The house sitting not far distant was small and unpainted, its rough boards weathered to silver-gray. The yard was bare and simple, swept free of grass and leaves, with rock borders marking where flower beds would bloom again in the spring. There was a well-tended winter garden behind the house, its rows of turnip and mustard greens stretching almost to the woods beyond, and fields of dry cotton plants going off into the distance. Janson looked until he found the well near the back porch of the house, and he drew a bucketful of water, then returned to the barn to bathe there in the chill air as best he could, using the frigid water, and a torn pair of underdrawers from his portmanteau as a wash cloth. He dressed and then rinsed out the clothes he had worn and slept in for the past two days, and slung them over a stall in the barn, to dry, possibly even to freeze, in the frigid air; then he went outside.
By the time the family was about, he had swept out the yard and begun to clean out the barn as repayment for the food he had been given and the shelter he had enjoyed for the night—as he had told the woman, he accepted no charity. He was served breakfast at the table just as if he were kin, and later, as Mattie Ruth and Titus Coates were off doing whatever work that rich folks like the Whitleys could find for them to do, he busied his hands again—chopping wood and stacking it near the back wall of the kitchen to dry; repairing a broken hinge on the barn door, and several shutters on the house; and was just completing the work on several chairs he had found on the back porch in various stages of being re-bottomed when Mattie Ruth Coates came home from the big house that afternoon to fix her husband’s supper before returning to prepare her employer’s meal.
When she saw all the work that had been done, she shook her head with amazement and looked up at him. “Lord, boy, your hands ain’ been still a minute, have they?” she said, settling herself in one of the newly re-bottomed chairs to test it. “There ain’ no reason somebody like you ought t’ have t’ steal t’ eat, not hard as you work.”
Janson looked at her, but did not respond, knowing there was reason in life for many things.
After a moment he said: “I was wonderin’ if I could stay th’ night in your barn again. I’ll be gone by first light t’morrow—”
“You’re welcome t’ stay long as you want. I kind ’a hate t’ see you go. It’s nice havin’ a young man aroun’ th’ place again, after both our own boys bein’ killed in th’ War—you goin’ back home t’ Alabama?”
“There ain’t no reason for me t’ go back. My folks’re dead, an’ my land’s gone. I guess I’ll just be movin’ on; I got t’ find work—”
“Well, if it’s work you’re lookin’ for, you ought t’ go talk t’ Mist’ Whitley. He wouldn’t take you on t’ crop, since you ain’ got no family t’ work as well, but he’s always takin’ on men for wages, farmhands an’ th’ like. If you want, my Titus’ll walk up there with you after supper t’night—”
Janson looked at her for a moment, thinking—one place was as good as any other, he supposed, and a rich man like Whitley might even pay better than most. Besides, he still did not have any money, and he knew he would have to eat. He had already failed miserably at being a thief once; he did not want to be reduced to trying it again.
“I’ll talk t’ Whitley,” he told her after a time, telling himself that it would not be for long. Once he had some money, he could move on to some other place. All he needed now was the money.
As Janson started toward the big house that evening, he found himself wondering at the older man who walked at his side. Titus Coates had spoken hardly a word to him since they had met the night before, just the barest “Mornin’—” or “Evenin’—” as they had passed, but there was something about the man Janson found he instinctively respected, something he liked and trusted, and he found himself wanting Titus Coates’ respect as well. Titus would have to know that he had been found stealing, for his wife would have told him that—but there was nothing in the older man’s manner to show he even thought of it as they left the bare-swept yard that evening and started up the road toward the big house.
“Th’ folks’ll be finished with supper by now,” Titus said, staring at the point where the red clay road twisted darkly between winter-dead cotton fields ahead. “Mist’ William’ll say he’s busy when we ask, but he’ll talk t’ us. He let a man go jus’ th’ other day an’ he’ll be needin’ somebody.”
“What’s he like t’ work for?” Janson asked.
“Well—” Titus fell silent for a moment. “He kin be a hard man t’ work for, but he’ll be right fair with you if you’re doin’ your job like you’re suppose t’ be doin’ it. He’ll pay you jus’ like he says he’ll pay you, an’ he’ll ’spect t’ get his money’s worth out ’a you in turn. Keeps my missus up there ’til all hours, cookin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ seein’ after th’ family; an’ he keeps me runnin’ here an’ yonder, goin’ int’ town or all th’ way up t’ Buntain, an’ even t’ Columbus some, totin’ packages for Miz’ Whitley when she goes shoppin’, or keepin’ an eye on them two little gals when they’re ’roun’; doin’ chores an’ keepin’ th’ cars runnin’ an’ fixin’ things ’roun’ here—he’ll keep you busy, but you know how rich folks are—”
Yeah, I know—Janson thought, but said nothing.
“Now, Miz’ Whitley, she’s a gentle-like lady, givin’ t’ jus’ ’bout everybody. She’d give th’ last bite ’a food off th’ table an’ th’ clothes right off her back t’ somebody needin’ ’em, if Mist’ William ’d let her. Folks’ll take ’vantage ’a that sometime, as folks’ll do—’specially them four young’ns ’a hers. There ain’ a one of ’em got a mind t’ listen t’ nobody, ’cept maybe Mist’ Stan, ’a course, th’ youngest. Th’ two oldes’ boys, Mist’ Bill Whitley an’ Mist’ Alfred, now they do pretty much whatever it is they take int’ their minds ’a doin’, an’ there ain’ nobody that kin stop ’em—it comes from bein’ spoil’t all their lives, I’d say, always gettin’ what they want. A good switchin’ like th’ ones I use t’ give my boys’d done ’em both a heap ’a good a few years back. They both jus’ like their daddy anyway, stubborn an’ set in their ways, with tempers like shouldn’t no man have; ain’ scared ’a God Almighty or nobody else, I’d say—it’s th’ Whitley in ’em, same as in their daddy an’ in his daddy ’afore him. Mist’ Alfred’s still young, but it’s that Bill Whitley I sometime wonder about—”
For a moment Titus fell silent, and Janson glanced over at him. There was a peculiar look on the old man’s face even in the darkness, and something of it stayed there even as he shook his head and continued.
“There ain’ much I’d put past that Bill Whitley, boy,” he said. “You jus’ stay clear ’a him whenever you can. That one loves money, maybe even better’n his daddy does, an’ he likes t’ boss folks ’roun’, tell ’em what t’ do, even when he ain’ got no business doin’ it. Got a streak in him that—well—” Again he fell silent, and Janson looked at him. There was a sigh from the darkness, and the old man shook his head again. “Mist’ Alfred, now that one’s only a boy, even if he does think hisself full-growed a man. ’Bout your age, thinks he’s real sharp with th’ town girls, always dresses hisself up like a real dandy, an’ he’s got th’ one reddest head ’a hair you ever did see in your life, an’ a temper t’ match it. Fancies all th’ news ’a them gangsters on th’ radio—that ain’ good for a body, I’d say, listin’ t’ all that talk ’bout them crooks an’ crim’nals bootleggin’ liquor an’ totin’ guns an’ sech way up North. You don’t hear ’bout sech goin’s on down here in Georgia where decent folks live, now, do you?”
His words paused for a moment, as if he expected Janson to respond, but Janson could think of nothing to say. He did not know anything about gangsters, or about criminals bootlegging liquor up North, and had heard a radio only once or twice in his life in the country stores back home. He knew that moonshiners and bootleggers operated stills in the backwoods in many areas; he and
his father had even happened on a bootlegging operation once while hunting, and he had long ago been initiated to corn liquor himself—but he knew very little of the world the old man was talking about, of speakeasies and gangsters and the Prohibition agents everyone called “revenuers.” He had not been raised in a world of radios, or even of electric lights and running water and telephones, and he realized for the first time in his life how very different the world was becoming now, a world where someone in Georgia could know what was going on up North, or anywhere else in the world, just by turning a radio dial.
After a moment he realized that Titus was waiting for a response, but he could still think of nothing to say. He glanced over at the old man, saying the first thing that came to his mind. “You said th’ youngest boy ain’t too much like th’ other two.”
“No, Mist’ Stan ain’ too much like nobody else in th’ family, ’cept maybe he looks a good bit like his mama,” Titus answered, seeming to be satisfied. “He favors Mist’ Bill, too—but I’d say ways makes lots ’a difference in folks, an’ Mist’ Stan’s shore different from th’ rest ’a them young’ns in his ways. He’s quiet an’ all ’til he gets t’ know you, but then he kin talk your arm right off, wantin’ t’ know th’ whys and what-fors for everythin’—kin drive a body t’ distraction sometime, but he’s a good boy. Always got his nose in some book; don’t never cause no trouble t’ nobody. I doubt he’s ever give his mama cause for one gray hair in all his life—not like them other two boys an’ Miss Elise. With them three, it’s a miracle Miz’ Whitley ain’ done white haired a’ready. An’ Miss Elise ought t’ know better, but she’s spoil’t an’ all, like th’ only’st girl’s libles t’ be in any family. She’s pretty as a picture, with red-gold hair an’ pretty blue eyes—but she’s a Whitley through and through, stubborn like Mist’ William, an’ spoil’t; an’ that Phyllis Ann Bennett don’t help matters none. She’s always fillin’ Miss Elise’s head with all kinds ’a nonsense since she come back from spendin’ a couple weeks in New York City with some cousin ’a hers back summer ’fore last. She even got Miss Elise t’ bob her hair off—Lor’, but Mist’ William almost took th’ roof off th’ place over that!” The old man sighed and shook his head. “That Phyllis Ann ain’ no kind ’a girl for Miss Elise t’ be runnin’ ’roun’ with, her wearin’ her skirts up t’ her knees an’ rollin’ her stockin’s down t’ where anybody kin see th’ tops of ’em, smokin’ right in front ’a grown folks. I don’t think her folks say anythin’ t’ her about her ways anymore; I don’t guess they can—”
Again he fell silent as they walked along, and Janson found himself shaking his own head this time, imagining for a moment how William Whitley must have felt the day his daughter had come home looking like some city flapper, with her hair bobbed off and her skirts too short—he could almost feel sorry for the man, rich or not.
“Mist’ William ain’ too happy with Miss Elise bein’ friends with that Phyllis Ann no more, but they ain’ too much even him kin do about it. Them two little gals ’s thick as thieves, an’ they have been since they was jus’ babies. After Miss Elise went an’ bobbed her hair off, he packed her up an’ sent her off t’ some girls’ school up in Atlanta where Miz’ Whitley went when she was a girl, but th’ next thing you knowed that Phyllis Ann was goin’ too—not even Mist’ William kin find a way ’roun’ that daughter ’a his when her mind’s sot on somethin’—” he said as they rounded a bend in the red clay road and came to within sight of the big house at a distance beyond the magnolias and the oaks that stood in the wide front yard. “I doubt if Miz’ Whitley’s had even one minute’s peace in her mind since Miss Elise’s been gone off up there with that little Bennett gal, worryin’ about her even more’n when she was here. They ain’ no tellin’ what them two little gals ’s liables t’ get int’ off up there on they own—” he said. “Ain’ no tellin’—” And then he fell silent as they approached the house.
Janson stared up at the lighted windows before him, thinking of rich folks and their ways—what the world needed even less of, he told himself, was more fancied-up, bobbed-haired women, Miss Elise Whitley and her friend Phyllis Ann Bennett included.
He and Titus passed through the yard, trodding over the now winter-brown grass, and, as Janson stared down at it, he thought again of how much more pleasing to the eye the yards of the regular country-folk seemed: hard-packed clay swept free of grass and weeds, with uneven borders of rocks marking where the many flower beds would stand again in the spring and summer. There was absolutely no sensible reason, he told himself, for a man to sow grass in his yard, only to have to tend and cut it in the warm months—it could not be sold or eaten or made into clothes; all it could do was create more work for a man who had work enough already. It just did not make sense.
As they neared the house, Titus led him around toward the rear of the structure, and Janson went, though he felt his pride ruffle—for the first time in his life he realized there were front doors in this world he could not go to, houses he would not be able to enter as a man; that this was one of them, one of many.
The rear door of the house swung inward as they stepped up onto the back veranda, Mattie Ruth’s ample form framed in the open doorway by the light falling from the wide hall behind her. “I seen you comin’ from th’ front parlor while I was straightenin’ up,” she said and stepped back to let them enter. “Everybody’s done finished eatin’ now; Mist’ William’s in th’ library—”
Janson followed Titus in through the doorway, blinking to adjust his eyes to the brightness of the glaring electric light there in the hall. Very few times in his life had he ever been in houses lighted by electricity, and he did not like it, preferring by far the more-familiar muted glow of kerosene lamps, or even simple firelight, to the white, glaring brightness electricity created.
Once he could see better, he stared around himself with surprise at this place before him, from the waxed wooden flooring, to the walls papered with floral designs, to the heavily lacquered hall table against one wall, and the richly brocaded settee tucked in just opposite beneath where the staircase rose toward the back of the house and the floor above. At the far end of the wide hall stood double doors that opened out onto the front veranda, and, as Janson stared toward them, he noticed for the first time the transom of colored glass just above, as well as the matching glass panels on either side of the wide double doors, all inset with designs of blue and gold, and the frosted glass inserts in the doors themselves etched, he could tell even at that distance, with flower designs.
There were two identical crystal chandeliers of electric lights hanging from the carved ceiling at equal distances from the front and rear doors, and many doors opening off each side of the hallway, as well as a second, narrower hallway breaking off to one side of the house—Janson had never before in his life been in such a house as this, had never even believed that people could live in such a place. He stood just where he was, his eyes moving to the heavily framed paintings on the walls, the gilt-edged mirrors, and, at last, to the delicate what-nots of crystal and porcelain that sat on the hall table. He was almost afraid to move, afraid that he might break or damage something here in this fancy room.
“Y’all wait right here. I’ll tell Mist’ Whitley you’re wantin’ t’ talk t’ him,” Mattie Ruth said, then moved down the hallway, stopping at a door to the right and tapping lightly. A gruff voice answered from inside, the words unintelligible, and she opened the door and entered the room, closing the door again quietly behind herself.
Janson followed Titus toward the center of the hallway, still amazed that people lived in such a place. He could hear a radio playing from one of the rooms at the front of the house, jazz music from an orchestra, finally interrupted by an announcer’s voice, and, as he listened, he marveled again that he was hearing something from someplace far off, maybe even something from as far off as cities or even states away. After a moment, a young man of about his own age wal
ked out the doorway to the right of the hall, stopped and stared at them for a moment, then walked toward where they stood near the center of the hallway.
Alfred Whitley looked at them for a long moment, his blue eyes moving from Titus, to Janson, and then back again, and Janson knew without having to be told who he was—the red hair and the fancy clothes left little doubt in his mind. “Titus, what are you doing here?” Alfred Whitley asked, his eyes settling on the older man.
“I come t’ see ’bout findin’ work for this young man here with Mist’ William—Mist’ Alfred, this’s Janson Sanders: Janson, boy, this here’s Mist’ Alfred Whitley—”
Janson nodded his head, but the young man only stared at him in response. “Well, you’ve chosen a bad time. You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” the boy said, his voice taking on an authoritative tone as his eyes moved back to Titus. “My father is busy, and I just don’t—”
“Turn that confounded radio down like I told you to an hour ago!” A tall, stoutly-built man in his sixties stood now in the open doorway to the library, Mattie Ruth just behind him. His mouth was set in an aggravated line, a disapproving look on his face—a look Janson sensed was often there. Mr. William Whitley looked from his son, to Janson, and then to Titus, making a point of taking his watch from his vest pocket and checking the time, as if to tell them all there were much more important things he should be doing. Alfred stared at his father for a moment, then, with a clear look of anger on his face, he retreated to the parlor without another word. After a moment the music from the radio died away.
“Titus, man, what in the name of God do you want at this time of night?” William Whitley demanded, clear annoyance in his voice and manner as he replaced the watch in his vest pocket and stared at the two men before him, an unlit cigar held securely between the index and middle fingers of one hand. “Well, speak up man!”
“Mist’ Whitley, this here’s Janson Sanders. He’s needin’ work, an’ I was wonderin’ if you might be needin’ a extra hand ’bout now?”
Behold, This Dreamer Page 9