Through a Glass, Darkly

by Charlotte Miller

  “I saw him myself out behind th’ grocery, looked t’ me like he was goin’ through th’ trash—” one man began, but another cut him off.

  “Probably settin’ the fire even then.”

  “His mama was some kind of Indian; I always heard you couldn’t trust no Indian.”

  “He’d slit your throat as soon as look at you,” Buddy said, turning the bottle up, then wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve before butting into the game going on at the table there, taking the stick from one of the men playing and issuing a challenge to the other—Carl wished that Walter Eason could be here to see his grandson now, Buddy looking so at home as he hustled the little money left in the pockets of unemployed men, Buddy trying to incite violence against a man jailed for something that he himself and his friends had done.

  Buddy the killer.

  “My wife’s brother said he saw ’em arguing—bet’cha he killed old man Brown out there behind the building and drug him inside, and that he set the fire t’ cover it up.”

  “Probably thought it wouldn’t leave no trace of what he’d done—”

  “Somebody like him’s likely t’ do anythin’,” Floyd Goode said, stepping into the conversation. He had been there all along, listening, keeping silent, for he usually had little to do with the other men who frequented the pool hall—or, that is, they usually had little to do with him. He accepted the bottle Buddy held out to him, wiped at the mouth with one grimy hand, then turned it up to drink before handing it back to Buddy. “Damn no good.”

  “Ain’t you got him livin’ on your place?”

  Goode’s small eyes turned on the man who had spoken. “I done it for his wife an’ them young’n’s ’a his. That damn no-account would have let ’em starve before he’d ’a done a lick ’a work to support ’em.”

  “An’ his wife’s a pretty thing, ain’t she Floyd?”

  Goode stared at him for a moment, then broke into a broad grin, showing tobacco-stained teeth in the heavily jowled face. “That don’t hurt none, ya’ know; she might want t’ show her appreciation sometime.”

  “I wouldn’t mind some ‘appreciation’ from her m’self.”

  Buddy’s voice broke over the voices of the other men, bringing silence in the room following the single-word curse he had uttered. He was bent over the pool table, taking his shot, not bringing his eyes to the others, though he commanded attention in the room. “Men like Janson Sanders are what’s wrong with this town. He’s no better than the hobos down at the tracks, robbing folks, bothering the women, a bunch of no-goods just like Sanders that we’re letting take over, and now look at what he’s done. He burned half of town and killed old man Brown, and what do you want to bet that they won’t do anything to him, any more than they’ve done anything to those bums and hobos riding the rails that have set up a shantytown by the tracks.”

  “I lost my store in that fire—they’ll make him pay, or, by God, I will.”

  “Ain’t no jobs now, all them tramps comin’ in an’ takin’ work cheap, then stealin’ us blind behind our backs—”

  “Even more people out of work, ’cause ’a that son-of-a-bitch—”

  “And they’ll let him go,” Buddy said, not taking his eyes from the shot he was about to take. “They’ll let him off, just like they’ll let the hobos off with all they’ve done. Nobody’s safe on the streets now, and soon he’ll be free—”

  “We’ve got t’ make sure he stays locked up,” Goode interrupted, and Carl noted an intensity coming to his voice that had not been there a moment before. “We cain’t have them lettin’ him go—”

  “They ought t’ burn him alive, just like he burned old Mr. Brown—”

  “Lynchin’ ain’t too good for him; I’d like t’ see him chokin’ an’ kickin’ at th’ end of a rope—”

  And, with a sick fear knotting the muscles in his stomach, Carl saw Buddy Eason begin to smile.

  Reverend Satterwhite drove in silence, steering the Chevrolet down the wreck of Main Street. Elise sat, quiet as well, staring out at the gaping, burned-out cavity on the right-hand side of the street, at the people moving among the ruins seeing what was left, the smoke-blackened brick, the charred and destroyed timbers, ashes, blackness—death. Clouds hung low over the street, their bottoms the color of slate, speaking of the rain that was to come. Already the air smelled like wet smoke, feeling heavy around them, but the coming rain would never be able to clean the town of what had taken place here during the night.

  There was nothing left where Brown’s Grocery had stood; even the burned wooden flooring had fallen through. She could not have imagined such utter destruction, having been brought to see Janson earlier in the day along a more circuitous route by Stan in a car he had borrowed to drive her uptown—but she had needed to see this, had needed to see the burned, total destruction that they were accusing Janson of. She and Stan had been able to stay at the jail only a short while that morning, for they had left Sissy alone at the house with the children, and Janson would not allow either of the women to stay at the house alone for long, and both Stan and Janson had refused to allow her to stay at the jail and to walk home later by herself, although Elise had wanted to.

  When the Baptist minister had come to the house to see if there was anything he could do for them, Elise had asked him to take her to see Janson, and he had agreed, though he had seemed reluctant. Henry had cried to come with her, but she left him with his sister, with Stan and Sissy to look after them. She could not bear the thought of the little boy seeing his father behind bars. It was a hard enough thing for Elise to see.

  The Chevrolet slowed to a crawl at the intersection of Main Street and North, several men crossing the way before them as they waited to make the turn. One of the men’s steps slowed as he stared in the front windscreen, and Elise stared back, recognizing a man who had lived near her and Janson in the village.

  “Damn bastard, we ought to set fire to th’ jail with him in it—”

  The words were spoken loudly, deliberately meant to be heard above the noise of the Chevrolet’s engine and the sounds of the slight traffic around them. Elise’s hands tightened in her lap as she stared through the windshield, meeting the man’s eyes, seeing his pace slow even further still as he met her stare—she had seen it this morning, had heard it in the mumbled words of men on the street near the jail, had felt it in the air. The town believed that Janson had killed Mr. Brown and that he had set the fire that had taken half of downtown to cover what he had done. He had been tried and convicted already, tried and convicted over barber chairs and back fences, on street corners where the unemployed gathered, and over coffee among the wealthy at the Main Street Restaurant. Someone had seen him behind the grocery the night before, and another knew of his temper, of the few fights he had been involved in, all of which had been with Buddy Eason—they believed he had been caught breaking into the rear of the grocery, had killed the grocer in a fit of anger, and had dragged the body inside and set the fire. One life had been lost in the fire; others could have been, and Janson’s actions in fighting the fire with the other men last night, even in entering a burning building to help save a man’s life, were forgotten in the heat of their own convictions, the burns he had suffered little but the mark of a man guilty of committing a crime.

  There was a tension in the air as the Chevrolet pulled to the side of the street near the jail, Reverend Satterwhite shutting the engine off and he and Elise getting out of the vehicle—the town felt wrong this afternoon, she thought, looking toward the men who loitered on the nearby street corner. Their eyes were turned to her, and there seemed to be hatred and a self-righteous demand for justice in the stare they directed on both her and the Baptist preacher as they made their way toward the front of the jail. Elise returned their gazes, knowing in that moment that she felt a pure and complete hatred for whoever had set the fire and had killed Mr. Brown, whoever it was that should have
been in that jail instead of Janson.

  Janson was in one of the cells that ran along the left side of the room as they entered the office. She moved toward him, ignoring the police officer at the desk in the office area as he rose at her entrance. Janson came to the cell door, his hands resting on the bars, his eyes on her, one hand finally reaching out to take her own as she came nearer to him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, not giving her the time to speak.

  “I’m fine—are you okay? Did they give you something to eat? Aren’t you cold in there? I could bring your coat—no—” she said, interrupting herself, remembering, biting her lower lip as she stared up into his green eyes. “I’m sorry, I had to throw it out; it was burned so bad—”

  “It’s okay.” He squeezed her hand, bringing a smile to his face, though she knew the smile to be forced.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  There was little way to touch him but to hold his hand. The officer went back to the paperwork on his desk, and Elise knew he was making a deliberate show to let them know they had at least that little privacy. Reverend Satterwhite now stood with his back to them as well, as he carefully examined a wall filled with wanted posters, advertisements, and notices, as if he expected to find one of the church deacons there. She had asked on her earlier trip to be allowed in the jail cell with Janson, even if that meant she would have to be locked in as well, but the officer would not allow it.

  He had apologized even as he explained that there was too much unrest in the town already, too many angry men worried that Janson would try to get away before he could stand trial, that he could not allow them even that small leeway. There had been genuine kindness in the big man’s eyes, a kindness that had convinced Elise that Janson would come to no harm from him, though she now worried about those same angry men herself.

  She tried to talk of the things she had seen in town, the feelings she had observed in so many, to warn him, to make him prepared, but he would not listen. He kept looking at her as she sat in a cane-bottomed straight chair she had pulled up close to the cell, asking her about the children, about Stan and Sissy, telling her his grandparents had come to see him shortly after she had left that morning, asking if Goode had come by the house, and telling her to be careful. “You make sure that Stan stays at th’ house with you. Don’t you let him go do no chores, or t’ go off for anythin’ after it’s gettin’ dark. You make sure he stays right there with you an’ Sissy.”

  “I will.”

  “When Stan came with you this mornin’, I told him t’ get my pa’s shotgun, t’ get it loaded an’ keep it where he can get t’ it—”

  “I don’t really think that’s—”

  “Well, I do—don’t you let Goode in th’ house; you hear me?”

  “Janson—”

  “Promise me.”

  “I won’t let him in the house.”

  All too soon the Baptist minister said they had to leave. She offered to have him go on alone, telling him she could walk the miles home later, but Janson would not allow it. “Go on, Elise. I’ll be fine.”

  “But, I can walk home.”

  “No. I won’t have you walkin’ home by yourself. Go on with th’ preacher.”

  She tried to kiss him, barely able to touch his lips with her own through the bars that separated them, realizing suddenly that she was about to cry.

  “It’s all right, Elise. Everything’s gonna be fine,” Janson said quietly, looking down at her, reaching to touch her cheek.

  “I know,” she said quietly, unable to take her eyes from him, afraid almost that once she left she might never see him again.

  “Mrs. Sanders, we need to—” the minister began, coming toward her.

  “Okay—” The whispered violence of the word stilled the minister’s voice and he moved away, toward the door, putting on his hat and buttoning his coat about him.

  “Hug Henry for me, an’ give Catherine a kiss from her pa; tell ’em I’ll be home in a few days.”

  “Henry wanted to come with me,” she heard herself saying, even before she thought.

  “No—I won’t have him seein’ me here, like this.”

  She nodded, unable to speak, then reached up to place her hand over his where it rested at her cheek. “The burns, are they all right?” she asked, after a moment, swallowing back tears and forcing calm into her voice.

  “They’re fine. I can hardly feel them anymore.” He moved his free arm, as if to show her the truth in his words, and she watched as he bit back a grimace of pain and turned it into a forced, uncomfortable smile. “Wasn’t as bad as it looked, I guess.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” She managed a real smile at his pretense and felt better at the genuine one that touched his own lips. “Maybe they’ll at least let me look after your arm next time I come, tomorrow morning. I’ll bring some salve, and fresh bandages.”

  “Maybe.” There wasn’t much hope in his voice.

  “Mrs. Sanders—”

  “Okay—” she snapped at the minister, and felt immediately sorry. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.”

  He nodded, not even turning to look at her, and went on out to wait by the car.

  Janson smiled. “You sleep good tonight.”

  “Not without you there—”

  But he only looked at her for a moment.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded and she reached to touch his face, the bristly light growth of whiskers along his sharp cheekbone and against the angle of his jaw, and she realized he had not even had time to shave that morning before they had taken him away.

  “I’ll bring your razor, if they’ll let me,” she promised, not wanting to leave.

  He smiled. “Go on; I’ll be fine.”

  She drew her hand back from his face, touching the remembered warmth of his skin to her cheek, and turned away.

  She did not want him to see her cry.

  The two rooms of the little house were unbearably quiet that night, over Catherine’s crying and Henry’s loud non-talk as he played, Sissy’s soft singing and Stan’s reading aloud. Elise’s ears strained, listening for the creak of the rocker where Janson always sat, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his rare laughter. She wondered if he was warm, wondered if they had brought him supper, wondered if he had enough blankets, and if they might allow her to bring him a quilt. She worried over his burns, gathering already the things she would need to doctor them, ready to do battle with the police themselves, if she had to, to see to his arm where the burns were the worst. She hadn’t even had the chance yet to trim his singed hair.

  She stood for a long time, staring at the scissors in her hand, thinking that Janson had needed a haircut anyway, and remembering all times she had cut his hair, the feel of it between her fingers, and his understanding smile after the first haircut she had ever given him those years before, the haircut that had left his hair so ragged that he’d had to even it out himself later, hoping that she would never know—but, she had known, allowing him to keep his masculine vanity even as he tried not to injure the flailing self-confidence of the new wife she had been then. She put the scissors down and moved to sit in Janson’s big, straight-backed rocker, setting it in motion on the wide floorboards, comforted by its familiar creak in the little house that now felt so empty. She had put Henry and Catherine to bed already in the next room. Sissy sat sewing quietly now by the fire, and Stan was outside getting wood from the pile by the back door, leaving a silence in the house that seemed almost to seep into her.

  Her eyes moved around the room, over the false gaiety of the Christmas tree they had put up a few days before, her mind registering with a degree of shock that not only was it less than a week before Christmas, but that Janson would likely not be home to spend the day with her and the children unless they could so
mehow find out who had done these things before then. She drew her sweater closer about her shoulders, chill in the lonely room, the house feeling empty and deserted about her, though her children slept in the next room, though her brother was just outside, and Sissy only the narrow distance of the room away from her. Janson had almost been taken from her once before, when her father and brother had both tried to kill him, and a fear sat within her now as she rocked that he might really be taken from her this time.

  This night did not feel right.

  This town did not feel right.

  And the fear would not leave her.

  It was somewhere late in the night, the world outside the small police station silent except for the sound of a motor car going along the street outside. Janson lay on his back on the hard bunk, staring up at the dark ceiling overhead. A police officer slept, leaned back in a chair near the cast-iron heater in the office, while the cells lay quiet except for the sounds of the man’s snores and of Janson’s own breathing. Worry filed his mind, filled the cell, denied him sleep. Elise was at the small house. Elise was on Goode’s property. And he did not trust the man.

  He should have told her to take the children and Sissy and go to his Gran’pa’s. Stan could do the little work required of them to keep the house on Goode’s property, and could have Sissy’s help during the days in order to get it done—but Elise, Sissy, and the children would not spend another night on Goode’s land until Janson was home. He would make sure of it.

  Janson lay quiet, staring at the ceiling, hearing the officer’s snores, the worry increasing, growing as the minutes ticked by and the night moved past—there was a bad feeling in the air tonight, he told himself. A very bad feeling.