Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  I wouldn’t care, she thought. I wouldn’t care. Care? Lord God, I’d be glad!

  Then she was off again, running hard down the shadowy path.

  The Spanish moss caught the moonlight and made filigrees of silver. Fire-flies winked in the oak dark, like sudden bright stars. They could hear the river talking below. It talked in dark voices, very quietly.

  They leaned out of the window and looked at the river. It had a swathe of moon-silver across it, and on both sides of that, the dark.

  “I’m sorry he’s sick,” Clint said. “That changes things. It was bad enough before, but now—”

  “Don’t talk!” Mary Ann said.

  He stopped, looking at her.

  “Clint—” Mary Ann said.

  “You want to?”

  “I want to. With you I always want to. Afterwards we can talk.”

  The soft rustling sounds. The crisp, drifting sounds. The coolness. The sudden freedom.

  “The encumbrances of civilisation,” Clint said.

  “Don’t talk!”

  “No,” Clint said. “Not here. Over there—in the moonlight, where I can see you.”

  “You like seeing me? Does that make it—better?”

  “God, yes!” he said.

  They looked down upon the river, slow-coiling in the moonlight.

  “Clint,” she said, “tell me what happened between you and Ashton Henderson.”

  He looked at her.

  “What do you want to know that for?” he said.

  “I have to know, Clint. Ash gave Wade the idea I was mixed up in it.”

  “Good God!”

  “That’s why I passed you that note. I thought sure we were going to have to stop seeing each other for a while. And we would of, wasn’t for Wade’s getting sick. Go on, tell me.”

  “Ashton paid me a little call,” Clint said quietly. “He came storming into my office like a wild man, waving a pistol. Ordered me to draw so he could shoot it out with me. I told him I couldn’t do that, since I don’t even own a gun.”

  “And then?”

  “He didn’t believe me, of course; since in this benighted land a gentleman puts on his holster along with his pants. I opened my coat and showed him. He pointed to my desk drawer. I opened that, too.”

  “So then, being a Henderson, he couldn’t shoot you, eh, Clint? Thank God it was him, and not one of those common, low-bred folks.”

  “That was about the size of it. He just stood there, swearing the air blue for about a minute. Then he turned around and went back down the stairs. After that I went to the window and exchanged a few mutually complimentary remarks with the mob. But I think now it would have been better if I had had a gun.”

  “Why, Clint?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have fired on him. I swore I’d never kill again, not even in self-defence. But perhaps I’d be out of this now—and you’d be free of all the worry and trouble I’ve caused you.”

  “Lord God, Clint,” she said, “don’t talk like that! Don’t even think like that!”

  “I,” Clint said, “am my father’s son. I only want what I can’t have, what I have no right to. There’s a kind of dark fatality in us, Mary. We must go down to destruction, because what we could have we don’t want, and what we do want always belongs to somebody else.”

  “I don’t belong to him!” Mary Ann cried; “I don’t! I don’t!”

  “You’ve borne his sons. You’re his wife. You can’t be free of him, because the only way you could would lay a damnation upon your house, and upon your children.”

  “Clint,” she said, “if I gave him grounds—would they take the twins away from me?”

  “Yes,” he said, “if it came to divorce. But it wouldn’t come to that. I’d have to meet him, Mary. And I couldn’t fire on him. I swore that when the war was over I’d never kill again.”

  “Then you’d be killed,” Mary Ann said.

  “Very likely. I couldn’t refuse to meet him, you know.”

  “Oh no!” she said. “Oh, Clint, no!”

  “Perhaps he wouldn’t even challenge me,” Clint said slowly. “People have all but stopped duelling nowadays.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Mary Ann said bitterly. “He’d shoot from ambush, or put those hooded cowards on you. He hasn’t the guts to fight.”

  “I’m not thinking about that. I’m only thinking about how you’d be crucified afterwards. That’s why I’m going away, Mary. Before I really harm you. Before I make you the target of every dirty, vicious tongue in the whole damned parish!”

  She stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could not. She stood there, looking at him, until the trees, the moon, the river dissolved in the scalding haze of tears.

  “Don’t cry, Mary,” he said; “for God’s sake, please don’t cry!”

  She shook her head.

  “Cry,” she said; “I didn’t know what crying was until I met you, Clint. I thought it was something you did with your eyes. I didn’t know how it felt to cry all over, outside and inside, each time something kept me away from you. Now I know. I get sand in my throat, and cockle-burrs in my lungs, and a black thing in my middle that twists my insides between its hands until I can feel them giving way, tearing. That’s what loving you has taught me, Clint. So don’t tell me—”

  “Mary, for God’s love!”

  “—not to cry. I’m going to go on crying until the day I die, and even after that if there is any afterwards. You’ll never be free of me, Clint. You’ll hear me in the wind and the rain, and maybe you’ll even almost see me in the night sometimes, wringing my hands and crying. If that’s what you want, Clint Dupré, then go!”

  He looked at her.

  “If,” he whispered, “there were only some way . . .”

  “There is. Just waiting, Clint. He’s going to die. Doctor Randy says so. Maybe not right away. Maybe in three years. Five at the most. Because, to stay alive, he’s got to be careful in a way he can’t be careful. He can’t get excited, and he can’t eat too much. And he just ain’t got the will-power not to. He’s had these attacks for years, but now they’re getting worse. I can wait, Clint—like Mother Sarah waited for Doctor Randy. I’ve waited for you all my life, so a few more years won’t kill me.”

  “I’m still going away,” he said slowly. “I can’t go on doing this, Mary. I can’t stand it: the lying, the sneaking, the pretence. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before. I won’t go on dirtying it this way. I’m proud of loving you, Mary. I want to walk with you on my arm, for all the world to see. I want to say to them: ‘Look, you beggars and blackguards, she’s mine! See what I have!”

  “And what have you?” she said sadly. “A little old funny-looking girl with a turned-up nose with scads of freckles on it, and a big, wide mouth.”

  “I have an angel. I have a love that’s a kind of a glory. I know other men have loved other women as I love you—that is, my mind knows it. But my heart won’t believe it. It’s like we invented it—as though, between us, we created love. And I cannot shame that, Mary. I can’t hide it. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you see?”

  “I see all right. I see you’re already tired of me.”

  “Oh, Mary, for God’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry, Clint,” she said “I’m being plain selfish, that’s all. It’s best for you to go away. If you stay here, there’ll be nothing but trouble. This way, I can write you— tell you about things. You mustn’t answer me, though. That would be too dangerous. And one day I’ll be able to say: ‘Come back to me, Clint. You can now—oh, love, you can!’ ”

  “I’ll be waiting for that,” Clint said.

  She looked at him.

  “And I’m waiting now,” she said. “For us to stop wasting time. We have so little of it, Clint, and we throw it away, talking.”

  “God, yes,” he said, “so little, little time.”

  Wade lay on the big bed and stared at the ceiling. Going to fool them, he thought. Sitting around with lo
ng faces, waiting for me to die. Ma and Randy, anyhow. Mary Ann’s face sure Lord ain’t long. She’d be glad, I reckon. But I’m going to fool them. I’m going to git up from this damned bed. I’m going to walk again. And that business about her sleeping in the nursery is going to stop, too. I’m going to stick around to see that neither Clint nor Oren gits her. Pa got hisself killed and Randy stepped in almost before he was cold in his grave. That ain’t a-going to happen to me. Oren ain’t around no more; but Clint is. Have to take care of that. Git up from here I’ll have myself a neck-tie party with that bastard half-brother of mine as the guest of honour. Only reason the boys ain’t took care of him now is ‘cause they know he is my brother. But, brother or not, he’ll have to go. Thought once I’d just ride him out of the parish on a rail; but I can’t do that now. Got to make it permanent. When I pass on, I sure Lord don’t aim to leave him behind. Him nor Oren neither one.

  Funny how knowing you ain’t got long to live changes things. Didn’t dare hit out at Oren before. But now he and Clint done give me something to live for—like this, I can’t stay alive long; but I’m going to hang on long enough to finish both of them, so help me God.

  I don’t understand it, Randy thought, sitting by that same bed two weeks later; but if there is any one factor that upsets medical theories, it’s the human mind. Two weeks ago I wouldn’t have given a plugged picayune for his chances, but look at him now! He’s going to get up from there. He’s going to regain partial use of that leg, as much as he had before, perhaps, with those ligaments shot away. And all because he wants so badly to live. Why? That’s completely incomprehensible. If I had his life, I’d throw it away for a laugh or a song. A livelihood gained by robbing the poor and the helpless, a wife who all but hates him, a marriage which, if not already decorated with horns, soon will be. Good Lord! What manner and species of man are you, anyhow, Wade Benton?

  He looked at the younger man with something very nearly approaching admiration for the first time in years.

  I thought you were yellow all the way through. But this is a species of courage, isn’t it? I suppose no man is all of a piece. All you have to do, really, is to find the mainspring of his being, what it is that makes him tick. Crowded far enough, even a rat will fight. But what crowded you that far, boy? Was it Clint? Did this thing between him and Mary Ann push you down far enough to find out you are a Benton, after all?

  “Well, Randy?” Wade growled.

  “You’re fine, boy. You can be up and about in another week.”

  “Then I’m finished with these attacks?”

  “No. Truthfully, you’ll never be well, Wade. All the rest of your life you’re going to have to be careful. You’ve got to resign from the Knights, give up being Mayor. The store, maybe, if you stay seated most of the time, and don’t get excited. And you’ve got to keep your weight way, way down.”

  “And if I don’t?” Wade said.

  “You’ll die. Or you’ll be totally paralysed. Take your choice. Far as I can tell, you’ve got a mild form of thrombosis, brought on by high blood pressure. What I mean is it’s mild so far. But thrombosis never stays mild unless you do something about it. Overweight and high blood pressure go together. That’s one of your troubles. The other is that you have too much on your mind. You’re too young to have hardening of the arteries; but there’s one other thing which behaves almost the same way—”

  “What’s that?” Wade said.

  “Bad nerves. Worry. A guilty conscience. Call it what you like. I’m sure it’s that, though; because you recover. When an artery is partially closed by hardening of the walls, it never relaxes. But an artery half closed by a nervous spasm does open again. If it does it soon enough, the clot may dissolve, or enough blood can flow around it to relieve the pressure on the motor sections of the brain. Then the functions come back; never as strong as they were before, but enough.”

  “That’s why I mustn’t get excited, eh?”

  “Yes. Get worked up and an artery will block again. Stay worked up and the clot formed will become too massive to dissolve in time. Result, permanent impairment of the faculties: speech, hearing, locomotion; then paralysis; then death. You see?”

  “I see, all right,” Wade said; “but I ain’t going to let it happen.”

  “Good. That way, you’ll be fine. I know it’s not pleasant to be a semi-invalid; but it’s a hell of a lot more pleasant than being paralysed—or dead.”

  “Right. When can I go home, Doc?”

  “Oh, day after tomorrow, I reckon,” Randy said.

  Mary Ann sat under a shade tree in the yard. Her face was very white. From where she sat she could see the door of the house and part of the way into the hall. She sat there, watching the doorway, waiting for Wade to come out. She hoped he wouldn’t come out, so that she could put off what she had to say to him a little longer.

  Her mind counted very slowly: A month and a half since Clint left. A month to the day since Wade came home and found Oren out here, pestering me again. In a way that was a good thing, because it’ll keep Wade from being too sure. That Oren! Wonder what the devil he’d been up to? Told me he’d been back in the parish for three weeks, and I’ll be blessed if anybody had seen hair nor hide of him. Up to some mischief for that lottery company again, I reckon. Let’s see—it’s been two months since that first night I met Clint at the Henderson place, and a month and a half since the last time. Every night for two whole weeks and now—

  And now I’m sure. Reckon I was sure right from the first. I took the danger of that into consideration right from the beginning—ever since I bumped into Buford that time. Lord God, I had children for Wade. And Clint’s a man. Couldn’t expect to spend two whole weeks with him without—this happening. Well, it’s happened, and I’m glad. The only bad part about it is what I’ve got to do now.

  She sat there a long time, but Wade did not come out. I’ll go in and talk to him, she thought; but she didn’t move. She couldn’t make herself do it. It was too hard.

  Tonight, then, she decided. Yes—better tonight. I’ve got to. Can’t put it off any longer. Any more time and even he’ll know better, stupid as he is. But I hate it. Wasn’t for the twins, I would have gone with Clint—wasn’t for them, I would have gone . . .

  That night she sat before her mirror, brushing her hair. The face that peered back at her was the face of a sacrificial victim. I’m numb, she thought; I’m numb all the way through.

  She got up very slowly and went down the hall. She moved stiffly with a trance-like motion until she came to his door. She pushed it open and stood there.

  “What do you want?” he growled at her.

  “I—I’ve been thinking about the way I’ve treated you,” she said. “Reckon your getting sick gave me time to think. I—I’m sorry, Wade.”

  “So?” he said.

  “After all, you are my husband, and my children’s father. What I’m trying to say is—I’ve come to be your wife again, Wade.”

  He stared at her, and his eyes were bleak.

  “All right,” he said slowly, “come on.”

  He lay there, looking at her, lying with her eyes closed, in the crook of his arm. Better this way, he thought bitterly; this way I’ll never be sure. I couldn’t stand being sure. It would kill me, I reckon. Clint’s gone, and Oren’s back in New Orleans. So she’s come back to me. Because she’s lonesome and needs a man? Huh! Bet my bottom dollar in seven or eight months she’ll be telling me she fell down or took a cold bath or some other reason to explain why the baby come so quick. I’m a sick man. I can’t go travelling round gunning for polecats. No, better like this. Now there’s an outside chance that she might be telling the truth.

  He lay there a long time, thinking about it. Not only that night, but for many nights, until finally worrying it over in his mind had dulled the edges of it, until finally he came almost to believe what he needed to believe, until he thought he had dominated it.

  But that spring day in 1874 when Sarah placed the tiny
red bundle that was Jeb Stuart Benton in his arms, it was back again, this thing he would have to live with.

  He stood there, holding the infant, seeing the masses of inky black hair curling damply over the tiny head. He stretched out a clumsy finger and pushed back one eyelid. Jeb wailed—a thin, piping sound. But Wade had had time enough. Jeb’s eyes were black as night.

  “Here, Ma,” he said, “take it.”

  “It’s a mighty pretty baby, son,” Sarah said uncertainly. “Looks just like Mary Ann.”

  “Take it, Ma!” he screamed at her, “or, ‘fore God, I’ll . . .”

  She leaped forward, her arms encircling the child.

  “Wade, you wouldn’t!” she breathed.

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?” he screeched. “You better keep this little bastard out of my sight, then!”

  Then he lurched forward, throwing all his weight on his cane, hobbling heavily, painfully forward until he reached the door. He jerked it open, and went out without a backward glance.

  Sarah stood there, holding the baby. Then she turned to the bed, her grey eyes speaking fire.

  “Here!” she snapped, “take your child, Mary Ann!”

  Mary Ann put out her arms.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll take him, Mother Sarah. After all, he is mine. There’s no doubt about that. You’re all mine, aren’t you, Jebbie? Yes—all, all mine!”

  7

  WADE BENTON sat on the veranda, holding a bowl of hominy grits in his lap. He had eaten very little, and that little very slowly, because, two years ago, in the early summer of 1878, he had had another quite serious attack. It had left him with a partial paralysis of the facial muscles which made talking and eating difficult. At first he hadn’t been able to talk at all; and they had kept him alive on liquids forced through his set teeth with a straw; but the paralysis had slowly receded until now, by the late summer of 1880, it had reached the point where no further improvement could be hoped for; that is, until he could speak with a thick, blurred voice, and eat only very soft foods.