain and the darkness and the fogged windshield, he thought he saw something lying in the road ahead, something dimly illuminated by the headlamps of the Model T—a pile of rags, a sack of seed or guano that had fallen from the back of some passing truck, but, as he drew nearer, the pile of rags took on shape and began to look almost like a man lying there in the muddy road. Stan stopped the car and sat staring through the rain-soaked front glass, his heart in his throat—could it really be a man lying there in the rain, maybe hurt, maybe even dead—but there was no reason for anybody to be out here in the first place. There was nothing nearby but the remains of a burned-out old house and several fields of dried-up corn stalks—why had he ever taken this shortcut anyway? Why had he had to find this pile of rags that looked like a man, and why couldn’t he now just turn the Model T around and forget that he had ever come down this road—but, somehow, he could not. He opened the car door instead, and slowly got out, never once taking his eyes from the form lying there in the road.
The rain pelted him, running down his glasses and getting into his eyes. He left the door open and walked around it, making his way toward the rags—it was a man, and in that moment Stan did not know if it would frighten him more should the man move, or should he continue to lie there as if he were dead.
“Please, don’t be dead,” he heard himself say aloud, feeling his knees begin to shake beneath him—but he knew he would scream and run if the man should move in even the slightest to prove to him that he still lived.
But the man did not move, and, as Stan drew closer, he feared that he was about to discover a lifeless body—please don’t be anybody I know, he prayed silently as he reached the man’s side. He knelt slowly and reached to roll him over, finding his hands to be shaking horribly as he took hold of the man’s sleeve—don’t be anybody I know.
The man seemed so very heavy, and so without life as Stan rolled him over onto his back in the muddy road. The rain fell in the man’s face, washing away streaks of mud and dried blood there—it was Janson Sanders.
Stan stumbled back, almost falling—it couldn’t be. Janson had left days before, had run off with no warning. Stan’s father had told him—Stan had been hurt, angry; Janson had been his friend, but he had left without telling him, without telling anyone, and without saying goodbye—but here he lay, and, dear God in heaven, he looked as if he were dead.
Stan tried to move backwards, away from the man lying there in the road. He slipped and almost fell, but managed to stay on his feet—he had to get help. He had to—
Fear filled him, and panic. He turned and ran, stumbling toward the car, and got in, slamming the door behind himself. He backed the Ford up, then shoved his foot down on the low-speed pedal and felt the Tin Lizzie jerk beneath him. It sputtered and coughed, almost died, then lunged forward. His hands shaking on the steering wheel, he made a wide, sweeping turn in the road, mindless of the ditch that was looming before the dim headlamps—he had to find help. Janson was lying there in the road, so still, so lifeless—and he looked so very dead.
Daddy—Daddy would know what to do. Stan would get his father. He would go home and get his father and—
But Bill would be closer, at Louise Diller’s house, as he was every Sunday night. Stan would go get his brother. Bill would know what to do; he would help Janson—oh, why had Stan not at least checked to see if he was still alive! Why had he been so afraid that he had just driven away—but he could not go back now. He had to find help. He had to—
He came to the main road and made the turn back toward town, not slowing enough and almost losing control of the car as it slid in the mud. He gripped the steering wheel hard in his shaking hands, damning the rain, damning the inefficiency of the headlamps—he had to get to Bill. His brother would help Janson, if Janson were still alive to be helped. If Janson were—
Headlamps were coming toward him in the rain. He could see a shape looming behind them through the drenched, fogged windshield—but the road ahead seemed too narrow. He would never make it. He would never—
He jerked the wheel to the right, fearing collision with the oncoming lights, and suddenly found himself off the road and out of control. The car jerked and bounced over the rough terrain, throwing him against the door and knocking his glasses from his face. He slammed his foot down hard on the brake pedal, closing his eyes and praying, feeling the wheel jerk in his hands.
The car finally came to a sliding stop, his heart pounding in his chest so hard that he could hear it. He opened his eyes and forced himself to breathe, the roaring in his ears so loud that he could barely hear the rain—but he was alive. He was—
He was shaking so badly that he could hardly open the door—but the Tin Lizzie was useless now. One wheel in a narrow, muddy ditch, it sat with its rear end in the air. He got out, reaching back to find his glasses as he clung to the door for the support that his shaking knees could not give him, then he turned to stare at the useless machinery, tears at his own impotence choking him—Janson was back there, lying in the middle of the muddy road. He had to have help. He had to—
A shape was coming toward him in the darkness, a man from the vehicle he had thought he would hit, a vehicle now parked unharmed at the side of the road—a man, someone, anyone who could help him—please be Bill or Daddy or someone I know, he prayed, still clinging to the door. Please be—
Titus Coates peered at him from beneath the brim of a rain-soaked hat as he came nearer. “You okay, Mist’ Stan?” he shouted over the sound of the rain and the roaring in Stan’s ears. “You need some he’p gettin’ out ’a th’ mud?”
Thank you, God—thank you, Stan thought in a rush, relief filling him. He grabbed hold of Titus’s coat sleeve, still shaking almost too badly to stand. “You’ve got to come—Janson, on the road back there, hurt, maybe dead, I don’t know—”
He realized his words made little sense, but somehow Titus seemed to understand. “Com’ on, boy. You show me—” His fingers closed over Stan’s arm, his grip almost vise-like. “Leave th’ car. I’ll pull it out later. Com’ on—”
Stan stumbled along behind him, being held up by the strong hand on his arm. They reached the road and got into the truck Titus had been driving. “Where, boy?” the old man demanded, looking at him.
No one but his father had ever called him boy in his life, or talked to him in the tone this man was now using—but Stan found that he did not mind. Some remote part of him said that Titus should not speak to him so, for he had always been taught that he was the older man’s better, the son of his employer, and Titus had never before addressed him as anything other than “Mist’ Stan”—but suddenly none of that mattered. This man was going to help him. This man was going to help Janson—if only Janson was still alive.
He’s got to be alive; he’s got to be—Stan thought, clenching his fists on his knees as the truck bounced over the muddy, rutted road. He was shaking from the chill, shaking from the wetness, shaking from tension as they sped past ditches running in muddy, red streams. Oh—why didn’t I check to see if he was still breathing! Why didn’t I at least—
Stan pointed out the road he had been on, and Titus made the turn, the truck sliding in the mud for a brief second before grabbing for traction and going on.
“Up there! Just ahead—” Stan leaned forward, straining to look through the fogged glass before him, squinting his eyes to see through his spectacles. “There! See—right there!”
The truck came to a quick stop, almost throwing him into the floorboard. Titus was already out, running toward the man lying there in the mud and the rain. Stan opened the door, almost afraid to go to Janson, to see if he still lived, but unable to stop himself. He reached Titus’s side, to find him cradling the younger man in his arms.
“What they done t’ ya’, boy?” Titus was saying, and Stan realized suddenly that the older man was crying, tears now rolling down his cheeks to mingle with the rain. “Oh, Lordy, what they done t’ ya’—”
Stan stared at him for a moment, at last finding his own voice. “Is he alive?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. Titus looked up at him, the old man’s eyes filled with tears—but Stan’s answer came from elsewhere.
Above the sound of the rain and the drone of the truck’s engine, came the sound of Janson Sanders’s voice, his words barely audible, but clear.
He was calling Stan’s sister’s name.
For a moment, it seemed to Janson that he was still in the well. There was pain—everywhere there was pain, around him, inside of him, the only real thing in a world of sights and shadows that floated dreamlike around him, a world he could not touch or feel.
Scenes and pictures changed in his mind—Elise, beautiful Elise, smiling and so happy, his forever—but they took her away; away, and she had been crying.
He could feel hands on him, lifting him, and he started to struggle—his body hurt, and he thought they were going to throw him in the well. He would be dead, and Elise would be at their mercy—but they had no mercy.
A darkness came, washing in on the heels of the pain, and he floated away, then fought to come back—Elise, he was supposed to take care of Elise, to protect her. If he died, then who would look after—
Time seemed to flow in and out. The first time he had ever seen Elise, the first time they had kissed, the day he had known she loved him, the first time they ever lay together—he could see it all, feel it all, for it only to touch him and then float away again. His body was being moved, and he thought for a moment this was death—but this was not death, for with death there would be no more pain. The pain said he was alive. The pain said—
Fingers prodded his side, hands touching the bruises, and the pain—so much pain. The world floated in and out, sights and sounds and people around him—but none of them Elise. None of them—
He had to see—
They could kill him then, if only they wouldn’t hurt—
If only—
Elise—
Stan stood out of the way in one corner of the small kitchen in the Coates’ house some time later that night, just beyond the circle of yellow light cast by the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. Janson lay nearby on a straw-stuffed mattress, feverish and mumbling, still not fully conscious—his face was beaten and bruised, as was his body. The clothes Mattie Ruth and Titus had cut away from him had been torn and muddy, covered with dried and drying blood—someone had tried to kill Janson Sanders; someone had attempted to beat him to death, and then had left him to die there in the muddy road. Stan had never before seen anyone so badly hurt, so badly beaten, as the young man who lay twisting beneath the quilts, fighting the hands that tried to tend him.
There had been hushed, hurried words between Titus Coates and his wife, and a look of horror on Mattie Ruth’s face as they had carried Janson in and laid him on the iron bedstead that stood in one corner of the narrow kitchen. Stan had been too frightened to leave, and too frightened to stay, so he just stood as if frozen, watching Mattie Ruth tend to Janson, feeling as if they did not truly trust or want him here. A thousand confused thoughts raced through his mind as Janson’s words became clear enough again for a moment to understand what he was saying—he was calling for Elise again, as he had been doing all along, calling for Stan’s sister.
But they had never been more than friends, Stan kept telling himself. Janson was one of the farmhands, and Elise was a Whitley—but hadn’t Stan himself wondered, the night he had walked up on them behind Town Hall after the Independence Day dance, if they had not been kissing? But that was impossible. They had only been friends, and even that had ended long ago—but still Janson continued to call for Elise, to beg for her, over and over as Stan stared.
A frown wrinkled Titus’s forehead, his face worried. “You need t’ let me go git th’ doct’r for him,” he said quietly, staring at his wife across the width of the narrow bed.
“Ain’ nothin’ a doct’r can do for him that I cain’t—’sides, you know th’ doct’r’s Mist’ Whitley’s cousin—” She said no more than that, but somehow Stan felt the words carried ominous meaning—surely she did not believe his father would not want Janson seen to. His father had always seemed to like Janson. Surely—
Janson moaned, trying to move away from Mattie Ruth’s hands as they again prodded his bruised side. He twisted beneath the knotted and damp covers, his voice rising slightly, his head tossing on the pillow. “Elise—please—don’t let him hurt Elise. Please—”
His words were pleading, and somehow pitiful, Stan thought as he stared at him—why would he beg so for Elise? What would make him think that someone would want to hurt her? No one would hurt Elise. No one.
Janson’s voice quietened back to mumblings again, but still Stan could hear his sister’s name among other words he could not understand. He could not take his eyes from the man who lay there so badly beaten and hurt before him. Janson had been his friend almost from the first moment they had met, and Stan had been hurt and confused when his father had told him days before that Janson had picked up and left with no warning—but now here Janson was, badly hurt, maybe dying—and he was begging for Stan’s sister with almost every breath. Stan felt as if he had stepped into a nightmare with no end, and all he wanted now was to get out—but, still, no matter how hard he tried, he could not make himself move.
Janson twisted fitfully, his face drenched with sweat even in the chill room, for a moment almost rising from the bed, his voice growing louder. “Elise—please—got t’—Elise—”
Stan stepped back in surprise at the feeling and need behind the words. He looked up to find Mattie Ruth staring at him, something very near to accusation in her eyes.
“You see what th’ Whitleys ’a done t’ him?” she asked quietly, her eyes never leaving Stan’s face. “He ain’ never done nothin’ t’ hurt nobody. All he done was fall in love with your sister—an’ look what it’s got him.” Her words were angry, surprising Stan with their feeling, and their meaning.
Janson, in love with—“I—I didn’t know. I—” he stuttered out.
“There’s lots ’a things you don’t know—like maybe that it was your daddy done this t’ him—”
“Mattie Ruth, don’t—” Titus moved around the bed toward her, laying a hand on her arm, trying to silence her words, turning a look to the boy—but she only shrugged him away.
“It’s time he knew. It’s time he knew a lot ’a things, like how his daddy said he’d kill Janson if he ever caught him anywhere near his precious daughter again—an’ he’s just about done it.”
“D—daddy? You don’t really think Daddy beat him like—”
“Or had it done, more likely, an’ then left him for dead,” she said, staring at him, no mercy for any of the Whitleys there in her eyes.
“Oh, my God—” Stan said, his eyes going back to the young man on the bed. “You can’t believe—”
“Mattie Ruth—” Titus began once again, but she did not even look his way.
“It’s you that better believe. Him an’ your sister was runnin’ off t’gether t’ be married—but I guess your daddy foun’ out first, an’ it’s jus’ about cost Janson his life.” She turned her eyes back to the restless form—“An’ it may yet—”
Janson and Elise. His father—his father trying to kill Janson—it could not be true. None of it could be true.
Janson was pleading for Elise again, twisting beneath the quilt, his bruised face bathed in sweat. Stan stepped back, hearing the pleading words, somehow frightened—this was all a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. A—
Suddenly Mattie Ruth crossed the distance between them, taking him by the shoulders, holding him before her as she stared down at him, her jaw clenched, her eyes angry. “That boy might die t’night, but he ain’t gonna die without seein’ your sister. You go git her—”
“No, Mattie Ruth, you cain’t!” Titus said, stepping toward her. “You’ll be ’dangerin’ her too!”
She glanced at her husband for a moment, and then back to Stan, her eyes no less determined as her fingers dug into the boy’s shoulders. “I done all I kin do for him. Th’ rest is with th’ Lord, an’ with Miss Elise. We can do th’ prayin’, but you’re th’ onliest one that can git t’ your sister t’night—bring her back here, right now—”
Stan could only stare at her, unable to move.
“You git her, right now!” Mattie Ruth’s voice rose, and she released him with a slight shove toward the doorway.
Stan stumbled, almost falling, but recovered himself. He stared at her for a moment longer, then turned and ran toward the door and out into the rain. He heard Titus come out onto the narrow rear porch of the house and call something after him, but he did not stop or even look back. He ran on down the muddy road, not slowing his pace even after he was out of sight of the house.
His mind was reeling—Elise to run away with Janson Sanders; his father trying to kill Janson, beating him and leaving him for dead where he thought no one would ever find him—no, it could not be true! None of it could be true! Mattie Ruth had gone mad; she had lost all reason. She was nothing less than mad.
Stan continued to run, his heart pounding in his narrow chest so hard that he thought it would burst through the skin. It was all an awful, horrible lie, a lie he would not believe. His father would tell him the truth. His father would see to it that Janson was taken to a hospital and away from those mad people in that house. His father would make everything right again, just as he had done all Stan’s life. His father would.
His father would—