Through a Glass, Darkly

by Charlotte Miller

  “You better answer me, boy,” the man said, his eyes never leaving Henry’s father’s face.

  “Get away from th’ truck, Buddy,” his father spoke at last, though his words were quiet, steady. He released Henry’s shoulder and moved up to stand just beside the boy.

  “You can’t tell me or any other white man what to do, you red son-of-a-bitch—”

  “You can’t talk to my pa like that,” Henry clenched his fists at his sides. How dare anyone talk to his father like that.

  But the man only laughed, a look of what almost seemed to be contempt coming to his heavy face. He turned back to the truck, and for a moment Henry thought he would walk away—but he only walked around the open driver’s door and toward the back of the vehicle, then turned that look of amusement back on them just before he took hold of the side of the truck box, and, with a grunt, pulled himself up to stand in the back with the boxes of vegetables. “Who’d you steal these from, red-nigger?” he asked, looking down on them. “You never were anything more than a thief.” The man reached down and took a large tomato into each hand from one of the boxes, then straightened and, with a look of amusement playing around the edges of his mouth, threw them down to splat on the pavement beside the truck. Then he reached down for two more.

  Henry snapped. He pulled free of his father’s hand and was suddenly past the open driver’s door and up onto the back of the truck, reaching for the man’s arm, determined he would—

  There was a look of surprise on the man’s heavy face—but they were too close, and the man shoved at him, trying to back away, and Henry was losing his footing, falling—

  He hit the pavement with a jolt, his head striking the blacktop so hard that his teeth ached inside his mouth with the impact, and then his father was there, leaning over him and saying something, though for a moment Henry did not understand.

  “Henry, boy—are you okay—?” he understood at last, even as the big man jumped down from the back of the truck to stand laughing at them.

  Henry did not say anything, but nodded his head as he sat up, biting his lips at the pain in his skull and down along his backbone.

  “Get in th’ truck, Henry,” his father said, straightening to stare at the man.

  “But, Pa—”

  “Get in th’ truck.” Janson’s voice rose, but his eyes never left the man before him.

  Henry obeyed, getting in the open driver’s door and sliding across the seat, then turning back to look at his father and the man through the truck’s rear window.

  His father met the man’s eyes over the short distance between them, then he turned and walked to the driver’s door and got in, shutting the door and starting the engine. He brought his eyes to Henry as he put the truck in gear, and Henry could only stare at him, not believing he had walked away. Not believing—

  The man moved up onto the sidewalk as the truck backed out into the street, and Henry looked at him, finding him laughing still as the truck started away, then Henry turned back to his father.

  Janson Sanders sat in silence and stared straight ahead, not again meeting his son’s eyes throughout the trip home.

  Walter Eason stood in the front room of a house on Spring Street the first Tuesday afternoon in October, staring into the eyes of a heavy-set Negro woman sitting on a sofa. Her minister, Edward Jakes, and his wife had been in the house when he arrived, and they remained near the door Walter had entered, as if to make certain he understood he had no place being among them. Walter had come to assure himself that what his attorney, Sam Porter, had told him could not be true.

  Instead, he had convinced himself of something altogether different.

  Buddy had raped this woman and fathered the child Porter said she was carrying.

  Walter looked away, unable to speak while he looked into her eyes.

  “It would be best that no one ever knows about this child,” Walter said.

  He tightened his hand on the carved knob of his walking stick, leaning on it more heavily than usual, as he tried to compose his thoughts.

  “There have to be places for a colored woman in your situation to give birth, places that will make arrangements for a—” he paused for a moment, “for a mulatto child.”

  He was silent again.

  “I understand from Porter that you’re a good cleaning girl. I’ll make certain you have enough money to start over once the child is placed, and that you’re given a good job with a decent family in Birmingham or Mobile, someplace where you’ll never—”

  “You cain’t buy me,” she said, so quietly for a moment that Walter was not certain he had understood. “You cain’t buy me,” she said again. “You can keep your money an’ your good job an’ you can tell him if he ever comes near me again I’m gonna send him t’ hell where he belongs, even if I go t’ hell myself for doin’ it.”

  For a moment Walter was certain her minister would say something at her words. He waited, hearing feet shift on the wooden floor behind him.

  The he heard the door open near where the minister and his wife stood, and he turned to see Jakes holding it open, waiting for Walter to leave.

  “Get out ’a my house,” she said when Walter turned back to look at her. “Get out ’a my house, an’ don’t you ever come back here again.”

  Henry could hear the sound of the mill that afternoon long before he and his father reached the railroad tracks that divided the town in half. They finally topped the incline at the beginning of the Eason mill village, and crossed the railroad tracks going down into the village itself, the sound of the machinery, and the sight of the flying lint, seeming to reach out to envelop Henry as they walked—he already hated this place, and could hardly believe his father intended to move them back here if he could get hired on at the mill again.

  Henry might have been born in one of these identical mill houses, but he had no desire to move back here now. All it had taken was for his father to learn that the mill was hiring again, on the same afternoon he had been rained out of work on the Beautification Project for the second time that week, and Janson had decided to walk to the mill to apply for a job. Henry had gotten in from school just as Janson was leaving, and Janson had asked if he wanted to walk along—he wished now that he had never agreed to come. His pa had done nothing but talk about the past since they had left the house, and Janson’s words had not stilled until they crossed the tracks into the mill village itself.

  Henry cared very little for hearing about the past, about a famine in Ireland a hundred years before, or of folks called Huguenots, or people who had been herded west like cattle, or of a fire deliberately set in a cotton field—the past was gone, he kept telling himself. It could not affect him any more than could something that happened at the far side of the Earth, such as when Chancellor Hitler had invaded Poland, and England had declared war on Germany, a month before there on the far side of the world.

  Henry’s mind was so occupied that he paid little attention to the car that was parked nose-out in the gravel at the bottom end of the loading dock until one of the car doors opened and someone yelled out. “Hey, In’jun—”

  Henry stopped there on the sidewalk, certain for a moment the words had been yelled out to him, then he turned and saw the man who had shoved him from the back of the truck up on Main Street several weeks before getting out of the vehicle.

  “Hey, you, red nigger—” the man called again, just as the other doors opened and three more men got out.

  Henry’s father had stopped and turned with him, and he stood staring at the man before speaking. “What do you want, Buddy?” he asked at last.

  “That’s Mr. Eason to you, boy.” His face changed, as did his tone. “I won’t have trash like you calling me by my first name, like you were just as good as anybody.”

  Janson stared at him, and Henry waited for him to respond, feeling the moments slip past and his growing ang
er and surprise when his father did not say anything to the man, but spoke to him instead. “Let’s go, Henry,” Janson said, not taking his eyes from Buddy Eason.

  Henry opened his mouth to speak, to say something, he did not know what, but his father’s voice came again.

  “Let’s go, Henry,” and a burning shame rose to Henry’s face as they turned away that his father would take this, that he would not even respond—

  “Is your wife at home now by herself, In’jun?” the man asked, halting Henry’s father’s steps beside him. “Alone there with those two little girls?”

  Janson Sanders turned back, and, when Henry looked up at him, he found a different look on his father’s face. Janson’s words surprised Henry so completely that he could only stare at him. “You go near my wife or my girls an’ you’re a dead man—”

  For a moment Henry did not understand—then he realized this man had threatened his mother and his sisters. Indignation welled up inside of him, and he started to step forward, but a powerful hand came down on his shoulder. He looked up at his father and saw a man that he little knew, and a man at this moment that he dared not disobey. That hand on his shoulder told him this was something he had no part of.

  Janson released him and took a step toward Buddy Eason.

  “All kinds of things can happen to a woman alone,” the man was saying as he stared at Henry’s father, his tone as much as his words chilling Henry. “All kinds of things that will make her wish she was dead before it was over, and those two little girls—”

  Janson was on him so quickly that Henry did not see it until they were on the ground, his father over Buddy Eason, his hands closing around the man’s throat to—but two of the men who had gotten out of the car dragged Janson off and held him between them. Henry tried to reach his father, but was grabbed and held back by the third man, almost lifted off the ground, and then held away to stand staring as Buddy Eason regained his feet.

  Buddy reached into a pocket and withdrew a knife, his eyes never leaving Henry’s father’s face as he unfolded its blade from the handle. There was a look close to pleasure on his face as he stepped closer. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he said quietly as he wiped the blade on his shirt sleeve. He held it up to look at the edge, then beyond to the eyes of the man held before him. “A long time—” He stepped forward, a smile coming to his face as he prepared to—

  “Stop it!” a man’s voice commanded, loud and indignant. “I said—stop it!” An old man, white-haired with ruddy complexion, came toward the men who held Henry’s father between them. “Let him go!”

  Walter Eason held a walking stick raised in one hand, but he did not have to use it. The men holding Janson stared at Buddy for a moment, then allowed Janson to pull away. As Janson moved toward him, the man holding Henry released him without a word.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The old man sounded furious, but Buddy only met his stare, answering after a moment in a tone of defiance.

  “He’s just a damn red-nigger, coming around here, starting trouble—”

  “You’re a damn liar,” Janson said from where he stood now beside Henry. He took a step forward and two of the men moved to restrain him again. “You come near my wife or my girls, Buddy, an’ this time I will kill you,” he spit, even as the men held him back.

  “I’m going to shut your goddamn mouth once and for all.” Buddy moved forward, the knife still in his hand, but the old man’s walking stick came down hard across his wrist, sending the knife spinning from his hand and into the dirt.

  Buddy’s hand seemed to spasm and he looked up with fury at the old man, but Walter Eason’s eyes were on the men again holding Henry’s father.

  “Release him!” the old man’s voice was commanding, and Henry watched in surprise as the men holding his father again let him go. Buddy turned to glare at his grandfather, but the old man’s eyes held nothing but cold resolve. “It’s about time you had to face a man without having someone else hold him down for you, Buddy; it’s about time you found out what a fool you are.” He turned to the men who stood ready to intercede on Buddy’s behalf. “If any of you interferes, I’ll make certain you regret it the rest of your lives.” He looked at Janson for a moment, and to Henry it seemed as if some understanding passed between the two men. Then Walter Eason turned to walk to the car he had left parked alongside the sidewalk.

  There was a look of disbelief on Buddy Eason’s face as he looked first at the retreating back of his grandfather, and then at Janson Sanders. Henry saw no pleasure on Janson’s face, as there had been on Buddy’s minutes earlier, just a resolve as cold and determined as had been on the face of the old man. Buddy swung at Janson, but only barely connected as Janson moved out of the way and brought a hard fist upward into Buddy’s jaw, sending him stumbling backwards.

  It took only minutes before Buddy was backed against his own car, but still Janson did not stop. Buddy’s nose looked broken; there was blood everywhere, over his mouth, on Janson’s hands, and Henry thought his father would kill him—

  “That’s enough,” Walter Eason said.

  His voice was loud, but Janson did not seem to hear.

  “That’s enough!” There was a nod from Walter Eason, and Janson was pulled away. He immediately jerked free of the men holding him, but Buddy was already on the ground. Janson stood over him for a moment, breathing heavily.

  “So help me—you better stay away from my family,” he said. He stared at Buddy a moment longer, wiping a bloody lip with the back of one hand. Buddy was trying to push himself from the ground.

  “I’ll get even with you, you red bastard,” Buddy said, his words slurred between split and swollen lips, as Janson turned away. “You’ll pay for this. I’ll see you dead, you wait and see—but I’m going to hurt you first. I’m going to hurt you—”

  But Janson Sanders never looked back.

  He walked to the old man and stood, meeting the cold gray eyes as Henry watched him. There was pride and dignity in Janson’s bearing, though his clothes were torn and covered with dirt and blood, and his lip still bleeding.

  “I come here lookin’ for work,” Janson said, and, as Henry watched him, some part of him started to understand what it was to be a man.

  Walter was sitting at his desk by the time Buddy entered the mill office. Walter heard the front door slam back into the nearby wall, and a moment later Buddy’s office door slammed open as well. Walter rose and started from the room, then went back to take something from the middle drawer of his desk, shoving it down into a pocket of his coat before he went out into the hall.

  When he reached his grandson’s office, he found Buddy had already kicked his chair across the room. The telephone rang as Walter entered and Buddy yanked it up, jerked its cord out of the wall, and shattered one of the windows with it. His eyes came to rest on Walter and Walter stared at him.

  “You ruin everything you touch,” Walter said, walking further into the room. He stared at his grandson. “I wish you had never been born. I wish you had never taken one breath of life in this county—”

  Walter brought his hands up to stare at them. One hand held to his walking stick; the other he clenched and unclenched as he stared at it, thinking of what he could have done, what he should have done, so many times. He could have changed things. He could have—

  When he looked up at Buddy, Buddy spat in his face.

  Walter Eason snapped. He raised the walking stick and brought it down hard across the side of his grandson’s face, then again, hitting Buddy repeatedly until Buddy at last jerked the stick from the older man’s hand and brought it down hard across his raised knee to break it.

  Buddy grabbed him, wrenching his arm so hard that pain shot from Walter’s left shoulder—but he was already bringing the pistol up from his pocket with his right hand, pointing it at his grandson’s face, and holding it there as Buddy let go an
d backed away. Walter wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted—

  “Get out of this mill,” Walter Eason said, his voice shaking. “Get out of this county; I never want to see you again.” He stared at his grandson a moment longer, and then turned and left.

  Cassandra Price could hear the sound of furniture breaking after the old man walked out of Buddy’s office. She reached the doorway to see Buddy yank a drawer from his desk and throw it, contents and all, directly at where she was standing.

  She moved back and the drawer hit the door frame waist high, sending fountain pens, rubber bands, and what looked to be dozens of boxes of matches skittering over the lower part of her legs and the floor near her feet. One hand went to her belly, and she assured herself that nothing had hit her there—she could not let anything happen now. Not when she was this close.

  Not when she was going to have Buddy Eason’s baby.

  She looked back around the edge of the door frame once she was certain Buddy was no longer throwing furniture. He was yanking drawers open, but this time only to grab things from within and place them on the desk. He was cursing, but Cassandra did not take the time to listen—whatever he was saying did not matter. He and the old man had fought. But he and the old man fought often. It did not usually result in thrown furniture or a bloody face, which Buddy had at the moment, Cassandra noted, feeling a touch of distaste as she stared at him—but that did not matter, either. She had not bedded him for his looks. She had not bedded him for his personality. She had bedded him for the baby growing inside of her, and for the money and the Eason name the baby would net her.

  “Buddy, are you hurt?” she asked, though she did not care. She was surprised to see him take a gun from a lower drawer and lay it on the desktop. He fished in the drawer again, not answering, and came up a moment later with a handful of something.

  When he set the bullets down, she realized what they were.

  “Buddy?”

  “What?” He hissed at her, and she stepped back.

  She did not say anything; she watched him load the gun. He set it down on the desktop, then yanked open another drawer to search inside. He slammed it, then started across the room toward her, and Cassandra shrank away, though he did nothing but take his coat and hat from the hatrack. She walked toward the desk, looking to the open briefcase on the floor at its other side as Buddy came back to toss the hat and coat over one of the leather armchairs before his desk.