Janson was sore and bruised by the time he woke on the hard floor of the rail car the next morning. It was not even daylight yet, and the car seemed damp and cold and lonely around him as he sat up in the darkness, trying to pull his coat closer about himself, seeking warmth he knew was not there. He had never been so cold or so hungry before in all his life, or so stiff and sore—but he knew he was lucky to even be alive this morning, lucky to have survived the day he had just seen.
He moved back out of the chill air that washed over him from the open doorway of the car, and sat cross-legged against a wall, closing his eyes against the darkness. The constant rocking and swaying motion of the train only increased the nausea that was already inside of him from his gnawing and empty stomach—he was so tired, having slept so little in the hours he had spent on the hard floor during the night. He had no idea where he was now, no idea in what direction the train was traveling in anymore without the sun or stars to use as a guide.
As light finally came, he moved to look out the open doorway of the car, finding the land the train was traveling through to seem strange and flat to his eyes already longing for sight of the hilly red land of Eason County. There were wide expanses of winter-barren fields, broken by woods, houses, towns, and settlements, but it all seemed strange and new and unknown to him. He wondered what he would do now, with the little money that he had had now gone. He could not ride the rails forever, living like the tramps and hobos, hopping boxcars from town to town, begging, stealing, barely even getting by. He had to find a place to start, work he could do to earn money, a place to sleep, food to eat—and, at the moment, food seemed of the most importance. It had been more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew now as he sat staring out the open doorway, his arms folded over his empty, complaining stomach, that he had never been so hungry before in all his life.
Soon the train began to slow, coming into the outskirts of a small town. There were neat rows of white houses alongside the tracks, stretching for streets away through a village, the large, brick cotton mill at its center belching lint and smoke through the quiet town. Even though this land was much flatter, it reminded him too much of Pine, too much of the Easons’ cotton mill and the village, and memories came flooding back over him, renewing the hatred, and the determination—he would go back. The Easons had not beaten him yet, would never beat him. He would go back.
The train began to slow even further, drawing nearer to the depot—he would stay here for only a few days, find work that could give him food and a place to sleep, maybe even a little money. Then he would move on to some place less like Pine, some place that would bring fewer memories of a home he could no longer touch. Only a few days—
The train slowly came to a standstill at the depot, then rolled forward before finally stopping with a shudder alongside the platform. Janson moved back into the darkness within the car, not wanting to risk being seen before he could have the chance to leave the train. He gathered together his shoes and the portmanteau, then moved toward the doorway to risk a look out—but he quickly moved back. A man was making his way down the length of the train, checking cars as he went, pulling himself up to look inside each, and then moving on. He held a thick cudgel in one hand, which he pounded into the open palm of the other as he walked—only a few cars, and he would be at the one where Janson crouched hidden in the darkness. Only a few cars—
Janson risked another look out, seeing the man pull himself up into a car only a few distant. He knew he would be certain to be seen once the man reached this car, for there was no place to run, nowhere to hide. In a fair fight he knew he could hold his own with any man—but the cudgel changed the odds, and Janson Sanders would not easily submit to a beating at the hands of any man. He had only his two fists to defend himself with, but, even if there had been a weapon for his own use, he knew they were too close to the station. Others would come, and he would be beaten anyway.
He looked toward the woods that stood at a distance on the other side of the depot. There was a lot of open ground in between, but it was the only hope he had. He waited until the man had pulled himself up into the next car, then jumped down and started to run, holding his shoes and the portmanteau against his side. There was a shout and a curse from behind him, but he did not look back, keeping his eyes on the woods ahead as he ran, determined that he would not fall to that cudgel, determined that he would not—
He broke into the woods, low branches slapping at his face, brambles sticking his feet, vines almost tripping him—but he continued to run, hearing the man come crashing into the underbrush behind him. His side began to hurt with the effort, and he lost his shoes once only to have to stop and grab them up again, thinking that it seemed the man would never give up, that he would never turn back. A branch released too early lashed at his face and almost caught his eye; his left knee began to hurt again as it had not hurt since the night of the fire, threatening to fail him, threatening to end the flight—and then the sounds from behind him stopped.
Janson paused for a moment, listening, making certain, a cautious relief flooding over him as silence filled the woods. He limped over to a tree and dropped his things, leaning against its rough bark to catch his breath. After a time he looked around himself, realizing that he had no idea how to find his way out of the woods, or even how to find his way back to the depot. Then he sighed, picked up his things, chose a direction, and started to walk.
It began to rain long before he found his way clear of the woods, a cold, chilling rain that became a steady, icy downpour by the time he came to a clearing and found himself back at the edge of the town. He was soaked through to the skin, chilled, hungry, and hurting—and he already hated like hell this place he had found himself.
That was the longest day Janson felt that he ever lived through. He tried for hours, through the day and long into the evening, to find work he could do in exchange for a meal and a place he could spend the cold night ahead. He stopped at first one house and then another in the town, offering to chop wood or do chores, to do anything that might need to be done in exchange for food and dry shelter for one night—but at one house he was run off with a shotgun, at another a pan of dirty dishwater was thrown at him, chilling him only further. As afternoon came, he headed out into the countryside, believing that among the farm people he would surely find work, food, and a place he could rest—but dogs were set on him at one place, the door closed in his face at another. Sharecropping families said there was work to be done, but that they had trouble enough to feed their own. The more well-off farmers looked at him suspiciously and ordered him from their land. By evening he was tired and angry. It had been much more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew he would have to do something before darkness fell. He could not sleep out in the open tonight; the air felt chill and sharp, and the late afternoon sky looked right for a rare snow. He had no intention of freezing to death during the cold night ahead, not even if that meant having to put himself up in some farmer’s barn for the night without the owner’s knowing—but he had to do something about food. He would have to eat, and eat soon, and it would not be long before dark—
The house he chose was large and white, with dark-painted shutters on either side of its many windows. Electric light shone from within, and Janson could dimly hear the sounds of a radio playing as he crouched in the darkness, his eyes on the lighted windows. It was a big place, two stories, with six, tall white columns in the front, six matching ones in the rear, and a covered walkway leading to a large kitchen standing separate and apart at the back of the house. It was this latter structure that he watched now, seeing people go earlier to-and-fro over the walkway to the back veranda and in through a door to what had to be the dining room, a heavy-set woman in a dark dress with a bun of hair pinned at the back of her head, hurrying through the chill air with platters and bowls of what had to be steaming food. He could smell meats and gravy as he slipped closer to the house and spied i
n through the dining room windows—bowls and plates and serving dishes sat on the heavily-varnished table, heaped high with potatoes, beans, and corn. Nearby sat a platter covered with meat, another with what looked to be fresh-baked bread and creamy yellow butter; there was the smell of coffee, the sight of a deep-dish pie for dessert—his mouth was watering, and his empty stomach aching as he moved back into the darkness away from the house and waited for the lights to go out and the place to quiet down. He had come to a decision, a decision he had not wanted to make. Never once in all his life had he ever stolen from anyone—but tonight he would. Tonight he would steal food because he had to eat to live. Tonight he would become a thief.
He waited in the darkness, his resolve becoming easier with the passing minutes and with the smell of good food that came to him from both the house and the separate kitchen. He had known what he would have to do, had passed by the houses of the small farmers, and the shacks and shanties of the sharecroppers, until he had come upon this place. If he had to steal, then he would steal from someone who could afford it, from these rich folks, and not from some poor farmer or sharecropping family. These people, with their motor cars and their fancy clothes, their electric lights and running water and big table covered with fine china and silver—folks like these would hardly miss the little it would take to fill his stomach.
He crouched in the darkness, listening to the faint sound of a radio from somewhere within the house—no one should have so much, he told himself. Not the Easons, not these folks, not anybody. Not when all he wanted was those red acres back in Eason County, the old house, things to be like they used to be. Not when he was hungry and cold and tired and only God knew where.
After a time that seemed to him to stretch into forever, the big house grew still and quiet, and the electric lights downstairs shut out. He continued to watch until the light went out in the kitchen as well, waiting until the dark form of a woman emerged, and then blended into the greater darkness leading away from the house. Then he cautiously crept closer to the kitchen, listening, wary. He knelt for a moment near the back veranda, his eyes moving through the darkness, then he quickly moved up the few steps to the covered walkway and hurried toward the door to the kitchen. He paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob—then he was suddenly inside with the door closed behind him, safe and alone.
He stood there for a moment, looking around the room in the darkness, thinking again of what it was he was doing—but the smell of food that still hung in the air spurred him to action. He made his way across the bare wood floor, past the kitchen table and some kind of fancy stove, his eyes on an open doorway at the rear of the room—he could see shelves of glass canning jars gleaming in the bare light that filtered through the single window beyond. There were barrels nearby, the smell of apples coming from them, bins of flour and meal, sacks of onions, and strings of dried pepper hanging from the ceiling. He closed the second door behind himself and made his way toward the shelves, kneeling in the darkness and taking up first one of the glass jars, and then another, trying to discern the contents: tomatoes, corn, jelly, what looked to be preserves, sweet pickles, relish, pepper sauce, peaches. His empty stomach aching, he tested the lid on one of the jars, straining against it, and finally feeling it loosen and unscrew in his hands. He stuck his fingers in the jar, smelling the scent of the peaches inside, taking out one of the halves with his fingers and shoving it greedily into his mouth—I’m a thief, he told himself, so hungry that he did not care as he licked the syrup from his fingers. I’ll be damned if it’s right for any man to go hungry, he thought, and stuck his fingers back into the jar for another peach half. I’ll be damned if—
There was a sound from the kitchen, a creaking of the floorboards, and then the door flew inward, rebounding off the wall nearby, and then caught and held in a firm grip. Janson turned quickly, almost dropping the jar in his hands, almost choking on the food in his mouth. There was no way out—he knew he was caught.
“You put that jar down an’ come on out ’a there where I can see you!” the woman demanded, her broad body effectively blocking the doorway into the kitchen, a large, black cast-iron skillet held raised in one hand as if she were intent on using it as a weapon. “Come on out ’a there, I tell you!”
Janson stood slowly, setting the jar of peaches down on the shelf nearby, his eyes moving to the room beyond her—he’d never make it. Even if he could shove her aside and get past her, she would yell and bring help from the big house. He would be caught, treated as a thief, when his only crime had been to—
She cautiously backed away as he moved forward, then again, moving toward the center of the room as they entered the kitchen. One of her hands moved upward, feeling in the air for something and finally hitting it, then pulling on a drawstring to flood the room with electric light from the bare lamp that hung suspended there at the end of a long cord from the ceiling. Janson raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring light, and blinked painfully, trying to adjust his sight to the sudden brightness in the room. When he could see again, he looked at the woman—she was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of iron-gray hair drawn into a heavy bun at the back of her neck. Her dress was loose and dark, pinned at the throat by a simple brooch; her coat plain and shapeless, hanging to within inches of the ugly black shoes on her feet. She stared at him as he lowered his hand, something in her eyes clearly saying that she did not trust him any more than the thief she thought him to be.
“I knowed I saw somebody movin’ aroun’ outside in th’ dark,” she said, lowering the skillet only slightly. “What you got t’ say for yourself, boy? What’s your name?—I don’t know your face; you ain’ from aroun’ here.”
When Janson did not answer, she raised the skillet again. “Speak up, boy, what’s your name?”
“My name’s Janson Sanders,” he said, raising his chin slightly.
“‘Janson Sanders’, sayin’ it all kind ’a prideful like—ain’ nothin’ prideful ’bout bein’ a thief.”
“I ain’t no thief.”
“Ain’ no thief!—when I caught you in th’ storeroom myself! It’s a good thing I forgot my pocketbook an’ had t’ come back for it, or you’d ’a likely stole us out ’a house an’ home! What you got t’ say for yourself, boy, stealin’ from good, hones’ folks like—”
“Somebody like you’d ’a never missed what it took for me t’ eat.”
“Somebody like me! It don’t matter who you’re stealin’ from, stealin’s still stealin’—an’ this place ain’ mine; it b’longs t’ Mist’ Whitley, like most everythin’ else aroun’ here does. An’ you better be glad it was me that caught you, an’ not him; he’d ’a been likely as not t’ shot you first—why didn’t you just knock at th’ door an’ ask t’ be fed if you was hongry?”
“I don’t take no charity!”
“Don’t take charity!—stealin’s better ’n charity t’ you, boy? That don’t make too much sense!” she said, but Janson did not answer her, angry—he did not know whether more at her, or at himself. “Looks t’ me like a strong young man like you’d be workin’ for his way, ’stead ’a stealin’ what other folks—”
“I tried all day t’ find work I could do for food an’ a place t’ sleep, an’ all I got around here was dogs set on me an’ guns pulled on me an’ I got run off folks land—” The words came out in an angry rush, and he immediately regretted them, seeing the look of pity that came to her face. She lowered the skillet and stared at him, but Janson only returned the look, lifting his chin defiantly.
“Where’re you from, boy?” she asked. When he did not answer she raised her voice. “Don’t do no good havin’ a chip on your shoulder so big that folks can see it a mile away—now, where’re you from?”
“Alabama,” he answered her shortly.
“Folks ain’ always like they ought t’ be, are they boy?” she asked him, not seeming to expect a response. After a moment, she sat the
skillet down on a nearby table and moved toward the fancy electric icebox that sat in one corner of the kitchen. “Miz’ Whitley ain’ never turned nobody away from her door hongry yet. You set down an’ I’ll see what I can fin’ t’—”
“I done told you I don’t take no charity!”
She turned an angry gaze back on him. “You better jus’ decide real quick which is more important t’ you, boy, your pride or your empty belly—”
For a moment he almost walked out of the kitchen, for he knew now that she would let him go. Then he heard her words, spoken back over her shoulder as if they were nothing: “Seems t’ me like a man’d be a fool t’ choose against a full belly, though.”
Janson thought for a moment, and then moved to sit down at the kitchen table. When he looked back up at the woman again she smiled and nodded, then turned back toward the electric icebox without another word.
Her name was Mattie Ruth Coates, and she had been on the Whitley place for almost longer than she could remember, she told him a short while later as she sat watching him greedily sop up gravy with half an eaten biscuit. Within an hour Janson found himself accompanying her through the woods to the small house that she and her husband, Titus, lived in on Whitley land. He was offered their barn as shelter for the night, even given one of her hand-pieced quilts to use against the cold, and introduced to a thin, badly balding man—but by then he was too tired to even remember the name. He crawled onto a pile of hay in the barn and pulled the quilt over himself, and was asleep almost before he knew it.
He woke the next morning even before daylight, the air cold and chill around him, the warm quilt a welcome cover against the dampness inside the old barn. He got up and went out into the yard before the structure, wanting to see this place he had found himself, for he had been too tired to remember much of anything he had seen the night before.
Behold, This Dreamer Page 8