She turned to look at him, and he could almost feel the blood stop inside of him at the stubborn determination in her face. “I can’t just stay in here and do nothing!”
“You’ll get hurt—they’re crazy; they could do anythin’! In here, at least you’re safe, an’ if they come in—”
“But, you’re—”
“That doesn’t matter! You can’t go out there—no!” he shouted, shaking the bars in his hands as she reached for the doorknob. “You’re my wife! You’re suppose to obey me—I ain’t never told you t’ obey me before, but I’m tellin’ you now! Don’t go out there!”
She looked at him for a moment, and her chin raised with a look that reminded him painfully of the confrontations they’d had when they first met, all the times she had never listened to him. “I’m not just going to stand aside and let them come in here and beat you or hurt you or lynch you or whatever they intend to do—I will not—” she said, stressing the last two words with a stubbornness that made her for a moment look so much younger than her less than twenty years. “I will not,” she said again, then turned to the door, twisted the knob, and started out.
Elise stood staring at men as Janson’s gran’pa and the young policeman both moved closer to her. She could hear their words, Gran’pa telling her to go back inside, just as Janson had done, and the officer telling her that help was coming, but she could not listen. She stood, staring at faces in the sharp contrast of shadows and light provided by the street lamps and the windows behind her, as well as the lanterns held in the hands of many of the men. She heard the curses, heard the names hurled at both her and Janson. She looked at faces, silently meeting eyes, staring men down until many grew quieter. So many were familiar—Buddy Eason, loud, demanding; Floyd Goode, staring at her with hatred; a man who had worked in the card room with Janson, another the husband of a woman she had done sewing for; faces she knew.
Shame came to some as she stared, anger and hatred remained on others. A few began to move away. The crowd grew quieter and a voice was raised in a call to disband, for everyone to return home, but someone yelled the voice down, silencing the man’s words, and the voice of the mob rose again. There was an orange glow on the horizon, from the direction of the tracks, and the town fire siren began to wail—the transients, the homeless people, they were burning them out, she knew suddenly with intuition born of fear. The mob moved forward, urged on by voices from the back, and the young policeman was shouting something, discharging a gun into the air, but neither Elise nor the men seemed able to hear him above the sound of the fire siren and the shouts and curses around them. They moved forward again, Buddy Eason at the front, and Elise stepped directly into his path to stand staring up at him even as her hands shook at her sides.
“Get out of the way, bitch,” Buddy said, staring down at her. She could feel Janson’s gran’pa at her side, but still she could not keep the trembling from her body.
“You’ll have to kill me before I’ll let you in there, and I don’t think even many of you are animals enough to harm a woman.”
“Damn bitch—git her outta th’ way—” someone shouted from the rear of the group, but the other men were growing silent now, staring at her. When the crowd did not surge forward, Buddy shouted:
“You’re not going to let some woman stop you, are you?!” He turned to face the other men, shouting to make certain he was heard. “Her husband killed old man Brown and burned half the town—are you going to let him get away with it? She was probably in it with him. Are you worried what some woman says?!”
The men began to stir again toward the building. Voices raised anew, shouts, threats.
“Get outta th’ way, lady—we don’t want t’ hurt no woman—”
“She’s just tryin’ to protect him—”
“She’s no better than he is—and you can’t let her stop us from giving the bastard what he deserves!” Buddy shouted, urging the crowd forward, taking his place again at its head.
“Why are you so determined to get Janson hurt, Buddy Eason?” she demanded, turning to confront him directly, stepping into his path as he tried to move toward the door. She hoped he would not try to harm her, a woman, before all these witnesses. “And you—all of you—why do you want to hurt Janson, or are you all just listening to Buddy Eason?”
“Shut your damn mouth!” Buddy looked at her, hatred in his eyes, his words now quieter, meant only for her.
“Janson didn’t do anything!” she shouted again, determined not to lose their attention, for they were growing silent now—they were listening. They had to be—“You should be looking for whoever it was that did this, not trying to hurt my husband.”
“Listen to her!” someone shouted, and, whoever that person was, Elise blessed him, for she knew that somewhere to the back of these men there was at least one who held reason. “We cain’t hang a man without knowin’ for sure! Nobody saw it! Nobody knows if he did it or not!”
“We know enough!” someone shouted back.
Elise wildly searched the crowd, her eyes alighting on first one face then another, finally touching on a skinny young man who stood almost a head taller than any of those around him.
Carl Miles met her eyes for a moment where he stood beneath a street light, then quickly looked away, and suddenly she knew—her eyes went to Buddy, to Richard Deeds, then back to Carl. Buddy was too loud, demanding too forcefully for the men to enter the building. Richard was just standing there, staring at the men around him—and guilt had drawn Carl. Guilt had been plainly written on his face in that instant Elise had met his eyes.
She screamed inwardly at her own stupidity—she should have known. The only man she knew who might even be capable of a murder, capable of an arson to cover a murder, capable of letting another man pay for it, of murdering that man in a lynching if he had to in order to cover what he himself had done—it had to be Buddy. Somehow she realized she had already known—she had to have known—she could not have been that stupid. They knew—Richard and Carl both—and yet they were willing to do nothing, to stand aside and allow another murder to take place, Janson’s murder, if they had to.
The fire truck screamed down Main Street, delayed by its need for men from the mob, heading to the tracks and the now out-of-control blaze there. Elise looked from face to face, knowing—
“Janson hasn’t done anything!” she yelled, trying to make herself heard over the mob and the sound of the truck making its way toward the tracks.
“Sure she’d try t’ protect him!” someone shouted.
“Don’t listen to her!” Buddy shouted, but his eyes never left Elise. A car came to a rolling stop at the edge of the men, and she looked in that direction, hoping it was the chief of police, or other officers—someone, anyone, who would help her.
Walter Eason got out from behind the wheel of the vehicle, followed a moment later by his son, Walt, and the plump woman she knew to be Buddy’s mother. The young policeman seemed to relax visibly where he stood now beside Elise, his eyes on Walter Eason where he moved with his walking cane into the midst of the men, seeing people, even in this madness, part way before him. For a moment a feeling of relief washed over Elise as she watched him move toward the front of the building, for she knew that, of all men in the county, Walter Eason could put a stop to this—then a sudden fear gripped her. If she lost this chance, she would never get the truth out of Carl or Buddy Eason either one. If she lost this chance, they would return, on this night, or another, to try again to hurt Janson.
“Janson hasn’t done anything!” she shouted, looking up at Buddy, seeing that his eyes were now set on his grandfather and his parents, then she turned her eyes to Carl, staring at him long and hard, willing him to look at her. “Janson didn’t do it, did he Carl?” she demanded, keeping her eyes on him.
Carl’s head shot up. He looked at her, his mouth stupidly open, a look of fear evident on his face even
in the shadows cast by the street lamp overhead, guilt plainly written on his features. He looked around, looked at the faces turned now in his direction. He closed his mouth, opened it, then shut it again as his eyes returned to Elise, his face a mask of horror as he stared over the short distance between them.
“Did he—you know; I can see it on your face!”
“I—I—” The one word seemed all he could say. Buddy Eason moved through the crowd to his side, speaking a few, hushed words, his head turned toward Carl, and Carl turned away, looking at Buddy, then looking out through the crowd.
“Don’t listen to him!” Elise yelled, moving in their direction. Gran’pa moved with her, and Elise knew his eyes were now on the two men as well—he knew, just as she did now. He knew. “Buddy got you into this, didn’t he, Carl?”
Carl stared at her, a pleading look on his face. Buddy gripped his shoulder, gripped it so hard that Elise could see the veins bulge out on the back of Buddy’s hand.
“We have two children,” Elise said, staring at Carl, “a little boy and a little girl, and I don’t want to raise them alone—my husband would not have done this.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Buddy released Carl quickly and moved toward her. Anger showed clearly in his voice, in his expression, in his manner, but desperation as well. She felt a momentary gasp of fear, but forced herself to stand her ground.
“No—I won’t shut up, Buddy, and you can’t shut me up, at least not here in front of everybody.” Then she turned her eyes back to Carl. “What happened, Carl?”
Buddy moved back to Carl’s side, then turned to look at her again. For a moment Elise thought he would speak again to Carl, but instead his voice rose above the sound of the crowd around them. “Are you going to let some woman tell you what to do?”
Men looked at one another, some whispering, some silent. A few moved away. Some only stood and stared. There was no unity among them now, no singleness of purpose. Shame showed on a face here, another there—and absolute horror showed on the face of Carl Miles.
Men stared at Buddy, stared at Carl. The mutterings and whispers began to spread. Elise saw Richard Deeds start to move away, but she called out his name and felt a moment of triumph as men moved to hem him in.
“Tell us what happened, Carl. We’ll never hear the truth from Buddy—he’ll let Janson pay for what he did, or he’ll let you pay for it—” Her eyes caught sight of Walter Eason moving closer, toward them now as she began to move toward Buddy Eason.
“That’s enough!” Walter Eason glared down at her, reaching his grandson’s side just as she did. He turned to look around him, raising his voice above the rest. “Go home—all of you. Go home! This is over!”
“No, it isn’t.” Elise stood before Carl, clenching her hands into fists at her sides to still their shaking. She stared up into his eyes, stared up into eyes that were now filled with tears, then the tears spilling over. “Tell the truth where everyone can hear it.”
“I—I can’t—” He shook his head, the crying making his face now twisted and ugly.
“You can—you’ve seen one murder, haven’t you? Are you going to stand by and watch another one—and you know Buddy will try again to get to Janson, if he doesn’t do it tonight? Tell the truth—who was it?”
“It was Buddy,” he said so quietly that for a moment Elise was afraid no one else would hear him. “It was Buddy and me and Richard. It was Buddy—”
Janson’s knuckles were white where he gripped the bars. There had been no sound from outside the building for what seemed to him to be a very long time. At last the door opened and his gran’pa entered, followed by Elise, and then Walter Eason. Elise stared at Janson as she came toward the cell, crossing the room slowly until she was just before him.
The door had remained open and he could see the area before the building clearing. The policeman came in, a hand closed firmly around the upper arm of Richard Deeds at one side, and Carl Miles at the other. Buddy Eason’s parents entered just behind them, the woman saying over and over: “It’s a lie. It’s nothing but a lie. It’s a lie—”
Walter Eason stood near the doorway, the old man’s eyes on his son and daughter-in-law. He looked toward the desk in the open office area, then slowly moved toward it, reaching down at last to take something up from its surface. He walked to the cell door.
Walter Eason stood beside Elise for a long moment, staring at Janson. Then he lifted the key in his hand, placed it in the lock of the cell door, turned it, and swung the door open.
“You can go now,” he said, his eyes never leaving Janson’s face. “Everyone knows you didn’t do it. Everyone knows—” Then the blank mask of imperturbation broke, his voice shaking as he moved one hand up to wipe it across his features. For a moment he took a deep breath, seeming to struggle to compose himself, but failing before he spoke again. “Everyone knows it was my grandson, Buddy, who did it. Everyone knows—”
In the face of public embarrassment, Janson was offered a job again in the mill. Walter Eason came to his grandparents’ house the next afternoon and asked him to step out onto the porch in the chill December air. The Eason family owed him a debt of apology, he was told, in light of his having suffered the blame for the accident that had taken place—the accident, they were calling it now, not arson and murder as before. Buddy Eason and his two friends had been questioned, but had not been arrested, though nothing had been seen of them about the county since the night before. They would never stand trial, everyone in the county already knew that—would never serve a day in jail, never a minute for what they had done, even though it had cost a man his life, and almost another, even though it had destroyed almost half of downtown, cost innumerable dollars in damage, and even though Buddy had fled the crowd before the police station the previous night before he could even be questioned. Store owners were being compensated for losses in the fire, and Mrs. Brown, who had hardly spoken a word since learning of her husband’s death, would be taken care of for the remainder of her life—money, it seemed, could set anything aright.
A place had been made for Janson in the mill, a job in the card room, even with the cutbacks being forced by the lack of work. He surprised Elise beyond speech when he said he had agreed to take the job and the rooms offered in half a mill house on Wheeden Street in the village—they had no other place to go, he told her, anger within him but supressed. There was no other work to be had, no other place to live, if they did not want to live off his grandparents. He had a family to feed, a wife and children to support, and he would support them even if that meant he had to work for the devil.
He was walking the fine line of his pride, and Elise knew that was a very fine line indeed.
He had promised her that he would not kill Floyd Goode for what he had done to Henry and what he had tried to do to her, but Elise feared he was ready to break that promise within hours of his having accepted the job offered by Walter Eason. “You said you wouldn’t! You swore to me! You swore!” She clung to him as he pulled on the too-big hand-me-down coat his gran’pa had given him to replace the one lost in the fire.
She tried to block his way to the door of his grandparents’ sharecropped home, thinking of the burns on his arm and neck, the burns that were only now beginning to heal. Stan was waiting for him on the porch, waiting to go with him to get both of them killed or thrown in jail or—
“I swore I wouldn’t kill him, an’ I ain’t gonna kill him. I’m just gonna make him wish he was dead,” he said, an angry determination in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“You’ll end up back in jail, or killed—you and Stan both. I can’t let—”
“There’s some things a man’s got t’ do t’ be able t’ live with himself.” He moved her forcibly, but gently, out of the way and went out onto the narrow front porch. She tried to follow, but Gran’ma would not allow it, her hand closing firmly around Elise’s upper arm.
“Let him go, child. A man like Floyd Goode needs t’ be taught a lesson.”
“But—”
“No buts—don’t secon’-guess my boy. He knows what he’s got t’ do, him, an’ your brother with him.”
Janson and Stan returned to the house hours later, long after darkness had fallen that night. Janson would say little about what had happened, but Stan told her the next day:
“Janson beat him bloody with a buggy whip—”
“But, Goode’ll tell the police. They’ll come to get Janson again, and you—”
“No.” Stan shook his head. “Goode knew Janson was coming after him; he made sure he wasn’t by himself, even had the Methodist preacher there—after Janson laid into him a couple of times with the whip, he admitted to what he’d done. He even said he thought he’d killed Henry when he hit him and slung him across the room; there wasn’t a man there who would move to help him after that. Janson beat him bloody while the others watched. They wouldn’t even help Goode when Janson was through—”
The anger within Janson only slowly cooled. Men avoided him at work, not out of dislike for him, or accusation over anything, but out of shame for some, and caution for many others, as word of Goode’s beating spread. Some of their neighbors in the village had been part of the mob that night, and he glared at them, as he glared at others, for Janson himself did not know who had been in the mob, had never cared to ask Elise or his gran’pa, and did not seem to want to know. No one spoke of what had happened, least of all Elise—she just wanted to forget. She wanted to pretend the last months had never happened, that Janson had never lost his job in the mill, that they had never left the mill house, never had to go to work for Goode, never had to live through the nightmare of Janson’s arrest, Henry being hurt, Goode attacking her. Janson was working, they were back in one of the many identical mill houses again, they had a wage coming in to put food on the table—but it was not the same. It was not just the atmosphere surrounding them—for there were hard feelings voiced over Janson being taken on at the mill when so many others were being laid off—it was the difference in the times.
Through a Glass, Darkly Page 24