Through a Glass, Darkly

by Charlotte Miller

  “Then, why—” But Elise’s words were cut short as the door that led from the rear porch into the kitchen opened, and Clarence entered followed by Wheeler James. Clarence did not bring his eyes to his wife, but turned instead to take the battered hat from his head and hang it on a peg by the door. Wheeler James walked past him without a word, not looking at his mother or Elise. He crossed the room and went through the doorway into the middle room of their half of the house, closing the door silently behind himself. Elise watched him go, then turned her eyes back to Clarence and Dorrie, seeing a look of what seemed to be almost physical pain pass between them.

  “Wheeler James comes int’ th’ mill just as soon as school’s out this year,” Clarence said, quietly.

  For a moment Dorrie did not speak. She still held the small knife in her hand, the bowl of half-peeled vegetables now forgotten on the table before her. “What if he went t’ live with Aunt Min? It wouldn’t be th’ same as livin’ here, but he could finish school, an’ then maybe—”

  But Clarence was shaking his pale head. “It won’t work, Dorrie. If he don’t come int’ th’ mill this summer, Mr. Eason’ll put us out ’a this house, an’ out ’a th’ mill—we got th’ other boys t’ think about. We can’t be losin’ our jobs an’ th’ roof over our heads.”

  “He wouldn’t do that, not just because Wheeler James won’t come int’ th’ mill. There’s plenty ’a people willin’ t’ take a shift, grown men with families, an’ women who are needin’ th’ work. One boy can’t really matter that much—” But, even as Dorrie said the words, Elise could see she did not believe them.

  Clarence was staring at his wife, a look of pity in his light-colored eyes, and Elise wondered who the pity was for: Wheeler James, who wanted nothing more than to finish school, Dorrie who was seeing her dreams for her son ripped apart before her eyes, or Clarence, who had dreamed of something better for his sons. “There’s nothin’ we can do, Dorrie. Mill houses are for mill workers, and mill workers’ children are expected t’ come int’ th’ mill in their own time—we’ve always knowed that. Mr. Eason ain’t gonna let Wheeler James go against what’s been done all these years, even if it means puttin’ us all out in th’ street.”

  Or burning a cotton crop, or costing a man the land his parents had fought and died to give to him, just to keep the same kind of control over the farming community that he had over the mill village, Elise thought. Her eyes came to rest on Dorrie and on the knife Dorrie still held only an instant before Dorrie’s free hand closed over the blade.

  Elise rose to her feet, seeing a flicker of physical pain pass across Dorrie’s features, and then stopped as Dorrie opened her fingers outward to drop the knife and stare at the blood spreading across her open palm. Clarence was suddenly kneeling beside her, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket to wrap it around her hand.

  “We got t’ accept it. We knowed it was comin’,” she heard him say, but Dorrie seemed not to hear him. She had instead turned her eyes to stare out the window, and Elise turned to look out as well. “There ain’t no other choices left,” she heard Clarence say at last, and Elise wondered if those few words were supposed to explain the world in which they were living.

  The sky was gray and threatening rain, the air chill, with a bite to it that said winter was not yet over as Janson left the mill on a Saturday morning in mid-March. He was tired from his twelve-hour shift in the card room, his feet aching from standing on them all night, but there was satisfaction within him, as there was each Saturday morning when he left the mill. The card room received their pay envelopes at the end of each Friday night shift, and Janson had his already counted, neatly folded away in the bib pocket of the overalls he wore beneath his coat. It was one more week’s pay from which he might save even some small amount toward buying back his land one day.

  He wanted nothing more now than to go home and hold Elise in his arms, and to count his pay again with her, so they could see how much they would have to use for food and for other necessities this week. With any luck, there would be at least a few coins they could put away in the fruit jar Elise had hidden in the old cupboard in the kitchen. Another week, a few more coins saved; it was a good feeling.

  His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was hungry. He could see other mill workers leaving from their shifts through the main entrance, the wide double doors set into the front of the building, doors that opened into the card room near the drawing frames, and that led to the staircase that rose to the twister room on the second floor of the mill, and the spinning room where Elise’s friend, Dorrie, worked the day shift. Janson liked to leave through the picker and opening rooms, thus reaching the outdoors much sooner than the trip through the length of the card room to the main entrance would have allowed. Besides, it prevented him from being stopped by someone to talk; when his shift was over he wanted to go home, not stand around talking.

  He smiled to himself, thinking about Elise. She would be up making breakfast for him now, having been awakened by the whistle the mill blew to wake the day shift workers who would work the shortened Saturday shift. He could imagine her in the kitchen, working at the woodstove, maybe still in her nightgown. He would not have to return to the mill until Monday night, and he would probably spend the afternoon and evening of this day asleep—but this morning he would spend with his wife. Perhaps breakfast could wait, and counting his pay with her as well. Perhaps there were more important things to share with his wife this morning than food and money.

  He could see mill workers slowing as they reached the sidewalk before the small white office building that sat before the mill, some deliberately crossing the street, others staying on the sidewalk, but hurrying on with heads down and eyes averted as if trying to avoid something there. As he drew nearer, he could see several young men loitering near the front of the structure. One sat on the bricked steps that led up to the office door, saying something to a woman who seemed to increase her pace, as if trying to hurry by and avoid him. Another was leaning against a tree that grew alongside the sidewalk, occasionally, and it appeared deliberately, sticking a foot out into the path of workers as they left their shifts. The third made straight for Nathan Betts the minute the night janitor came around the corner of the office building, grabbing a sack from Nathan’s hands and turning to keep it away from him as he rifled through it.

  “What’re you stealing, boy?” he asked, reaching out with one hand to shove Nathan back as the older man tried to retrieve the sack. “We can’t let no nigger walk out of the mill without checking to see what he’s stealing from honest white folks first, now can we?”

  “Mr. Richard, give me back my sack, now. I got t’ get home—”

  “You ain’t ‘got’ to do nothing, boy, not until I say you do—now, why don’t you ask me again if you can have it, real nice this time, and don’t forget to say please—”

  Janson started toward them, ready to intercede on Nathan’s behalf if necessary, but there was a quick movement from the young man leaning against the tree as he turned and stepped onto the sidewalk and directly into Janson’s path, almost running into him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a stink of alcohol breath just before he shoved Janson backwards against the tree. A jolt of recognition came across the man’s face at the same moment that Janson felt the same recognition hit him—it was Buddy Eason.

  He stared at the closely set gray eyes, remembering a day, two and a half years before, when he had tried to kill this younger man. He could almost smell again the oily smell of the carriage house that stood on the Easons’ property at the end of Main Street, could almost see again Buddy Eason’s sister as she sat in the open doorway of her grandfather’s Cadillac touring car, the girl yelling encouragement to her brother in a fight that had begun after Buddy had found them together. He remembered his embarrassment, and then the rage as he had realized that Lecia Mae Eason had never wanted him, but only a diversion. He could
feel the heat of the struggle with Buddy Eason, and then the cold shock of the knife blade Buddy had driven through his right shoulder—he could also remember the fear in Buddy’s eyes when Janson had held the bloody knife in his own hand with the blade to Buddy’s throat at last, and the strong scent of urine as Buddy wet himself because of the fear within him. He could see in Buddy Eason’s eyes that he remembered as well.

  A muscle worked in Buddy’s jaw as he stared at Janson. “What are you doing here, you red nigger,” he said, his voice low, filled with fury, his eyes never leaving Janson’s face. The muscle worked again in his jaw. “I thought you’d been run out of this county for good—”

  “You thought wrong,” Janson said, returning his stare. He could see the rage building within Buddy Eason as Buddy shifted from one foot to the other, both hands tightening into fists at his sides, loosening, and then tightening again.

  “You better get out of this village, boy. You got no right to be here; you get your goddamn ass back into the country where the rest of the stinking shit is—”

  Janson could hear the others snicker at Buddy’s words, but he did not turn to look at them. “I got all th’ right I need; I live here.”

  “Only mill workers live here, and I know Daddy would never have hired a red nigger to work in the mill.”

  “He didn’t,” Janson said, seeing a momentary look of satisfaction come into Buddy’s eyes, “but your gran’pa did—”

  Buddy’s expression was immediately one of a pure hatred. He took a step closer, crowding Janson even further back against the tree, and bringing his clenched fist up to hold it to within inches of Janson’s face. “You listen to me, you goddamn half-breed son-of-a-bitch, I won’t have you living in this village, or working in this mill. Do you understand me?” He stared at Janson, his breath hot and stinking in Janson’s face. “You pack up whatever shit you have and get the hell out of here, and don’t you let me see you in this town or near the mill again or I’ll cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat for you—now, get out of my sight before I beat your ass just for being here.” He stepped back, obviously expecting Janson to leave, but Janson only stared at him. “Did you hear me—get!”

  His voice rose on the last word, his eyes never leaving Janson’s face.

  “You goddamn—” He moved toward Janson again, grabbing him by the front of his coat and trying to drag him closer. Janson reached up to tighten a hand round Buddy’s wrist, twisting, digging his fingers into the exposed flesh at the underside until pain shot across Buddy’s features. Buddy struggled to maintain his grip, then failed, releasing him with a shove that sent Janson back against the tree again. He rubbed at his wrist, his eyes never leaving Janson’s face, his own expression a study in hatred. “You goddamn red nigger, I’ll kill you one day for that. You wait, one day I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Janson only stared at him, then, after a moment, he turned his eyes to the young man who had Nathan Betts’s package. “Give him back his sack,” he said.

  The man looked at him, then back to Buddy Eason. Buddy did not speak, or meet his eyes, but just continued to stare at Janson. After a moment, Nathan reached and took the sack, and it was released without any resistance. Janson turned his eyes back to Buddy Eason, finding nothing but hatred on the man’s face.

  “You’re dead,” Buddy said quietly. “One day—but I’m gonna hurt you first. I’m gonna make you beg to die. I’ll teach you what hell is before I send you there.”

  Janson stepped back up onto the sidewalk, intending to walk around him, but Buddy stepped out of his way.

  “You’re dead—remember that, you red nigger,” Buddy said as Janson walked past. “You’re dead.”

  Chapter Three

  There was a rumble of thunder in the distance as Elise reached the railroad tracks going back into the mill village the last Saturday afternoon in March. She had waited out the storm in Brown’s Grocery on Main Street, sitting in a cane-bottomed straight chair that Mr. Brown had brought out from behind his counter for her, he having refused to allow her to stand while she waited for the rain to slack off. She wanted to make it home before the downpour resumed, so she quickened her pace, going down alongside the loading dock there at the railroad tracks, and starting down the sidewalk before the mill.

  The azalea bushes in the yards of the dayboss houses across from the mill were drooping and wet, their color catching her attention from across the street, and she felt a touch of disappointment as she saw that many of their blooms now lay on the ground, beaten from the plants by the rain. The sidewalk was wet, as were the trees around her, and she felt a drizzle hit her face but had no way of knowing if it was from the branches overhead or from the rain that looked ready to resume at any moment. She knew she could have bought the few things she needed from McCallum’s Grocery there in the village. If she had, she would have long since been home. As the wife of a mill worker, she was supposed to do her buying from the stores the Easons rented out to proprietors there in the village; that was one of the unwritten but well-known rules of village life she had been introduced to early, but one she could not bring herself to follow once she learned that almost anything they might need could be bought for less money from the stores along Main Street.

  Her trips uptown often brought stares and even comments from people on both sides of the tracks, but she did not care. The walks gave her something to do during the days while Janson was asleep, and they allowed her at least a little time away from the incessant noise and lint of the village—and, besides, they gave her a chance to avoid the smelly, tobacco-chewing old men who considered the village stores their domain, sitting around the pot-bellied stove in the cold months, and now, on warmer days, occupying sagging cane-bottomed chairs between the open barrels of pickles and crackers before McCallum’s Grocery, oftentimes spitting tobacco juice on the ground almost at your feet as you passed. The old men seemed to be an accepted part of village life, but one Elise could not get used to. Their streams of tobacco juice made her stomach roll, and their habit of scratching themselves made her want to run away.

  She felt rain spatter her again from the trees overhead, hearing the distant rumble of thunder even over the sound of the mill machinery so close at hand. She could hear voices as she neared the white building that served as the office for the mill, and she saw three boys, none older than eighteen or nineteen, come around the corner of the structure as she neared it, feeling their eyes rake over her only a moment later as they noted her approach.

  “Hey, Buddy, look at her,” one called out as they stopped before the steps that led up to the mill office, blocking the sidewalk as they stared at her.

  “Look at that red-gold hair and them tits—my, oh my—” the one called Buddy said. “That’s a fresh little piece if I ever saw one.”

  She kept looking straight ahead but shifted her grocery sack to her other arm, thinking they would see that she was obviously pregnant and then realize that she was married so they would leave her alone.

  “Somebody’s sure been at her; look at that belly—”

  She felt herself blush to her hairline, but kept walking, telling herself that it would only be a few more steps and she would be past them. Only a few—

  “Hey, I’ve seen her with that red-trash Sanders before, must be his wife—” one of the boys said, and immediately the one named Buddy, who had been standing at the edge of the sidewalk, stepped directly into her path, almost causing her to run up on him before she could stop herself.

  “Sanders?” he said, staring down at her as she took a step back, moving again to block her path as she tried to move past him. “You’re married to that red-nigger?”

  She glanced up at him, but did not answer, trying again to get past him.

  “Answer me—you’re married to Janson Sanders?”

  “Yes, I am—now, let me by—” But he moved to block her path again.

&n
bsp; “What’s a white girl like you doing married to red-nigger trash like him?” he asked, but she would not answer. “Answer me, girl, what’re you doing married to that red-nigger?” He put his hand on her arm but she jerked away, almost dropping her sack of groceries. “Are you scared of white men, or something?” He stepped closer—too close, her mind told her as she tried to push past. “I bet you ain’t never had a real man, have you—now, I’ve got something that could show you what a real man—”

  “Leave me alone!” She tried to pull away, to run. She was shaking so badly that the sack rattled in her hands. She saw people in a yard just down the street, a man passing at the other side of the road, but no one offered to help her.

  “Leave her alone, Buddy. She’s gonna have a baby,” one of the other boys said, seeming to have had enough.

  “That don’t matter. I’ve had them with bellies bigger than this one—right, little mama? Just because you’ve got a baby inside of you don’t mean you don’t need a man between your legs to—” He placed a hand on her stomach, over the baby inside of her, as only Janson had done before. It was not an intimate touch by any standards, but it went beyond intimacy to her. She drew her hand back and slapped him hard, seeing a stunned look come to his face.

  “Keep your hands off me!” she yelled, wishing she had done it earlier.

  “You little bitch!” He grabbed her and shook her hard, sending the sack from her hands and her groceries spilling onto the sidewalk and rolling into the road. Fear filled her, fear for herself and for the baby as well. Her eyes searched for someone, anyone who would help her. The yard down the street was deserted now, and the man just across the road was hurrying on as if nothing was happening within his hearing. “I’m gonna teach you to—”