by Frank Yerby
To everybody’s astonishment, Randy had been delighted by this development. He had come to regard the task of keeping Wade alive as a personal challenge; he fought stubbornly, ceaselessly against new attacks. He sent to the medical centres of the North, to Scotland, and even to Germany, for every new study made on the subject of cerebral thrombosis, becoming, in the process of guarding the flickering flame of Wade Benton’s entirely useless life, one of the foremost specialists of the day upon this and related disorders. His reason for being pleased with the continued impairment of Wade’s facial muscles was very simple:
“Heck,” he told Sarah, “it’s going to keep the boy alive. I’ve been trying every way I know to get him to eat sensibly, but he always back-slides. Now he’s going to have so damned much trouble eating at all that he’s got to stay thin. His blood pressure will come down, which is all to the good. This way he may live out his full span, if we can keep him from getting excited.”
But Randy had reckoned without Wade Benton. Although he did lose weight, he did not lose enough, for, by the simple expedient of demanding the richest custards, sillabubs, floating islands, he managed to keep himself comfortably plump, and his blood pressure hovering around two hundred.
He sat there, that summer day of 1880, and ate the cold, thick grits without relish. He hated grits, but he had now a renewed interest in keeping alive. Going to balk him yet, he thought savagely, him and Oren. What the devil he have to come back for?
Out in the yard the twins were banging away happily with their light shot-guns at a row of bottles set up as targets. At ten, they were bigger than most boys of fourteen, and had all the Benton force and competency. Beside them six-year-old Jeb watched. He didn’t own a gun, largely because Mary Ann wouldn’t permit it. He was tall for his age, and very thin; but he was a beautiful child. Sarah had early succumbed to his grave charm, so that he was no longer a bone of contention between her and Mary Ann. As for his mother, she made no secret of the fact that she adored him.
Jeb lived then in a strange and confusing world. From the man he called father he had only harsh words, rebuffs, icy silence. He was saved from physical cruelty, now that Wade stayed at home and let Mary Ann keep the store, only by reason of the fact that Wade was now incapable of using force. But he suffered from this rejection as only the sensitive can. He would have loved Wade with all his boyish heart, had he been permitted to; thrown off, he could only double his worship of his mother, and welcome with pure delight his few visits to Randy, whom he idolised.
He had, from all this, the exact conditions which go into the makings of a poet. Petted and spoiled by his mother, roughed over regularly by his brothers, rejected by Wade, the only element of stability in his life was his grandmother’s calm, steady love, combined with her firm sense of discipline. From Randy he had all too rarely what he needed most: fatherly companionship.
So he grew up grave and thoughtful, with a puzzled look nearly always in his enormous dark eyes. But there was something more in his make-up, a quiet strength that not even his love for beauty and his dreamer’s mind could entirely hide. Mary had found that out one day, when she had been holding him in her arms, a practice which at six he was already beginning to resent, at least when she did it in public.
“You mustn’t do that, Mama,” he said; “I’m too big now.”
“I see,” Mary Ana said, and turned him loose. “Tell me, Jebbie, what do you like best?”
He considered the question.
“You,” he said dutifully.
“Oh, I don’t mean people,” Mary Ann laughed. “What kind of things do you like best of all?”
“Butterfly wings,” he answered gravely. “And—and rainbows. Stars, too. And candle-flies. Spanish moss—sometimes.”
“Why sometimes?” Mary Ann said.
‘Cause it’s dark sometimes and ugly. I only like it when it’s pretty.”
“You mean when it has sunlight in it?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“What else?”
“Flowers and apples and—and a gun!”
“A gun!” Mary Ann said. “Do you like to kill things?”
“No. But a gun’s pretty, too. A shiny gun. Besides, it makes a nice noise.”
Mary Ann frowned. He is a Benton after all, she thought sadly; I had forgotten that.
“Can I go now, Mama?” Jeb said.
“Yes, love,” Mary Ann whispered, and her voice was very sad.
“Lemme try it, Stone,” Jeb begged. “Bet I can shoot good, too!”
“Aw, you’re too little,” Stone said. “This here gun’ll knock you plumb over. Then you’ll go running to Ma.”
“He can’t,” Nat pointed out; “Ma’s down at the store. ‘Sides, he ain’t so bad, Stone. He don’t cry half as much as most kids.”
Wade put down his bowl with trembling hands. There was a malicious glint in his pale little eyes.
“Let him try, Stone!” he called in his thick, blurry voice. “He’s got to learn some time.”
Jeb looked at him in pure astonishment. Help from this source was the last thing on earth he expected.
“Go ahead, boy!” Wade called. “Try it!”
Stone gave him the gun. Happily he levelled it. Then, without seeming to take aim, he fired first one barrel, then the other. Two whisky bottles crashed into iridescent showers of powdered glass.
The twins stared at him incredulously.
“Do that again!” Stone demanded. “Bet it was a fluke!” Nat passed him over his own gun. Although the fowling-pieces were both small and light, being little bigger than a twenty-calibre rifle, they dwarfed the little boy. Yet Jeb lifted it without apparent effort. He was very thin; but now, as he aimed Nat’s gun, Wade saw that his thinness was all wiry strength.
This time he fired more slowly; but the results were the same. Two more bottles disappeared into showers of glass.
The twins looked at each other. Simultaneously they nodded.
“He can shoot,” Nat said gravely. “Now we have to take him with us.”
“All right,” Stone said, “but ‘possum-hunting first. Target shooting’s one thing; hunting’s another. He do all right, we’ll take him after coon, then fox. Have to try him first, though.”
Jeb stared at his brothers. He was beside himself with joy.
“You really going to take me?” he breathed.
“Yep,” Stone said, “tonight.”
He had suffered at his brothers’ hands, but not because they were cruel. They were simply Bentons, which meant they were hard and rough and thoughtless, and impatient with anything small and weak. They didn’t dislike their baby brother; they had merely, up to now, considered him a pest. But they were eminently fair: that he could shoot changed things considerably. And being entirely sure of themselves, this revelation of his skill caused them neither anxiety nor jealousy. They were, in fact, at that moment, rather proud of him.
“He’ll do,” Stone said; and Nat nodded in sage agreement. On the veranda Wade sat back in his chair, and his thoughts were black and bitter.
The little bastard’s all right, he thought. Took me ten years to learn to shoot like that, and he does it the first time. Clint, then; not Oren. Still, it don’t prove nothing. Oren’s a hell of a fine shot, too; and can he ride! Trouble is, that damn little woods-colt don’t look like neither one of them. Could even be mine, though I doubt it. Mine, he could of took after Pa a little; but then, if he’s Clint’s, he could of took after Pa just the same. Hell of a thing. ‘Side from that god-awful birthday party, that time, ain’t nobody ever seen Mary Ann so much as speak to Clint, far as I know; but Oren—
The thing that he was remembering, the root and fount of his confusion, existed for him only in the grey distortions of a sick memory. He had never discussed it with Mary Ann, had, in fact, never so much as mentioned it to her, so he had no way of knowing the truth of it; had had, therefore, to judge only by appearances, thereby condemning her, who was guiltless of this one thing at least
, and condemning himself, too, to a disastrous retreat out of the saving grace of ignorance into a wilderness of half knowledge, of conflicting beliefs, which was, for him, far worse.
He had come home in the surrey, propped up on pillows, that time of his first serious attack, some weeks after Clint’s disappearance in the autumn of ‘seventy-three; and as Caleb had driven him into the yard, he had seen Oren Bascomb standing under the oak tree, holding Mary Ann, quiet and unresisting, in his arms.
Until then he had been sure that, if she had a lover at all, it was Clint; but seeing that, his bitter inclination to read all human actions in terms of planned deceit told him how easily the very fierceness of her dislike, of her scorn for Oren, could be the best of all concealments; that even Clint himself had been perhaps for a deliberate false spoor laid down to throw him off the trail.
Worse, through his connection with the Knights of the White Camellia, he, alone of all the family, had been aware of how long Oren had been in the parish; now, counting backwards from the date of Jeb’s birth, it fitted with damning exactitude. Of course, Clint had been in Benton’s Row during the same period; grounds for suspicion existed in the fact that he had left precipitately directly afterwards; but he had seen her with Oren, and no one had ever seen her with Clint. Which proved nothing. He knew that. What he did not know, the sole factor he lacked to clarify his thinking, was that Oren, seeing the surrey long before Mary Ann had, had deliberately put his arms around her, knowing that he, Wade, must see it; and she, being grown up now, being mature, had already so perfected her defences that she no longer needed to struggle. She had merely said quietly:
“Don’t be tiresome, Oren; you should know by now that won’t get you anywhere.”
Whereupon Oren released her; but too late. The damage had been done.
Wade picked up the bowl again, fighting against the shaking in his hands. The grits were cold; but he ate them doggedly. Going to need all my strength, he thought; going to need every damned bit.
Clint now, He’s been back in town for more than a month in connection with that damyankee education fund for the niggers. Hear tell he helped organise it. Well, he’s going to git hisself a surprise. Now that there school-house is finished, we’re going to take care of him! Can’t have this damned foolishness about educating niggers. Teach a nigger to read, and you ruin a good plough-hand—and that’s a fact. Take care of that horse-faced Yankee witch he brung with him at the same time. Hell of a name: Prudence Crandall-Hyde. We’ll teach her some prudence all right. . . .
He stared at the boys without really seeing them.
Yep, Clint’s been here a month. In all that time he ain’t been near the store. He called on Ma and Randy—still does right frequent. But he don’t so much as look at Mary Ann. Means he ain’t interested—or he’s being double careful. Lord Jesus, how I’d like to know!
He looked up in time to see Floyd Nolan enter the gates. Nolan was the present titular head of the Knights; but he consulted regularly with Wade, took orders from him, was, in actual fact, no more than Wade’s lieutenant. It pleased the Benton in Wade to know that even in his semi-invalid state, sitting on his veranda, he was able to control the entire parish as effectively as he had when he had ridden at the head of his men. This seeming lust for power was, in him, far from the simple thing it appeared. He needed to rule men and events not for any tangible benefits accruing to himself, but to make up for his illness, both actual and spiritual. He could say to himself, “Weakest man in the Knights could push me over with one finger, but I control ‘em, damned if I don’t. It’s what’s between the ears that counts, not muscle. And I’ve got that all right.”
He was not entirely wrong. His enforced idleness had given him time for scheming; his association with Oren Bascomb had given him both the taste for it and the practice. And in the community of simple men a schemer did not need to be polished to be effective. He sat there smiling to himself, waiting for Nolan.
“Howdy,” Nolan said. “That there school, Wade—”
“Has been running a full week. Every nigger what can is going—from piccaninnies to grandpas. That what you come to tell me?”
“Lord God!” Floyd Nolan said. “Ain’t there nothing you don’t know?”
“Precious little! Think it’s about time?”
“Hell, yes,” Nolan spat. “Don’t throw the fear of God into them niggers soon, they’ll be completely out of hand.”
“Good. Tonight, then. Now, Nolan, do me a favour. Go ‘round back and tell Caleb to hitch up my buckboard. I’m going into town with you. Doc Randy won’t let me ride a hoss no more. But I wouldn’t miss this show tonight for nothing in the world.”
“All right,” Nolan said. “Boys be glad to have you. Give ‘em a mite more sperrit.”
Nolan drove the buckboard, with his own horse tied behind, because the chronic shaking in Wade’s hands, which had also been a result of the last attack, made even this simple task quite difficult for him.
“Leave me off at Doc Randy’s,” Wade told him. “I’m about due for a check-up.”
“Right,” Floyd Nolan said.
The first thing Wade saw when he entered the yard was Buford’s wife, Cindy, sitting under a shade tree, reading a story to their four-year-old son. Wade stopped beside her, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Mister Wade,” Cindy smiled. “Howdy, sir. I’ll go tell Doctor Randy—”
“No,” Wade growled; “go on with your reading. I want to hear you. Ain’t never heard a nigger read before. Go on, Cindy—read!”
“Yessir,” Cindy said uncertainly. Little Fred stared at Wade.
“Go on, Cindy, I’m waiting,” Wade said.
She started to read again slowly. She read quite well, though she mispronounced some of the words, and had a tendency to halt upon each word like a child, augmented now by her nervousness, that made the reading jerky. Still, all things considered, it really wasn’t bad.
“And Buford can read too?” Wade said.
“Yessir. Better’n me, sir. But then Buford’s much smarter.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Wade said helplessly. “No, don’t get up, I’ll just go on in.”
He found Randy in the dining-room, sitting over the remnants of the midday meal. Sarah was there, too. But what brought Wade to a dead halt in the doorway was the sight of Clinton Dupré standing by the fireplace, chatting easily, gaily, with them.
Wade stood there a moment, thinking: Mustn’t show my hand. Handle this like Oren would—play my cards close to my chest. Got a chance now to get this bastard brother of mine where I want him.
He limped into the room.
“Howdy all,” he said quietly.
The way they all stiffened pleased him. Randy and Ma know something, or think they do, he thought. Not that I’ll ever git it out of them. Don’t need to, though—don’t matter much whether I know for sure or not. Tonight I’m going to git rid of this bastard for good and all.
“Howdy, son,” Sarah said.
Wade hobbled over to Clint and put out his hand.
“Glad to see you back, Clint,” he said. “Staying long?”
“No,” Clint said, as he shook hands, “I’m leaving day after tomorrow, in fact.”
“That’s so? I must say you ain’t showed much family spirit, boy. You been here more than a month and we ain’t seen hair nor hide of you at Broad Acres. Not even at the store, which would have been more convenient for you.”
“I’ve been—busy,” Clint said.
“So I heard. How’s your nigger school coming?”
“Just fine,” Clint said. “I rather thought you wouldn’t approve of the idea, Wade.”
“I don’t,” Wade said bluntly. “Don’t think book-learning does niggers any good. Teach ‘em to plough, and do mechanical work, I say. Besides, we got a State law now, providing for their education.”
“I,” Clint pointed out evenly, “have seen precious. few signs of its operation, Wade.”
“Give u
s time, boy. State’s damn near bankrupt, you know. Reckon we’ve got to teach the niggers a little reading, writing and figuring. Don’t object to that so much. What I do object to is having it done by outsiders. Makes misfits of our niggers. Better to have them educated for their proper place in society by folks who make up that society. That’s my whole bone of contention.”
“Wade!” Randy said warningly.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” Wade grinned, “I don’t aim to git excited. ‘Sides, world’s big enough for differences of opinion now. I don’t hold it against Clint how he feels about things.”
“Good,” Clint said. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Wade.”
Wade smiled slowly.
“Look, Clint,” he said, “why don’t you ride over to the store with me after Doc Randy gits through with me? Mary Ann’s been pining to see you. Feels right smart bad you ain’t even stopped in to say hello.”
“I didn’t know that I was welcome, Wade,” Clint said flatly.
Wade opened his little eyes wide.
“Just because you and me had words the last time you was out to the place? Heck, boy, I don’t hold grudges.”
“Then I’ll come,” Clint said.
“Good,” Wade said. “I’m ready, Randy.”
“All right,” Randy said coldly, “come along, then.”
Riding over to the store, Wade kept up a steady stream of talk.
“Going to drop in on that school of yours, soon as I feel up to it,” he said. “Must be a funny sight to see niggers trying to git book-learning through their thick skulls.”
“No,” Clint said gravely. “As a matter of fact, it’s rather pitiful. They try so hard; you’d think their lives depended upon it. Some of them, like Buford and Cindy, are remarkable, though.”
“That’s so? Reckon they can’t all be dumb.” Wade turned his face sideways, watching Clint out of the corner of his eyes. “You ought to see my twins, Clint,” he said; “what boys! Ride, shoot, and hunt like men. The little fellow’s coming right along, too.”
“The little fellow?” Clint said.