Through a Glass, Darkly

by Charlotte Miller

  “What’s wrong? Is my slip showing or something?” she asked, trying to smile, failing miserably.

  “That’s what I want t’ know—what’s wrong, Elise?” he asked, staring at her, his green eyes on hers with an intensity she realized she had not felt since the last time she had tried to lie to him.

  “I know you, an’ you ain’t actin’ like yourself. What’s th’ matter?”

  She got up from the chair she had pulled over close to the cell, and moved away, wanting to make certain he could not read her face. She heard him rise from the bunk within the cell behind her. “Nothing’s the matter. I guess I’m just nervous, seeing you here like this.”

  “That ain’t it.”

  She turned back, finding him leaning against the cell door, staring at her. “Of course it is. What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know, but I aim t’ find out.”

  “What makes you think there’s something wrong? What could be wrong, other than you being in here?”

  “You ought t’ know you cain’t lie t’ me; I know you too good. I been married to you for three years now, have loved you longer than that, shared a bed with you—I know you, an’ I know when somethin’s wrong—”

  “There’s nothing wrong!” She was upset, and becoming more so—it showed in her voice now and she knew it. “I—I just wanted to spend time with you, and you keep—”

  “Come here,” he demanded, cutting off her words and looking at her through the cell door.

  “Janson, I—”

  “Come here,” he demanded again, and she could not help but to obey, moving to him slowly, almost reluctantly. He reached through the bars and took her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers and gently squeezing. “You tell me th’ truth,” he said, more quietly.

  “I am. I—” She immediately disentangled her fingers from his—she could not lie to him, not like this.

  She tried to turn away but he drew her back, taking her arm to gently pull her up against the bars, as close to him as he possibly could. He touched her hair, her face, then rested both hands at her cheeks, holding her eyes turned to his and making her look at him.

  “I want th’ truth, an’ I want it right now,” he said softly, with a finality that frightened her with its import. She began to cry, but still he would not release her.

  Like water from a burst dam, the words started to come out of her. She pulled away from him and turned her back, unable to reveal what Floyd Goode had tried to do while she was looking into his face. She told him how Goode had hurt Henry, of the stabbing, of the shotgun blast through the ceiling, of how the family hurriedly packed up and moved to his grandparents’ house, at last turning to find him straining against the bars, the hand of his good arm gripping the metal so tightly that the tendons stood out in his forearm below his rolled-up sleeve, pain and rage in the green eyes she knew so well.

  “Is Henry okay?” he asked, his jaw clenched so tightly she could hardly understand the words.

  “He’s fine. He has a bruise on his face, but he’s okay—”

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked, cutting off her words.

  “I’m fine—”

  “And Catherine—”

  “The noise woke her up and frightened her, but that was all—”

  For a moment there was absolute silence, then Janson’s voice came again. “I’m gonna kill that son-of-a-bitch.” The words were quiet, no violence in them, just a stilled, deadly rage.

  “No—Janson, you can’t—you—”

  “I can, an’ I will—for what he done t’ Henry, what he tried t’ do t’ you. He’s dead when I get outta here—”

  The tears streamed down her face, even harder than before. “No—I can’t have you back in here again! I won’t have you in jail for—”

  “For doin’ what I got t’ do?” Anger came into his voice, rage breaking to the surface. He shook the cell door, furious at the bars that held him in while his family had been hurt.

  “No—” She broke completely, crying hard, having to hold onto the cell door for support, his arm reaching out, his hand now beneath her elbow to keep her on her feet, a worried expression coming into his eyes. “I—I couldn’t live without you. They have to let you go this time because you didn’t do it, you didn’t kill Mr. Brown or set the fire, but if you kill Goode they’ll lock you away for good.” She was crying so hard that she knew the words were hardly intelligible. “No—I can’t face living if you’re in here. No—it was all my fault. You told me—I should have known; I should never have sent Stan and Sissy with him—so stupid. I was so stupid—”

  “No, Elise—please stop crying. I won’t do it, not if it does this t’ you—please, don’t cry. Please—I cain’t stand seein’ you cry—”

  “Promise me,” she said, looking up at him through tear-clouded eyes, seeing the worried expression on his face.

  “I—I promise,” reluctantly drawn from him, but she knew he had given his word. He would never break it. “I won’t kill him—”

  She leaned against the cell door for support, breathing deeply and trying to calm the trembling within her.

  “It weren’t your fault, Elise—it was mine. I knew what kind’a man Goode was, an’ I still took you there t’—”

  “No—I should have known. You warned me. You told me to make sure Stan stayed with us, but I sent him off. I was so stupid—”

  “Goode’ll pay for what he done—”

  She looked up quickly. “You promised you wouldn’t—”

  “I said I won’t kill him,” Janson said, refusing to meet her eyes, and she found that she could not ask, did not want to know.

  “Just be careful,” she said, afraid of what could happen to him when he was released. They would have to learn soon that Janson had not done what they had accused him of doing, and then they would set him free—but he could end up back in jail, or hurt, or—

  “Please, be careful—” was all she could say, holding on to him for the time they had left.

  In the pool room after darkness fell that night, one voice raised above another, shouting to be heard. Liquor was flowing freely; Buddy Eason had seen to that, as had Floyd Goode—the two stood at opposite sides near the front of the pool room, watching, waiting, seeing the rage building within those present in the crowded, smoky room. There were men here tonight who had never set foot in the pool room before, faces Carl Miles had rarely seen in town—and, though he knew what was happening, knew what would happen, he could do nothing but sit on a stool at the side of the door and watch the others, unable to make himself move, unable to make himself speak or even rise to leave.

  “Goddamn bastard—I saw that wife ’a his drivin’ a wagon out ’a town this mornin’ with all their furniture loaded on it. Probably waitin’ for him just outside ’a town—”

  “She’s over at th’ jail right now; been there for hours—”

  “Plottin’ his escapin’, I’d say—”

  “That bitch is just as bad as he is,” Goode said, shouting to be heard above the others. He moved between men standing at the tables, making his way toward the center of the room, then turning to let his eyes move over the others. “Went t’ collect my rent from her last night; figured they wouldn’t pay it with him locked up. They was already packed up even then, ready t’ leave—she met me at th’ door with a knife an’ had a shotgun right there—” Voices raised to cut him off, but he lifted an arm for silence, holding the other at a peculiar angle, close against his body, as he had been doing all evening. “We ought t’ run her an’ them colored brats outta th’ county, an’ then go int’ th’ jail an’ drag him out—”

  “A rope ain’t too good for him—”

  “Yeah, we ought t’ hang him—”

  “Ought t’ get rid ’a th’ whole lot ’a them, includin’ them niggers an’ hobos down by th’ tracks, too—”
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  “Ain’t no work now—”

  “Goddamn half breed—”

  “I knowed it wouldn’t come t’ no good with a white marryin’ a Indian gal. Indian or nigger, colored is colored, an’ you can’t trust any of ’em. I wouldn’t doubt they kilt ol’ Henry, too—”

  “Son-of-a-bitch, he’s gonna pay for what he done, killin’ old man Brown, burnin’ half ’a town—”

  “I catch him outside ’a that jail, an’ I’ll break his goddamn neck for him—”

  Buddy stood to one side of the shouting crowd, a peculiar look to his gray eyes. He watched the others, keeping silent until the fervor threatened to die, then shouting loudly of the need for justice to be served, a look of satisfaction coming to his face when the shouting was again taken up. Carl watched him, as frightened as in the moment he realized old Mr. Brown was dead in the Grocery just before the fire, watched him and Richard as well, who seemed a part of all this. Richard shouted just as Buddy did, just as did many of the others, but his shouts were forced, strained—he knew, as did Carl. They both knew. Buddy wanted Janson Sanders dead before the truth could come out, and, if this angry mob had its way, Sanders would likely be dead before this night was over.

  “I say we get a rope an’ hang him—”

  “Drag him outta th’ jail an’ string him up!”

  “Clean out aroun’ th’ tracks, too—”

  “Yeah—get rid ’a all of ’em—”

  There seemed a surge building, moving toward the door. Carl found himself on his feet at last, moving, yelling, stepping into the path of the mob. “Stop! No! This is wrong!” He stood, his arms outstretched, as if he could block them within the building with his presence in the doorway alone.

  “Wrong t’ give him what he was askin’ for—burnin’ half ’a downtown, killin’ Mr. Brown—”

  “He—we don’t know he did it!” Carl shouted, trying to make himself heard over the mob.

  “Like hell we don’t. Move outta th’ way, boy—”

  “Gonna get rid ’a them tramps, too—”

  “If you ain’t man enough t’ do what needs t’ be done, then get out ’a our way an’ let us do it—”

  “Yeah!” There were shouts from the corners of the room, and the mob surged toward him.

  “Stop! Wait! This is wrong! You can’t kill an innocent man!” Carl himself was shouting now, trying to be heard, realizing he was shaking as he stood staring at the mob.

  “Innocent, my ass!”

  “He done it—move boy!”

  “Move, Carl—”

  “Get him outta th’ way!”

  “This is crazy! You can’t do this!” He backed up, toward the door, refusing to be quietened even as the other men yelled for his silence. “You can’t—”

  “Move, Carl—” It was Buddy’s voice, Buddy standing directly before him, not angry and incited as the others were, but certain of what he was doing, his eyes never leaving Carl’s face.

  “This is wrong,” Carl pleaded, his voice quieter. “Buddy, please—”

  “Move, Carl, or we’ll go right through you—”

  Carl stood for a moment, hearing the words, but unable to do anything more until he was shoved aside, the mob pouring out the door beside him. He caught sight of Richard’s face, grim, determined, and scared to death—but he was going along with it. He would watch them hang an innocent man for something Buddy and he and Richard had done. Carl felt sick. His knees shook, and his heart thudded dully in his chest as he stood there—wrong—wrong—wrong—

  He found himself moving, following the mob that flowed from the sidewalk and down into the street. Lanterns were being taken from the back of a truck, from under a tarp, the sight of a rope there, and Carl realized with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was the truck that Buddy had driven up in. He had been prepared. Oh, God, he had been prepared.

  Carl stumbled after the others, seeing one group split off and get into trucks to go toward the depot, toward the railroad tracks, toward the shanties and shacks where bums and transients slept, where entire families, robbed of their homes because of unemployment and hard times, lived a bare existence in drafty, unheated shacks. The other arm of the mob surged toward Main and the lower half of North Street where the police station and jail stood.

  The mob was growing, men attracted by the lanterns, by the shouts and curses, by the raw surge of violence joined, some taking up the shouting, others, appalled, following, trying to shout above the rest and be heard.

  But there was no hearing. The men were tired of long months of no work, no money, no hope. After losses of homes and businesses. After seeing money lost in the stock market, in the bank failure, after seeing half of the downtown area burn—there was no hearing. There was only a mad, insane hunger for blood.

  Elise had been about to leave when the sound of voices reached the jail. That sound had grown closer, and she stood now holding Janson’s hand through the cell door—she was frightened. Janson could see it in her eyes. It was a look he had hoped never to see there again.

  There were shouts from the street, the sound of his name, curses. Gran’pa moved to the window, staring out, his face old and tired in a way that Janson had never seen before. Gran’pa’s eyes moved to the young policeman who had been left with them, and they exchanged a look, then the young officer moved to the phone that sat on the desk in the office area as Janson brought his eyes back to Elise.

  “It’ll be all right,” he told her quietly, knowing that it was a lie, and knowing that she knew it.

  “Yes—it—it’ll be fine—” She looked at him and away, toward the door, toward the voices growing louder outside. She held his hand so tightly that it hurt, but he welcomed the feel of her nails in his flesh—he was afraid as well. Common sense told him that he could die tonight if the mob coming nearer the police station had their way. He could die for something someone else had done. He could die, not see Elise again, not watch his children grow up, not see his land, not—

  “I ain’t done nothin’—” He whispered the words, to himself, to the world, to Elise who stood with him, the bars of the cell keeping them apart even as he watched the young officer go to the door and out, Gran’pa following only a moment later, the door closing behind them.

  Her eyes met his, bright now with tears that he knew she would not shed. “I know.” Her voice was soft, a forced smile touching her lips. “It’ll be all right. It’ll—” Her words stopped and her eyes turned away as she fought the tears—she knew. Little could be done against so many.

  All false pretenses of safety, of security, were gone between them. He knew there was no need to make empty assurances to her, no need to say words they both knew could be untrue. “If they—if I don’t make it home—hug Henry an’ Catherine for me. Tell Henry t’ be a good boy, an’ you make him mind. He’s headstrong, like his pa.” He smiled, seeing her tear-bright eyes turned to his, the wetness moving down her cheeks now. “You tell him I said for him t’ behave. I want him t’ grow up t’ be a good man, a strong man, an’ I want him t’ work for th’ land if he wants it, so that he’ll have it for his children someday—”

  “Janson, I—”

  “Tell him.” His voice rose.

  “I—I will.” Her voice broke. She held to the bars of the cell with her free hand, swaying slightly on her feet.

  Oh, God—don’t let her faint, he prayed silently. He watched her for a moment, watched her until she seemed more steady, then spoke again. “An’ Catherine, she’s pretty, just like you—you tell her I said that about her when she gets older. She’ll have all th’ boys heads turnin’, but you watch ’em. Don’t let her get with th’ wrong sort. Boys have got t’ be watched; I know how I was.”

  She managed a forced smile, swaying again on her feet.

  “I want ’em both t’ finish school, college, too, if they’ve a mind t
’. They’ll have t’ work for it, for th’ money, but they can do it. My young’ns are gonna read an’ write just as good as anybody, you hear me—”

  She nodded, wiping at her tears with the back of the hand she took from the bars, and then returned it there for support.

  “An’ you, you’ll be all right. You’re strong, stronger ’n me. You can go it alone. I never could; I could never live if I lost you—but you can, an’ you will—” She shook her head violently, and he released her hand to draw her closer, her face between his hands. “You will—I want you t’ find somebody else, get married, have more children—”

  “No—!” Violence from her in the word as he had rarely heard before. She pulled away to stand staring at him, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “I’m your wife!”

  “But, if I’m gone—”

  “No!”

  “I don’t want you livin’ th’ rest ’a your life out alone—” The noise from outside, so close to the building now, silenced him for a moment, and they stood staring at each other. “I don’t want us t’ fight,” he begged softly.

  “I love you.” The words came out in a rush, the feeling. “You said it wasn’t ’til death do us part’—you said it—” She would not come to him even as he reached out of the cell for her. She moved across the room, to the window and stood staring out, trembling, he could tell even from that distance. He could see the light of lanterns moving against the front window beyond her as she clutched her sweater closer.

  “Elise—”

  She looked at him, then back out the window, toward the sound that now seemed to be right before the building. He fell silent, looking at her, knowing that look might have to last him an eternity. She straightened her back, staring out the window, and, with a stiff, determined set to her shoulders, she moved toward the door.

  “No!” He shouted, panic filling him and causing him to shove against the bars abruptly. “Don’t go out there!”