There was nothing but silence for a moment. “You an’ Henry—because of th’ talk about Sissy?”
She didn’t want to tell him, to have him know the things other people said—she could remember her own mother’s words, well over a year before now, when her father had interceded to keep her and Janson from running away together the first time they had tried: “. . . he’s only half white, Elise, do you realize what it would be like married to a colored . . .”
But she shook the thought away, watching his green eyes as they moved over her face. She had never once regretted leaving with him, and she knew she did not regret it now.
He knelt before her and took both her hands in his, looking up at her, waiting.
“Dorrie said Helene told her that she didn’t think Henry and I should be attending a ‘white’ church, because you’re part Cherokee, and Henry is, too,” she told him at last, then felt his hands clench tightly on her own.
He released her immediately, as if he knew his grip hurt her. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Elise wondered if the words were for the pain he had caused, or because of what Helene Price had said. He sat on the bed beside her.
“Do you think Sissy ought to go back to the country to stay with your grandparents?” she asked, feeling the need to change the subject. “At least there she could go back to school, and she would be away from all the talk.”
“No, she cain’t do that,” he said. “If she leaves th’ mill village, th’ rumors won’t never stop. She’s got t’ stay an’ face it down; at least that way people’ll see soon she ain’t gonna have no baby.”
She nodded, then stood up from the bed. “I’ll go check on your dinner. And you’ve got to get some sleep. You have a shift tonight, and you’re supposed to work straight through another double.”
She left Janson sitting in silence on their bed.
The things she had told him stayed with Janson when he laid down after he had eaten what she had prepared for him, taking from him a much-needed sleep before the double he started that night at ten. Those sixteen hours seemed to drag by more slowly than any he could remember in the mill, and the dullness he felt from the lack of sleep almost caused him to get caught in a card twice during the night as he was stripping it of cotton dust. He thought about Sissy and the lies that had been told about her—but his mind kept returning to Elise and to a growing worry that she might somehow think differently of him now because of the opinions of people like Helene Price.
By the time he left the mill at two on Saturday afternoon he was exhausted. He walked home over the dusty village streets, certain that he was too tired even to eat—but Elise had dinner waiting for him. Gran’ma and Gran’pa were there, the first look at Gran’ma’s face telling Janson all he needed to know as to the reason for the visit—the rumors about Sissy had reached the country and her ears as well.
Janson readied himself for an argument, certain Gran’ma would tell Sissy to pack her bags to come home with them, but Gran’ma said instead, “You hold your head high an’ show them folks th’ kind ’a girl you are—you ain’t got nothin’ t’ be ’shamed of, not like them folks that’s totin’ lies about you.”
Janson picked at the dinner Elise placed before him, then went on to bed even though his grandparents were still in the house. He lay for a time staring at the filtered sunlight that played across the ceiling, but soon fell into a sleep so sound that he never even knew when Tom and Deborah Sanders left the house.
He awoke that night as Elise was getting into bed with him. The house was quiet around them, the rooms dark. She came into his arms easily on the cotton mattress that he had bought for her just before Henry had been born, whispering quietly: “Henry and Sissy are both asleep,” just before her mouth came to his.
He finally slept again just before dawn. Afterwards, he had lain in the darkness watching her as she slept, feeling the warmth of her body against his, until sleep had finally taken him as well. It was fully daylight when he woke again to the smell of strong coffee and frying bacon. He got up and pulled on his underdrawers and nightshirt, then made his way through the middle room of the house and into the kitchen to find Elise at the old woodstove.
She turned to look at him, then quickly back to her cooking as she tried to turn over a piece of bacon with a fork, jerking her hand back quickly and dropping the strip over the edge of the skillet as grease popped her skin.
“I’ve ironed your best shirt and trousers,” she said absently, cautiously poking the bacon back into the skillet and then shaking the hand that had been popped. “As soon as you’ve eaten, I’ll fix a bath for you. I’ve already got water warming on the stove—”
He could only look at her, not comprehending.
“We’re going to church together,” she said, “you, me, Henry, and Sissy, as a family.”
They walked into the Baptist church just after the offering plate had been passed. The choir was just finishing their hymn, as usual more loud than in tune, when Janson and Elise entered, Henry in Elise’s arms, and Sissy just behind them. Elise stood in the rear doorway, looking over the congregation, keeping Janson and Sissy from moving forward until a number of the church members turned to look at them, then she put her free hand on Janson’s arm and walked at his side down the main aisle. The back pews were almost completely filled, and that suited her—she had intended to sit at the front anyway so no one could miss them.
Shortly after they had settled on the second pew on the right hand side, Tim Cauthen got up and came to join them, settling down at Sissy’s side and bringing the girl’s eyes to him. Elise could hear the hushed exchange that took place between James and Irene Cauthen a number of rows away, then she reached out to take Janson’s hand and smile up at him as the preacher began his sermon.
“First Corinthians, Chapter 13 tells us: ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
“ ‘And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing . . .’ ”
When the sermon was finished the congregation sang and the invitation went out over verses of “Just As I Am.” The services ended and they rose and made their way toward the back of the church and out the doors, the preacher, standing on the top step that led down to the street, shaking first Elise’s hand, then Janson’s as he came out just behind her with Henry in his arms. “Mr. Sanders, it was good to have you with us this morning. I hope you join us again next Sunday,” Reverend Satterwhite said, a genuine smile on his face, then turned to shake Tim’s, then Sissy’s, hand, the warmth remaining in his voice as he spoke to both of them. Elise could not listen to him, however, for the words she could hear, just to one side, where Helene Price stood whispering to another woman on the church steps.
“Of all the nerve, bringing that little trollop back to church after she was put out of school just the other day—” she said, obviously intending for her words to be overheard. “And that husband of hers—in my day colored people knew where they belonged, and they stayed there. And what kind of woman is she, anyway, to have intermarried with a—”
Elise turned on her, fury in her voice, her hands clenched at her sides. “If you have something to say about me, I’ll thank you to say it to my face and not behind my back.”
Helene stared at her, anger coming to her face—not because she had been overheard, for Elise knew she had intended herself to be overheard, but because Elise had dared to call her on what she had said. “Young lady, I’ll thank you not to address me in that tone of voice.”
“I’ll address you any way I please, you gossiping old cat,” Elise said, rewarded by the sharp intake of breath that came out of Helene Price’s suddenly red face.
For a moment the woman looked as if she would choke on the words that so o
bviously wanted to come forth, then she stiffened her back, and Elise knew she was trying to summon some dignity about her stout frame stuffed into its slightly too-small dress. Helene turned to the woman beside her, remarking as she took the woman’s arm and turned away, “Trash always shows,” obviously intent on leaving as she stepped down onto a lower step.
“Yes, it certainly does,” Elise said, which caused another sharp intake of breath and which brought Helene up short and turned her back to glare up at Elise.
“How dare you—!” Helene flustered.
“You self-important old hen—you’re not any better than anyone else in this church, and neither is that daughter of yours, no matter what you think. The two of you have tried to ruin a girl’s life, and you’ve done it deliberately. You’ve gossiped about me and my husband and my family—where I come from they would have run you out of town.” She was shaking now, she was so furious, and she tried to make herself calm down. Janson was standing beside her, one arm around her waist. The minister was coming down the steps to move in between them, as if he thought the two women would soon resort to blows.
“Now, please, ladies—”
“Well, what can you expect from white trash married to a colored—” Helene began, and Elise opened her mouth to respond, but Janson spoke instead.
“That’s enough, Elise,” he said, and she looked up at him. Bert Price was suddenly there as well, hurrying from where he had pulled his Chevrolet up before the front steps of the church.
“That was unforgivable, Helen—get in the car, now,” he said, the first time Elise had ever heard him raise his voice to his wife. When Helene did not immediately move, he came up the few steps to her and repeated. “Get in the car, Helen—” and she began to move away with him. Elise could hear him still after he had gotten her into the car and slammed the door, then gone around to get in on his own side. “Why on earth would you say such a thing to that girl—”
But she only snapped out: “Don’t call me Helen,” as a response, then turned to stare straight ahead, not meeting the eyes of anyone left standing on the church steps.
“It really was the most appalling behavior,” Helene Price said as she sat in Walter Eason’s office there at the mill the next morning. “The things she said to me—why I never!”
She sat in the heavy armchair before Walter’s desk, her hands folded over the too-large beige purse in her lap, her legs crossed primly at the ankles and tucked to one side beneath the chair. Her dress was drab, straight and shapeless, as was she, and her beige cloche hat was pulled low over her head with only a few well-planned locks of brown hair escaping onto her forehead, brown hair that was just too brown to be the authentic color.
“Really, Mr. Eason, I hated to have to come to you with this, but I knew you would want to know, especially since that—that husband of hers—is one of your people—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Price.” Walter rose from his chair and stood looking at her. She seemed to sense the dismissal for what it was, for she gathered her gloves and purse and rose as well, then made her way quietly from the room. He watched her go, until the heavy wooden door closed after her, then stood there, staring at the polished surface, thinking—he had known she would come to him today; he had known that from the first report he had received of what had happened before the Baptist church there in the village the previous morning. She was not the first to tell him—she rarely was—but she always came just the same, even in the times when she had not been directly involved in what had happened. She thought it was her responsibility to keep him informed of the things that happened in the mill village. She was not the most trustworthy of sources, as he had well learned in the past.
This morning he had no doubt that her story was tinged with dislike, and perhaps with even more, but he knew it to be basically true—Janson Sanders’s wife had caused a disturbance before the Baptist church just after services the previous day. There was some connection to stories circulating about Sanders’s cousin, Sissy, a pretty girl who Walter had been told was “not quite right,” concerning the fact that she had managed to get herself with child even though she had no husband. Mrs. Cunningham had told the girl she could not return to the village school, and Walter was in total agreement with that decision—a girl like that had no place in the village, much less in the school where she could be a bad influence on the impressionable young girls who would one day grow up to be the workers, mothers, and wives in the village.
Janson Sanders apparently could not control the womenfolk in his family, not that alley cat of a cousin of his, or even his own wife—Walter had little doubt that Helene Price had been spreading gossip, just as Elise Sanders had accused her of doing, for he knew that Helene could be one of the worse gossips in the village. But he could not approve of any woman, Janson Sanders’s wife included, making a spectacle of herself as she had done before a village church. Women were supposed to be seen and not heard, in church and elsewhere, and such outspoken behavior, even when provoked, was unacceptable from a woman—something would have to be done. Walter could not have a girl like Sissy Sanders in the village, a girl with no morals and who had a child on the way and no husband. Moreover, he would not have it.
He walked out of his office and into the secretary’s area, then opened the door to his son’s office without knocking and entered, leaving the door open behind him.
Walt looked up from the papers he had been reading, his brow furrowed, a look of anger coming to his face, Walter knew, because he had been interrupted without warning. Walter stared at his son for a long moment, spoke to him briefly, then left the room. The words he had said had left Walt looking puzzled, but vaguely pleased: “Send someone over to Kirk Street; have them bring back Janson Sanders, his wife, and that girl, Sissy—I don’t care if he’s asleep, have his wife wake him up. I want them here in an hour.”
Grace Taylor sat behind her desk later that morning, unable to work for the sounds coming from the sniffling girl who sat nearby staring at Walter Eason’s closed office door—at least she told herself that was the reason she could not work. There was such pity within her for the crying, frightened girl that she could think of little else other than wanting to help her.
Sissy Sanders was a sweet, pretty child, and the rumors Grace had heard, that it seemed by now everyone had heard, could not be true. There was an innocence about Sissy that in some other girl might make her fall victim to some man bent on no good—but she was Deborah Sanders’s granddaughter, and Grace knew the old woman herself had raised the girl. Deborah Sanders would have reared her with morals and Holiness teachings for a backbone, and Grace knew the girl would never have strayed from that upbringing.
Sissy sat in the heavy, leather chair closest to the office door, a chair that dwarfed her because of its massive size, leaving her feet not even touching the floor, and making her look in Grace’s eyes as if she were much younger than her fourteen or so years. She sat crying and unconsciously rocking back and forth as she waited for Janson and Elise Sanders to come out of that room, or for herself to be called back into it. She had been sent out after she had been told stories about herself, stories that had to be lies, and she had begun to cry—that terrible, white-haired old gentleman had frightened her, and she wanted now only to go home. Grace knew that and she sympathized. That old gentleman had scared the hell out of her enough times.
There were sounds of voices, muffled behind the door, interruptions of telephone calls, and once the day boss of the weave shed came in with urgent business for old Mr. Walter—but still Grace could not forget the crying child who sat staring at that closed door. It was not the sound of the sniffles or sobs, or the hiccups that had finally come with the crying—it was a debt owed that kept Grace’s mind occupied.
It had been years before when she had gone to see the old healer out in the country. She had been told her husband was dying, and had believed that Deborah Sanders and her faith could brin
g a miracle—there had been no miracle, but Deborah had stayed with her, and had sat by Jacob’s bed on many nights so Grace could rest, and had been with them when the end had at last come.
Deborah Sanders had been so kind that Grace could not forget it all these years later—the old woman would want to know what was happening with her granddaughter, the things that had been said to and about Sissy today. Janson and Elise Sanders had enough to worry about in thinking of themselves from what Grace had seen and heard—the girl needed her grandmother, and her grandmother had the right to know.
Grace sat for a moment looking at the crying girl, then she reached for the telephone on her desk, clicked for the operator, and asked to be connected to the home of the family that owned the land that Deborah Sanders and her family sharecropped—she could only be fired once, Grace told herself, listening to the dull sound on the other end of that line as she waited. She could only be fired once.
It seemed to Janson that he had been sitting in Walter Eason’s office for hours, waiting for the old man to finish with his telephone calls and the other interruptions that had come through. Janson was tired and angry, having been awakened from a sound sleep only to be ordered here with Elise and Sissy, with barely enough time to get dressed and to take Henry by to stay with Dorrie.
Elise sat beside him, her eyes straying to the closed door—Janson knew she was thinking of Sissy, as he had been, since the outburst of crying that had caused the girl to be sent from the room. She had not known until then exactly what was being said about her, and Janson knew she still did not understand, as any unmarried girl her age should not have understood, more than to know that she was being accused of doing things she had not done, and that somehow this old man thought she was going to have a baby.
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