23

The night was cold and clear, with a bitter chill in the air that told of a hard winter that would be soon settling in over the Georgia countryside—but they would be far away from here by then. It was still hours before daylight, but the minutes seemed to be slipping by quickly, and Janson found himself looking again and again toward the east to assure himself that dawn was not yet ready to come—there was no lightening of the horizon yet, no growing hues of pink and yellow to show that day was about to begin, but still he was worried. They would have to be away soon or they would lose the cover of night and sleep that lay across the countryside, and each moment that passed now only increased that danger, only increased the chance they might be found out and stopped, and he knew he would not live to see another day if that should happened.

He stood to himself beside the old truck Titus would be using to take them out of the County—his grandparents would be expecting them as soon as they could arrive in Eason County. Elise had written to them from Janson’s instructions, explaining they would soon be married, and asking if they might be put up for a while in exchange for work Janson could do on the place. They had received a letter back by return mail, a letter addressed to Mattie Ruth Coates, a letter never once asking why it should be posted to a stranger—Janson had been told to come home and to bring his bride, that they were welcome, that they would always be welcome, and that Tom and Deborah Sanders’s home would be their home as well for as long as they needed it to be. Elise had cried as she had read him the letter, cried and told him it was a decision they would never regret making.

He watched her now as she stood in the yard near the far edge of the porch, her mother and Stan beside her. She was saying goodbye, goodbye to her family and to this place that had been her home all her life. Janson knew she might never see these people, this place, ever again after they left here today, and he was determined not to rob her of even one of her goodbyes, though he knew that each moment that now passed only increased the danger they might both be in.

He knew there were tears on her cheeks now, though he could not see them in the dim light that fell through the narrow front windows behind her, and he wondered again how he could be doing this to her, taking her from so much, to offer her so little. They were leaving here with nothing, with only each other, and with the money Elise had in her purse, money he had given her that day in the graveyard, as well as what she had been saving for months now without telling him, and money her mother had given her from the household allowance—it was not much, but at least it was something to start their life on. He could give her nothing else now, nothing except himself, and yet he was taking so much away from her that she deserved to have—but it was what she wanted. She had told him that time and again in the past weeks. He had done everything he could to make her understand, to make her see the kind of life he would be taking her to, the hardships they might have, the years of work and doing without—but none of that had seemed to matter to her. She wanted to be his wife, to live with him, no matter the life he might be taking her to—he would do whatever he had to do now, struggle for as many years as he had to struggle, to give her all she deserved to have, and to make sure she would never regret the choice she was making in him today.

Mattie Ruth and Titus came out of the house and down off the narrow porch to him. He watched them, knowing how very much he and Elise owed them already—if it had not been for their kindness and help, this day might never have been; he might have lost Elise forever, or died in trying to make her his, and that was a debt he knew he could never repay.

Mattie Ruth smiled as she reached his side, and then stretched up to hug him one last time. “I feel like I’m sendin’ my own off,” she said, holding him at arm’s length away to stare up at him. “You jus’ be careful an’ keep a eye out for Mist’ Whitley ’til you’re good away from here.”

“I will,” he said. He kept telling himself that he and Elise would be safe once they were gone from here, that not even William Whitley could touch them once they were out of Georgia and in Eason County—but he knew how wrong he might be. He knew Whitley could still reach them, in Buntain before they could be married today, on the train to Alabama, even once they were in Eason County. He knew his very life, and Elise’s future, could very well rest now in the hands of Mattie Ruth and Titus Coates, as well as in the hands of Stan and her mother, in how well they could all keep a secret in the following days, and in the years to come.

“You take good care ’a yourself, an’ Miss Elise, too. You remember th’ kind a’ man I think you was raised t’ be, an’ you’ll be a good husban’ an’ a good provider.”

“I will—” Suddenly she seemed to remind him so very much of his mother and his gran’ma, though she looked little like Nell or Deborah Sanders either one. She was the same kind of woman, however, good and strong and caring. He bent and kissed her cheek. “You take care ’a yourself, too, Mattie Ruth. I won’t never forget all you an’ Titus ’a done for us. I cain’t never tell you how grateful we are, how much we owe you—”

“You don’t owe us nothin’. We ain’t done nothin’ more for you than we’d ’a hoped somebody’d ‘a done for ours if he’d been away from home an’ needin’ help.”

“You did a lot. If it wasn’t for you, me an’ Elise wouldn’t be leavin’ t’day, an’ we might never been able t’ leave. I might not even be alive right now—”

“You an’ Miss Elise would ’a worked it out,” she said with assurance, reaching up to pat his arm. “You’d ’a been t’gether, an’ you’d ’a got married, jus’ th’ same—God made you an’ her t’ be t’gether. No matter what anybody else ever says, you two was born fer each other, an’ you’ve lived fer each other; nobody here on this earth could ’a stopped that, not nobody.”

Janson nodded his head, then lifted his eyes to watch Elise and her mother walking toward them from the far side of the porch, arm-in-arm, looking more as if they were sisters than mother and daughter in the dim light. “She’s been through s’ much in th’ past months. I just wish I could be takin’ her t’ somethin’ more now.”

“There ain’t too much in life that’s important but what you got,” Mattie Ruth said from beside him. “You got each other, an’ that’s somethin’ cain’t never be took away from neither one ’a you, not ever,” she said as Elise reached his side and put her arms around him, Elise pressing her wet cheek to his shoulder for a moment to hold him.

She was trembling slightly against him, and it struck him again that this had to be the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, to leave behind everything she had ever known in the world and go into a complete unknown with him. He squeezed her tightly to him and pressed his cheek to her hair, then lifted his eyes to the woman beside her, the woman who would today become his mother-in-law, a woman who would not even see her daughter wed this day. She had done so much to help them in the past weeks, even knowing that in that helping she would take her daughter from herself forever, and possibly damage her own marriage beyond repair.

Martha Whitley looked at him for a long moment without speaking. When her words finally came, her voice showed the strain within her, but also the resolve. “You’ve gone through so much to be with Elise. I know you’ll take care of her and be good to her. Please—” She visibly struggled for a moment against the tears, turning wet eyes back to her daughter as Elise released him to move into her arms, her voice a bare, choked whisper as she continued. “Just make her happy—”

Mother and daughter held each other for a moment, both crying, and again Janson wondered if he was doing the right thing, taking Elise from her family, taking her from all she had ever known—then she left her mother and came to him, putting her arms around him to press close, her wet cheek against the front of his shirt, and he knew there could be nothing wrong in loving her so, or in wanting a life with her.

Stan stepped up from behind his mother and held out a hand, a hand which Janson shook solemnly. “I’m sorry for all Daddy’s done to you. I know we can never make up for—”

“You ain’t got nothin’ t’ make up for,” Janson said.

Stan nodded and looked at his sister, fighting back the tears Janson knew a boy of fifteen could not cry and still maintain his dignity. Stan moved to kiss his sister’s cheek and hug her for a moment. “Goodbye, Elise—I love you—” Janson heard him say quietly, the tears that threatened his masculine pride even more evident in his voice.

“Goodbye, Stan,” she said, wiping at a wet cheek with the back of one hand. “I love you too, and I’ll miss you—”

“I know,” he nodded. “And I’m going to always miss you—” He kissed her cheek again, then turned away—but not before they had all seen the tears that had come at last.

Titus was in the truck waiting, and Mattie Ruth had returned to the porch, standing in the dim light as she dried her eyes on one corner of her apron. Janson nodded a last farewell to her, and she smiled through her tears and nodded in return—there were no words left to say; it was time that he and Elise leave.

He hugged her to him for a moment, and then kissed her when she looked up at him, her eyes bright and her cheeks wet from crying. He smiled and squeezed her once more, then released her and moved to get into the truck, wanting to give her one last moment alone with her mother and Stan before she would have to leave them forever. She hugged and kissed them both one last time, all three crying openly now, then slid into the truck beside him, Stan closing the door after her. Janson saw her look back to her mother and brother one last time as Titus backed the truck up to begin the long journey that would forever take her from her home. Martha Whitley and Stan stood before the old house now in the darkness, one arm around each other, their faces lost in absolute shadow as they waved one last goodbye.

Elise was crying as she lifted her hand to return the farewell, her heart breaking on her face as Janson watched her. She was leaving behind the only home she had ever known, the family that had loved and nurtured her all her life—and for what? To live with so much less than she deserved to have; to go to a strange place, and strange people, and ways such as she had never known; to leave behind forever a world of comfort and luxury, and see instead a life that Elise Whitley was never born to see.

As the old truck made its way down the winding red clay road, its headlamps barely picking out the way ahead, reflecting off the dark pines and the wide expanses of cotton fields in between, Elise’s home and the world she had always known disappeared behind them forever. Janson held her hand and let her cry, her face turned away from him to stare out the dark window at memories he could never see. There was nothing he could think of to say.

William shattered Martha’s favorite vase in his rage when she told him, picking it up from the table in the front parlor where it had rested for more than twenty years, and hurling it across the room to shatter into bits of nothing against the stone hearth of the fireplace. He turned on her, his hands clenched into fists before him, his face red with rage—Martha had never before believed he would strike her, but now she shrank away, putting the distance of a chair between them, feeling as if there were nothing left within him in that moment of the man she had married those many years ago.

“You goddamn stupid—how could you help your own daughter run off with that red-Indian trash! Don’t you have any—”

“I did what I had to do!”

“Had to—you had to help her run off with that half-Indian dirt farmer! You know he’s only after my—”

“He’s not like that! He’s a good boy, and he loves Elise. He—”

“Goddamn it—don’t you even know what you’ve done, you stupid bitch!”

For a moment, Martha could only stare at him in shocked silence. No one had ever called her anything such as that before in all her life, and now here stood her own husband, speaking to her as she had never believed anyone would speak to her. She looked toward Bill where he sat in silence on the parlor sofa, believing somehow that her first-born would speak up to defend her, that he would somehow stop this nightmare from going any further—but her heart went cold as she saw the look on his face. There was a fury in his expression that went even beyond that of the man who stood yelling at her, a cold, hate-filled fury that frightened her even more than anything William could ever have done. She might fear that William would strike her—but the look on Bill’s face said he could easily do murder. It said—

“Where are they?” William demanded, dragging her attention away from their son. “Where in hell did that trash take her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying!” he yelled, taking a step toward her, one fist raised as if to frighten the words from her.

Martha lifted her chin defiantly, clinging to the back of the chair before her for the support her legs so badly needed. “Even if I was, do you think I’d tell you?” she asked, meeting her husband’s eyes evenly, refusing to show anything of the fear she felt. “You’ve already tried to kill that boy once; I won’t let you do it again. Elise loves him—”

“God damn love!” he shouted. “Love doesn’t mean anything!”

Martha stared at him, knowing beyond doubt in that moment that there was nothing left within him of the William she had married, the William she had defied her own parents to love all those years before. She had hoped to reach something within him, something that might still—

“You just better goddamn well hope I find them before it’s too late—” he said, his voice quiet, deadly, sending a chill through her such as she had never felt before. She stared at him, feeling as if her knees would give way beneath her.

“You won’t ever find them. Ever—”

“I’ll find them, and, when I do, that red-trash is dead. Your daughter is going to wish she was dead as well before I’m through with her—”

Elise—dear God, he wouldn’t—

But he had already tried to kill Janson Sanders once, had beaten the boy near to death, and then had thrown him unconscious into a well to die. A man who could do that could do anything. Elise might be his daughter, but—

William stood staring at her for a long moment, then turned and left the room without another word, going down the hallway, then out through one of the front doors, slamming it so hard behind him that the sound echoed and re-echoed through the house time and again. She turned and looked at Bill, and somehow her chest constricted so tightly that she could hardly breathe—there was no humanity left on that face, nothing decent or good there. There was—

Bill stood and walked out of the room, following his father through the parlor doorway, and Martha stood in shocked, impotent fear for a moment, staring at the doorway through which they had both disappeared—but they could not find Elise and Janson now, she told herself, trying hard to fight back the fear that was rising within her. They could not—

But she knew they could, they might. William knew everyone in the County, and everyone knew him. All he would have to do would be to put out word, let it be known that—

Someone could have seen Elise and Janson. Someone could know. Someone could tell. Someone could—

She released the chair and moved slowly toward the parlor sofa to sit down on it heavily, praying more fervently in that moment than she had ever before prayed in all her life.

Today was Elise’s wedding day—and, yet, behind all the feelings of joy and happiness, there lay a sense of fear, a feeling of being lost and adrift somehow in the world on this day. She stood on the sidewalk before the small, white-painted Baptist church where in such a short while she would become Janson’s wife, trying to memorize the image of this place where her world and her name would be changed forever. She clung tightly to Janson’s hand, unable to let go of him, frightened still that her father would somehow find them, that he could still reach out and put an end to their marriage even before it could begin—and frightened for other reasons as well, for reasons she could not explain or even understand. She did not know who she was anymore, who Elise Whitley was, or who Elise Sanders was expected to be—and that frightened her more than anything else could on this day.

Titus had driven them into Buntain even before daybreak that morning, and had treated them both to breakfast at the small dining room of the old hotel where they would spend their wedding night before leaving for Alabama on the early train the next morning. Elise had eaten very little, simply picking at the food on her plate, her nervousness increasing the nausea that the baby already created within her—she had wanted so badly just to be alone with Janson, to just sit and hold his hand and look at him, and, yet, she had somehow also not wanted Titus to leave, for with him would go the last ties with her home and with the girl she had always been.

But Titus had left, leaving her alone in the hotel dining room with the man who would today be her husband, and she had realized suddenly how very alone they were in the world now, with no home, nothing that was their own; only each other—and that could be taken from them so very easily if her father found them out.

She had clung desperately to Janson’s hand as they walked the few streets away to the church where her mother had made arrangements for them to be married, knowing all the while that this wedding would be nothing as she had always imagined her wedding would be—there would be no white satin dress, no pink roses for her to carry, no father to give the bride away. She would not even have a wedding ring, for Janson was Holiness, and the Holiness did not believe in jewelry—but she and Janson did not need any of that, she kept telling herself. They had each other, and that was all they needed. That was all they would ever need.

Janson squeezed her hand gently as they stood before the church, looking so handsome in his good shirt and Sunday trousers—but for the first time she noticed that the shirt sleeves were frayed at the cuffs, and the trousers faded from repeated washings, and wrinkled now from the long trip into town in the old truck. She watched as his eyes moved over her face, a worry behind them now as he looked at her. “Are you sure you want t’ do this, Elise?” he asked quietly. “It ain’t too late even now; I can still take you back if you’ve changed your mind.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” she asked, searching his eyes, a new worry filling her.

“I’d never have second thoughts about marryin’ you; you know that. It’s all I’ve wanted for s’ long—”

“You know I wouldn’t change my mind either,” she said. “You know I want to be your wife.”

“It’s just that—I want you t’ be sure. You’re givin’ up s’ much; I don’t want you t’ be sorry later that you married me—”

“I’d never be sorry,” she said, and she knew she meant it. She would never be sorry, no matter what came later.

He smiled for a moment, then drew her close into his arms there on the sidewalk and kissed her, letting his mouth linger with hers for a moment. Then he smiled down at her, resting his forehead against hers. “I guess we ought t’ go on in an’ get married then,” he said quietly, and she smiled.

He took her hand and led her up the wooden steps and through the front door of the small church, but drew her back as she started to push open a second set of doors to go from the narrow vestibule into the church auditorium. He pulled her into his arms again and kissed her briefly, then smiled down at her, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “I got somethin’ t’ show you before we go in,” he said, his green eyes happy as he looked at her.

“Something to show me?”

“Yeah, I’ve had it for a while now. I wanted it t’ be a surprise for t’day—”

“Oh?” She smiled, watching him as he pulled an old handkerchief from his pocket and began to unfold it, expecting a ribbon or a small bit of lace, some present he had bought her weeks ago before her father had found them out—but she stared in surprise as the folds of the handkerchief fell away to reveal what lay within. A small, gold wedding ring lay in the middle of the worn old handkerchief, shining and perfect in the light that filtered in through the glass panels set into the wall on either side of the front doors behind them. She looked up at him, seeing his smile at her surprise.

“I hope it fits. I had t’ guess at it—”

“But, how—I mean, when—?”

“I bought it th’ day after you said you’d marry me.” He smiled, watching her face. “I had it folded up in th’ handkerchief ever since, an’ every once in a while I’d take it out an’ look at it, knowin’ what it meant. Even after I lost everythin’ else, I didn’t lose it—an’ now it’s goin’ where it b’longs—” He took the ring from the center of the handkerchief, lifted her hand, and slid it onto her finger. “It even fits—” he said, smiling at her.

She stared at it for a long moment, watching it shine on her left hand through the tears now filling her eyes. She gently touched the index finger of her right hand to it, amazed to see it there, then she looked up at him. “But, I thought—you’re Holiness; I didn’t think the Holiness believed in jewelry, not even in wedding rings.”

“They don’t, but you’re not Holiness. Besides, this is somethin’ just between you an’ me.”

“But, if you don’t believe—”

“I was raised t’ be Holiness, an’, even if I don’t go t’ church every Sunday like I ought t’, I still believe th’ way I was raised—but this is somethin’ just between you an’ me. I think God knows that sometimes there’s things between a man an’ a woman’ that ain’t strictly by th’ church—”

She understood. They had been intimate for months now, lying together, loving each other, and were only now about to be married. Religion condemned physical love outside of marriage, and yet neither she nor Janson had seen anything wrong with the love they shared—God could not condemn them for loving, Janson had told her so many times, when He had caused them to love in the first place.

“Your grandparents and the rest of your family, they won’t say anything?”

“You’re my family now—an’ it ain’t nobody’s place t’ say anythin’. That ring says you b’long t’ me—ain’t nobody got a right t’ say nothin’ about that—”

“I love you so much,” she said, realizing she was crying no matter how hard she tried not to.

“An’ I love you.” He drew her close against him to kiss her. “I always will.”

“Always—” she said as he pressed his lips to one damp cheek, and then the other, then dried her tears with the edge of the handkerchief.

“I guess we better get married,” he said after a moment, smiling down at her, then lifting her hand to gently remove the wedding ring from her finger. “It’ll go back on in a minute,” he said, smiling in response to the disappointed look that came to her face, “an’ it won’t come off again after that.”

“Never,” she said, watching his eyes, knowing in that moment it was a vow she would never break, not so long as she lived.

The minister stood before them, tall and sparse, with eyes that were kind, eyes Elise knew she would never forget. “Dearly beloved—”

She tried to pay attention as the ceremony was read, wanting to remember this moment forever, but somehow she could only look at Janson, his eyes touching her face as he smiled and held both her hands in his. Beloved—yes, he was beloved. He was everything, and she loved him more in that moment than she had ever loved him before, more than she had ever thought it possible to love anyone. She heard the minister’s words, but somehow they did not seem to matter, not as much as did the love and promise she could see in Janson’s eyes.

Janson stood looking at her for a long moment after the ceremony was finished, a light smile touching his lips. “You’re Elise Sanders now—” he said, so softly that only she could hear. She was Elise Sanders.

Phyllis Ann buttoned her blouse as she descended the wide staircase to the first floor of Hiram Cooper’s home that morning. J.C.’s father was out of town for the day, and she and J.C. had been getting cozy in his bedroom upstairs when the telephone had rung—he had left her in order to go downstairs to answer it, telling her to stay where she was and wait for him; but she was tired of waiting, tired of all the many things that demanded his time away from her.

She could hear the low sound of his voice coming from the small office to the left of the staircase as she reached the bottom floor. The door was closed, the conversation obviously intended to be private—but Phyllis Ann did not like closed doors, or private conversations; anything that concerned J.C. was her business. If he was talking to some other girl—

She leaned against the door for a moment, straining to hear, then opened it a crack to better make out the words. She peered into the room cautiously, finding his back to her as he sat before the rolltop desk set against the far wall, the telephone held close to his mouth in one hand, the receiver to his ear in the other—he would never know, she told herself. She opened the door wider, and stood listening.

“Yes, I was worried about her,” he said. “I knew they’d have to do something soon—”

Her—he was worried about some other girl, Phyllis Ann thought, staring at his back through the open doorway, the jealousy filling her. Who was he worried about, when he should be thinking only of—

“I knew Mr. Whitley had hit her. I saw the bruise on her face a few days later—”

Elise—it was Elise, always Elise. Phyllis Ann’s right hand tightened into a fist, which she pounded noiselessly against her upper thigh—always Elise. Always—

“I knew they’d have to leave sooner or later; I just didn’t think it would be this soon—” Then he listened for a moment, straightening in his chair suddenly as if shocked by what he was hearing. “Good God, I didn’t know about that! Is Janson all right?” Again he listened, and Phyllis Ann leaned forward, knowing she would gladly give ten years from J.C.’s life in that moment to hear the other end of that conversation—could it really be? Mr. Whitley had hit Elise, had bruised her up a bit, and she had finally run off with that—oh, but that would be too good to be true!

J.C. sighed, the sound seeming to come from deep within him. “Well, at least they’re away from it now; and you don’t have to worry, Janson loves Elise, and he’ll take care of her. Yes—yes, I understand completely; I won’t tell anyone they’re in Buntain. Yes—let me know if there’s anything I can do, Mrs. Whitley. Goodbye—”

He placed the receiver back in the cradle and sat the telephone down on the desk before him, staring at it for a long moment. Phyllis Ann quietly closed the door, then turned to lean back against it, a smile slowly coming to her face—oh, what interesting things one could learn while listening at doors. So Elise had finally run away with her farmhand, and William Whitley was not supposed to find them out—oh, what a delightful bit of information she now held in her hands. Mr. Whitley had hurt Elise, had hit her, and had apparently done something far worse to Janson Sanders—he would be in a killing mood now; his only, precious daughter run off with nothing more than a red-Indian dirt farmer. If he were to find her and her farmhand now—oh, what interesting ideas that brought to mind. If William Whitley found them, he would be certain to beat his daughter to within an inch of her life—and there was no telling what he might do to Janson Sanders. That red trash had threatened her once, had kept her from giving Elise what she so richly deserved—but he would get what he deserved now; oh, he would get that, and so much more. Phyllis Ann had once asked Elise for her help—now there would be no help for Elise, or for her dirt farmer. William Whitley would see to it that she finally learned what Phyllis Ann had lived with all her life—and he would see to so much more. So very much more.

Phyllis Ann stood in the hallway for a long moment, smiling to herself. Buntain—yes, so many interesting things could be learned while listening at doorways. So many interesting things.

Elise Whitley might lie with her farmhand tonight, Phyllis Ann told herself, smiling with the thought—but she would surely wake in hell tomorrow.