Through a Glass, Darkly Page 7

  “You get your hands off ’a that lady right now!” A voice came from the steps nearby, and Elise turned her eyes in desperation to its source, finding a tall black man standing on the steps that led up to the mill office, the door almost shut behind him now and a large wrench held in his hand. “You heard me; get your hands off ’a that lady!”

  “You get back in that building, nigger. I’ll deal with you later. This ain’t none of your business.”

  “Let her go.” He did not raise the wrench held in his hand, but its threat was clear.

  “You stay outta this, boy—” His words were brave, but he released Elise. She took a step away and tried to calm her beating heart, feeling her knees tremble beneath her. She saw the look that passed between the man named Buddy and the black man, and she was almost certain she would see murder done before her, but then the office door swung all the way in and a heavy-set man in his forties with great jowls for cheeks stepped out to stare down at the group before him.

  “Buddy, what’s going on out here?” he demanded, looking at the boy who had shaken her.

  Buddy looked quickly from the black man to Elise and back again, and that look had held clear warning. “Nothing,” he said, staring up at his father.

  The man looked at Elise, and then to the one person who had helped her. “Nathan, what’re you doing out here? You’re supposed to be inside working on the lavatory.”

  “I came out t’ get Mr. Buddy t’ come look at it, t’ make sure everythin’ was okay before I left,” he answered, then turned his eyes to the three boys who had accosted her. “But Mr. Buddy an’ his friends were helpin’ this lady pick up her groceries she dropped so she could go on home when I came out.” His eyes met hers for a moment and she understood—for some reason he would not accuse this boy of what he had done, not even with her there to confirm his words. She remained silent and returned his stare, not understanding, but also not willing to contradict him when he had helped her when no one else had even tried.

  “Yeah, that’s what we were doing,” Buddy said, looking at the black man, then slowly bending to gather up the few cans and parcels on the sidewalk. The other two boys moved to retrieve those that had rolled into the street. He refilled the sack and handed it to her. “There you go, lady,” he said, holding onto the sack for a moment too long after she had taken it, his gray eyes boring into hers, causing a chill to move up her spine.

  “Buddy, you go on in and look at the lavatory for Nathan. Make sure everything’s okay before he leaves,” the older man said, then waited on the top step until Buddy and his friends had gone through the door before he followed them inside.

  Once the door had closed behind them, Elise brought her eyes to those of the man who had saved her. “Thank you,” she said, feeling the words horribly inadequate.

  “You’re Janson Sanders’s wife, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled and nodded. “You tell him that Nathan Betts returned a kindness.”

  Elise found herself smiling. “I will.”

  “Now, you better go on, Miz Sanders, an’ you best be careful walkin’ past here again. Ladies got t’ watch when Buddy Eason an’ them two friends of his are about; most everybody else does, too.”

  “I will, and, thank you again.”

  It wasn’t until she had walked a street away that she got the shakes and had to stop for a moment and calm herself. Eason—Buddy Eason. The boy who had attacked her had been the same one who had stabbed Janson, leaving the scar that still marked his right shoulder—but there was even more she knew of Buddy Eason from her months of living in the mill village. The mill workers and their families rarely spoke of anyone in the Eason family, but, when they did, it was almost always about Buddy Eason. She had heard gossip, rumors, about his having beaten a boy almost to death, about another boy, not even a teenager yet, whose arm he had broken. She had been told about a daughter of a mill village family, a girl engaged to be married, whom he had raped, and another he had severely beaten when she would not give into his demands. There were whispers about a teacher he had struck when he had been no more than eight years old, and fires he had started both behind the Methodist church in the village and the school building up town, as well as in a trash barrel just outside the rear entrance to the police station.

  She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing—Janson would not care about any of that. He would not care about anything but putting an end to Buddy Eason’s life once she told him what the man had done and suggested to her today. She could still remember the look on his face when he had at last reluctantly told her about the fight all those years before that had ended in his stabbing, and she knew there was a hatred already within Janson for Buddy Eason that went far beyond anything she had known him to feel toward anyone else. He would kill Buddy Eason for what he had done; there was no doubt. He would kill him, or at least try to, and would either end up in jail, or dead himself, before this day was over—and it would all be her fault. If only she had not gone into town today. If only she had crossed the street when she had seen the three boys. If only—

  But there was nothing she could do about that now. If she did not tell him, then certainly Nathan Betts would, and Janson would go after Buddy Eason anyway.

  She trudged the remainder of the way home, feeling wearier than ever before. Fear would not leave her, not only of what Janson would do, but of Buddy Eason himself. A man like that could be capable of doing anything, to anyone, here in Eason County. He was above the law, above justice, and he knew it. He would never have to pay for whatever it was he did—and Janson would not care about any of that. Not any of it.

  She could not make herself enter the house when she reached it. She stood on the rear porch, one hand on the doorknob, having gone to the back of the house to keep from waking Janson where he slept in the front room that overlooked the street. He would be up within a few hours, and she would have to tell him then—and her mind raced, trying to think of words she could say, or anything she could do, that might lessen the impact of what Buddy Eason had done today. She knew that he would go after Buddy Eason the minute she told him. And then—

  She turned and walked down off the porch and back along the side of the house toward the street, realizing a moment later that the sack was still in her hands, but not turning back to take the groceries into the house to put them away. She reached the street and turned in the direction of Dorrie’s house.

  Dorrie Keith’s smile changed to a look of concern the moment she opened her front door and saw Elise standing there. “Elise, honey, are you okay, has somethin’—”

  Elise shook her head, realizing how she must look with her hair disheveled from the shaking Buddy had given her. “I’m okay, just a little jittery—”

  “You’re pale as a sheet, come on in an’ sit down,” Dorrie said, taking the sack from her hands and leading her into the house, then through and to the kitchen where Dorrie did most of her visiting. She made Elise sit down at the kitchen table, then went to chip ice from the block that cooled the icebox in the corner, bringing Elise a glass of ice water and not asking her what had happened until Elise had finished half of it.

  Dorrie’s husband, Clarence, came in the rear door from his gardening long before Elise finished her story. He stood listening as he dried his hands on a towel, and then continued to stand leaning against the wall near the rear door, his arms crossed across his chest long after Elise had finished speaking. His eyes at last went to Dorrie and the two of them exchanged a look before he voiced what was already Elise’s worse fear. “Janson’s gonna try t’ kill him when you tell him,” he said quietly as she felt Dorrie’s hand come to rest on her own with a concerned pat.

  “I can’t let him do that. It was all my fault. I should have crossed to the other side of the street when I saw them, or—”

  “No,” Dorrie said with a shake of her head. “It weren’t yo
ur fault; it was Buddy Eason’s. Him an’ them friends of his are a bad sort, an’ Buddy’s th’ worse of th’ lot. Th’ world’d be better off without any ’a them three, though I’d ’a never thought Carl Miles would’a turned out like he has, ’cause his folks’re good people, but I guess runnin’ around with Buddy Eason’d do that t’ anybody—”

  “But, I can’t let Janson—he’ll end up in jail or killed or—”

  “Shh—” Dorrie said, giving Elise’s hand another pat, her presence helping to steady the girl’s nerves. “Don’t you worry about that none. You got that baby t’ think about now, an’ you been through enough already. Me an’ Clarence’ll come back t’ th’ house with you, an’ maybe Clarence can talk some sense int’ that man ’a yours when you tell him,” she said, looking up at her husband, and Elise saw Clarence nod his head in apparent agreement with his wife.

  Elise had already burned a skillet of cornbread in the old woodstove in her kitchen by the time Janson awoke. She had the rear door standing open to try to air the smoke out of the room. Clarence was sitting at the kitchen table and Dorrie trying to help her salvage what she could of the meal, when Janson entered the kitchen from the middle room of their three, his short, black hair messy from sleep, though he had dressed before he had left the front room. His eyes moved over Clarence and Dorrie, then went immediately to Elise, giving her the sudden and horrible thought that he would think something had happened with the baby, which made her blurt out the entirety of the truth before she could even consciously arrange her thoughts.

  She watched his face drain of color as she told him what Buddy Eason had done and suggested to her today, realizing with a sudden clarity of thought that she was not censoring her words or the impressions of what had happened to her in the slightest way, though she knew she had earlier in speaking to Dorrie and Clarence.

  Dorrie stood beside her now, though Elise could not tear her eyes from Janson’s face—she could do nothing but stare at him, seeing the awful loss of color leave his face, being replaced suddenly by a redness that she knew was anger.

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked at last, his words perfectly clear, though she could see his jaw was clenched, his green eyes in that moment harder than she had ever seen them.

  “No, he frightened me more than anything—”

  He stared at her as her words fell silent. “He put his hands on you.” It came out as a statement, and the look in his eyes in that moment was worse than anything she had imagined. She could see murder in his expression. He was going to kill Buddy Eason for what he had done today. She was certain of it.

  “He put his hand on my stomach, and, when I slapped him, he grabbed me by the arms and shook me, but he didn’t—”

  But he was already halfway across the room headed for the open rear door, and she saw happening exactly what she had feared. She ran after him, knowing that he intended to go out that door and cut across the back yard and the yard of the house behind them on the way to the mill to find Buddy Eason. He intended—

  She grabbed for his sleeve, only to have her hands pushed away. “Janson, you can’t—”

  But he did not even look at her.

  “Janson—”

  Then Clarence was between him and the door.

  “Get th’ hell out ’a my way, Clarence.”

  But Clarence would not move. He met Janson’s gaze for a long moment, staring at him even as Dorrie reached Elise’s side and reached to draw her away.

  “He’ll kill you,” Clarence said, conveying more feeling in his toneless words than Elise had ever seen in him before. “He’ll kill you, today, or some other day, if you go up against him. Elise ain’t hurt this time, but what’ll happen t’ her once you’re dead? Who’s gonna look after your wife an’ your baby if Buddy Eason kills you because you came after him? From what Dorrie tells me, you’re th’ only family she’s got now, you an’ that baby, ’cause she gave up her own people t’ marry you—are you gonna leave her behind now? You best think of your wife, boy, your wife, an’ not yourself an’ your own pride that you got t’ avenge now by goin’ after him.”

  Janson stared at him, and Elise felt her heart rise to her throat to choke her, certain that he would still go after Buddy Eason.

  Then Janson took a deep breath, and Elise knew that he was struggling to control the anger that was still written plainly in every line of his body.

  “One of these days somebody’s gonna make Buddy Eason pay for all he’s done,” Clarence was saying as Janson turned at last to look at Elise again. “One of these days—but not today. You got your wife t’ think about, boy, an’ she’s been through enough already. She’s been through enough.”

  It seemed as if Buddy Eason was determined to make his presence known in the village, and most especially to Elise, as the weather grew warmer. He drove down their street so often in the afternoons that she took to locking the doors at night while Janson was at work, even though she knew the locks were of little use, for they opened with a large skeleton key that was readily available in the mill office. Janson had told her she was never to go near the mill again unless he or someone else was with her, and that suited her just as well—she had no desire to run into Buddy Eason.

  As the days passed and she became larger with the baby, she no longer felt like doing so much walking anyway—oh, how she missed the luxury of having an automobile to take her wherever she wanted to go, as she had had when she had lived in her father’s house. Back then she had never thought it a luxury that their family had owned three automobiles, her brother’s Packard, her father’s Studebaker Big Six President, and the ugly Model T Ford she had hated so much, as well as a number of trucks. She could not now think of any family she knew personally in the mill village, except for snooty Helene Price and her husband, Bert, who owned even a single automobile, and she was amazed sometimes when she realized how naive she had been never to realize how privileged her life had been as Elise Whitley. That life seemed so far away now, that life of easy transportation, of electricity in her home, of running water and decent bathroom facilities. Now there was walking if she had to go anywhere, kerosene lamps to light their three rooms, and that little room in the back yard that nauseated her stomach each time she had to use it.

  She sat in the front room of their half of the mill house late on a Friday afternoon in June. Janson had left for his shift in the mill no more than twenty minutes before, but already darkness had begun to fall, an early darkness brought on by a storm she could hear approaching in distant and prolonged thunder from the west. The rain had not started yet, and she found herself dreading when it would, for that would mean she would then have to pull down the side windows in all three rooms, leaving as ventilation only the front and rear windows that were protected by the overhangs of the two porch roofs.

  She sat reading again the letter she had received from her mother the day before, and tried to write a letter in response, but her mind would not stay with what it was she was trying write. She missed her mother terribly, and her brother, Stan, and now that the baby’s due date was drawing closer she found herself missing them only more, and missing her home in Georgia as well. She got up and moved about the three rooms they had in the mill house, thinking how odd it was that her child would be born here and would grow up in such a place.

  The house she had lived in as a child had huge verandas in the front and rear, and tall, white columns. Frosted panes etched with floral designs were inset into huge double doors that opened into the downstairs hallway. That hallway led to twin parlors at the front of the house, a library, sewing parlor, dining room, and downstairs bedroom, as well as a grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were filled with plush, brocaded settees, with shelves of first-edition books, with mahogany furniture and expensive rugs. Lovely wallpaper covered many of the downstairs walls, and delicate designs much of the upper. Crystal chandeliers of electric lights hung from ceilings, and
lovely Coalport china filled the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room. Her mother had promised to give her that china one day, a day now that would never come.

  When Elise thought now of growing up in that house, it was of a sense of grace and beauty that she knew her children would never know. Her children would never sit beneath a chandelier that hung over the dining room table in a house her family had lived in for generations. They would never sit around a table covered with her grandmother’s antique lace tablecloth; they would never eat from her mother’s cherished china, or drink from the pressed-glass water goblets her Great-Aunt Eunice had left to her father. They would never know anything of the life she had known, and that realization sat heavily on her that evening as she moved about the rooms of the mill house.

  As darkness settled in, the storm finally hit, and with a ferocity that Elise had not expected. She pulled down the exposed windows, then sat in a rocker she drew nearer to the kerosene lamp on the table in the front room, hearing the thunder crash outside as she tried to occupy her mind with the volume of poetry she had been reading, but she quickly gave up as she was unable to concentrate on the words. She got up and thumbed the latches on the front and back doors, then blew out the lamps and lay down, though she knew there was little chance she would sleep with the storm now lashing rain against the windows, and with her cotton nightgown already sticking to her from perspiration.

  It was in the middle of the night as she lay listening to the storm that the first contraction came, surprising her with its intensity—but the baby was not due for more than a week, she kept telling herself; that was what the doctor had told her. Dorrie had said she could expect to go even longer than that, because a first baby never came as soon as anyone thought it would.