“You want somethin’?” Janson had asked, annoyance clearly in his voice as he stared up at the man—he did not like being forced to look up to anyone, especially not a man like William Whitley. He had been plowing since shortly after sunrise that morning, and he was hungry now, with little time to rest or to eat before he would have to return to the fields and the plowing still left to be done.
Whitley stared down at him for a moment, taking the cigar from his mouth before answering. “You interested in earning some extra money, boy?” he had asked at last.
“Yeah, I’m interested,” Janson said. Whitley had taken him on for extra work before, hiring him to sweep out the barns, patch a roof, or clean out the chicken house; usually the dirtiest work Whitley could find that needed doing. The man oftentimes wanted to pay in food that was not always fit to eat, or wanted to apply the work against the small charge Janson had run at the store, but work was work, and there was always the chance he might pay in cash money this time, or at least in food that was fit to be eaten or traded for something else he could use even more. There had not been one offer of work, or of money, that Janson had turned down in the months he had been on the place—he had saved, scrimped, done without; and had worried over every single penny he had been forced to spend for food or for kerosene or matches or anything else he could not get in trade—it was worth it, worth anything, when he saw the money he had knotted into an old sock and hidden in the back of a drawer in the splintery old chifforobe in his room. Each Saturday that he received his pay that was the first place he went with his wages, or with any other cash money he could make from extra work or from selling what he was paid in trade; and he sometimes sat alone at night and counted it in the light of the single kerosene lamp in his room—not a fortune, but money he had earned, money he had saved, money he had worked for, money that would help him to buy a dream one day. Or, more properly, to buy one back.
“What you got that needs doin’?” Janson had asked, chewing into a biscuit of cold ham, ham he had taken in trade for more than two days’ work bottoming chairs for one of the local sharecroppers. He expected that Whitley would give him work much as he had given him before, farm chores, repair work, but was surprised when Whitley spoke again.
“I’m going to send you on an errand, boy. There’s something I want you to pick up for me in Buntain.”
“What’s that?”
Whitley stared at him for a long moment, not speaking. “I want you to bring back a load of sugar for me, boy—”
“Sugar?” Janson stared at him. Surely he had not heard right. Any kind of sweetening a man could want was already available right here on the place—sorghum, molasses, wild honey from bee trees in the woods or from gums kept out back of the main barn, cane syrup cooked down the previous fall in the syrup kettle out near the cane mill, white sugar that could be store-bought right on the place, or from the grocery stores in Goodwin or from the other County towns. He had even seen sacks of white sugar being unloaded at Whitley’s own store just a few days before, along with tin cans of peas and beans, colorful cloth sacks of flour, bolts of cloth, men’s overalls, ladies bloomers, and everything else that had come in on the big truck from Columbus. Surely he had not heard—
“Yeah, sugar—and don’t you go asking too many questions, boy, or telling anybody what I’m sending you after. You can drive a truck, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I can drive.”
“Good, I’ll have a truck waiting for you by the barn at dark. You’ll pick up the sugar and come back by the route I give you—it don’t much matter to me how you get there, but you come back just like I say, you got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Janson said, staring up at him.
“There’ll be a tarp in the back of the truck; you cover the sugar up and tie it down good before you head back—and you remember to keep your mouth shut, boy—”
Janson stared at him, comprehension slowly coming—sugar, and a large quantity of it if he would need a truck to haul it in, being bought quietly out of the County, brought in after dark. Suddenly he understood. There was only one thing that much sugar would be needed for, only one reason it would have to be purchased so quietly, and brought in under cover of darkness—Whitley was bootlegging, and he would be using Janson to make a haul of black market sugar. With the Prohibition laws so strict, and revenue agents it seemed everywhere, that much sugar could never be bought openly; it could arouse too many suspicions, start gossip—and William Whitley could not afford gossip.
Janson could tell from the look on Whitley’s face that the man knew he had made the connection. “You do good at this, boy, and there’ll be more work for you in the future. You could be earning yourself some extra money pretty regular—that is if you can keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told to do.”
More work—hauling sugar that would be used in stilling corn liquor, maybe even being called on to haul bootleg whiskey itself later on. The Prohibition laws were tough; a man could end up in jail real quick if he got himself involved in moonshining, if he did not get himself shot first—but the money, and the chance for more in the future. Moonshining was a dangerous business, with the sheriff and the revenue agents and other bootleggers all constantly after your tail—but the money—
“How much?” he asked, looking up at Whitley, not really liking or even trusting the man—but the amount he was told did much to wipe away the remainder of that thought. More money than he could earn in weeks of farm work, and the promised chance for more in the future—he accepted the run without a second thought and watched as Whitley walked away, satisfied in that moment that he had made the right decision, the only decision.
But that was hours ago, and now he was wondering. Moonshining could be a good way for a man to end up in jail, if he did not get himself killed first. Between the revenuers and the sheriff and the other bootleggers—Janson wondered now if he had not made the worst decision of his life. Even considering the money—but a man could not spend money, and he could not farm his own land, if he was in jail. Or buried.
But he had given Whitley his word, and this time it would be nothing more than sugar he would be hauling, he told himself. He would not have to take on more work in the future, more hauls, if he did not want to, and hauling sugar could not be against the law. Hauling sugar could not be—
He kept telling himself that even now as he carried another armload of wood from the wagon to the stacks near the covered walkway. There was nothing illegal about hauling a truckload of sugar—but if he were stopped, if the truck was searched, there were questions he would be asked, questions about a load of black market sugar he would probably not even be able to prove he had a claim to. Some sheriff or sheriff’s deputy would think it was stolen, or, even worse yet, probably make the same connection he had made—but he had given his word, and never once in all his life had Janson Sanders ever gone back on his word. It was a matter of pride, a matter of being the man he was. It would be nothing more than sugar this time, one haul, one run—but, even as he told himself that, he knew he would take on those other runs if they were offered to him, no matter what it was that he might be called on to haul. He would do it for the money. For what the money could buy him.
Stan had gotten up from the wide board steps that led up to the center of the walkway, and he now moved back and forth between the wagon and the growing stacks of firewood, carrying small loads of the wood and handing it to Janson to stack with the much larger loads he carried. The boy continued to talk on about his sister, but Janson now heard hardly a word, his mind on the meeting scheduled with Whitley just after dark, and the haul that would come later—and the other work that might come soon enough. He did not want to get involved in running corn liquor, not for the rightness or wrongness of the act, for his desire for the money well overcame that, but he could not help but to worry over what might happen to him if he were caught tonight with such a large amount of an ingredient
known to be needed in moonshining, or, later, with an even more damning cargo. He kept assuring himself that little could happen to him for being caught with a load of even black market sugar—but to be caught with a load of bootleg whiskey—
He suddenly realized that Stan was waiting for a response to some question asked or some comment offered. The boy stood with a small load of firewood in his skinny arms, the redness of a setting sun glinting off the round lenses of his eyeglasses. The sleeves of his expensive and well-laundered and pressed shirt were rolled to above his elbows, and a dark smudge of dirt shown on the front just beside where his suspenders went up over his shoulder—his ma’ll tan him for that, Janson thought, realizing how peculiar it looked to see a Whitley working, a Whitley doing physical labor as if he were one of the farmhands or sharecroppers.
Janson took the small load of wood from the boy’s arms and stacked it with what he had carried from the truck, then turned to look at him again. “You better go back and sit down. Them fancy clothes of yours ain’t much for workin’ in.”
Stan obeyed, going to sit down again on the steps of the covered walkway, then resumed what it was he must have been saying in the first place. “Anyway, I’d be worried if I were Elise, coming home now to face Daddy—I’ve never seen him so mad in all my life as he was when he first found out she had been expelled. I’d be plenty worried—”
So would I—Janson thought, but said nothing. He had seen Whitley’s temper often enough over the four months he had been on the place, had seen him curse and threaten and verbally abuse the farmhands, the sharecroppers, even his own sons—but the girl rightly deserved it, Janson reminded himself. She had been given her life on a silver platter, all she could ever want in the world, and was still spoiled and blind and willful enough to not even care. Janson had little patience for spoiled, petted children, and little sympathy when they got what they rightly deserved—Elise Whitley had probably well earned what her father would give her, earned it several times over. A good, sound spanking would probably do the girl a world of good, even if she was sixteen now and “full-growed t’ be a woman,” as Titus Coates had told him.
Janson’s attention began to stray again, his mind occupied with his own thoughts as he moved back toward the wagon for another armload of wood.
“Daddy’ll be meeting the train day after tomorrow. Elise and Phyllis Ann—I’ve told you about her, haven’t I?” Stan interrupted himself to ask.
“Phyllis Ann?—yeah, you told me—”
“Well, anyway, Daddy’ll be meeting the train, and Elise won’t be too happy with the surprise he’ll have waiting for her.”
“Surprise?” Janson asked, still only half paying attention. He jumped down from the back of the wagon with another armload of wood and started toward the stacks near the walkway.
“Oh, yes—a surprise in the form of J.C. Cooper. Daddy’s taking him along to meet the train. Elise will be furious.”
“I thought your sister liked J.C..” Janson had seen J.C. Cooper at a distance only a few times; he seemed a decent enough fellow, spoke rarely—and seemed scared of his own shadow. Janson could little imagine him with the flirtatious, bobbed-haired, lipsticked little flapper he imagined Elise Whitley to be, with her bold, modern ways—but, then again, he could hardly imagine J.C. Cooper with any woman.
Stan shrugged his shoulders. “Elise likes him well enough, but she won’t want to marry him, which is what Daddy wants. She won’t want to marry anyone just to please Daddy.”
“Then what’s your pa wantin’ her to marry him for?”
“For the cotton mill. J.C.’s daddy owns part of the mill, and Daddy wants to be partners with him in it—anyway, Elise won’t want to marry J.C.—”
“Sounds t’ me like it’d do her good t’ get married. Maybe a husband an’ some young’ns’d settle her down—”
“I think she’d scare J.C. to death if he tried to settle her down.”
“Well, then that’s his own fault. If he’s man enough, he’ll handle her.”
“Elise would never agree with you on that. She’s very modern, you know, very independent—”
“That’s what’s wrong with th’ world, independent, bobbed-haired, modern women,” Janson remarked absently, stacking wood on a pile, and then turning back toward the wagon.
Stan shrugged again. “Well, Elise is very independent. She’d be furious with any man who tried to settle her down, J.C. and Daddy included.”
“Then, if you ask me, she needs t’ get married,” Janson answered, somewhat more than distracted now. “A man could do her a lot of good, get some ’a th’ flighty ideas outta her head—sounds t’ me like a sound spankin’ wouldn’t do her no harm either—”
Stan laughed, but Janson did not even break stride as he walked back to the wagon for another armload of wood. There were much more important things on his mind than the marriage plans for a spoiled rich girl. He had enough worries of his own over the planned haul of what he knew would have to be black market sugar tonight—and the possibilities of what he might be called on to haul in the future. Besides, Elise Whitley sounded to him like more trouble than he would wish on any man, J.C. Cooper included. If J.C. wanted to take her on, and her father in the bargain, then perhaps he was more of a man than Janson would ever have given him credit for being.
And perhaps he was more of a fool as well.
The truck jolted and bounced over the rutted, back-country roads a few hours later, the dim headlamps picking out only a few feet of red clay road before the front tires. Janson gripped the steering wheel with both hands, straining forward, trying to see any hazards in the road before the truck could hit them—if he were to break an axle, or ruin a tire out here in the middle of nowhere—
He had hoped that the weight of the heavy cloth sacks of sugar that now lay beneath the tarp covering the back of the truck would help to reduce the pitch and sway of the vehicle over the worst of the ruts, but it had done little good. He was headed home now, over the route that Whitley had given him, the roads he had been traveling for the past hour some of the worst he had ever seen, rough, rutted, completely washed out in places. His palms sweated against the steering wheel as he fought to keep the truck on the road and still avoid the deepest of the ruts; but it was not just the worry over breaking an axle or ending up in one of the ditches alongside the road that concerned him—what would he say if he were stopped, if the truck was searched to reveal the large, cloth sacks of sugar that lay beneath the tarp over the back? How would he explain hauling such a large amount of sugar over these back roads at this time of night? It would be more than obvious to some sheriff’s deputy that so much sugar would be needed for only one reason. Only one—
The possibilities of ending up in one of the ditches seemed to be growing by the minute, the road before him becoming progressively worse. The truck jounced over the deepest rut yet, throwing him against the inside of the driver’s door, and he held his breath for a moment, praying, until he was certain the tires were still sound and the truck still in running condition. He slowed to make a turn onto a second, seemingly even worse road, glancing back as he made the turn, thinking for a moment that he saw the lights of some sort of a vehicle bob into sight on the road behind him. He forced himself to continue on at the same speed, trying to concentrate on the road, but found himself glancing back over his shoulder, slowing, watching as he came into a straight—the lights were there again, and again a few minutes later as he came into another straight. The nervousness that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach for hours was now growing—he was being followed. He knew that it was impossible, that no one could know—but, still, he was being followed. He was certain of it.
He gripped the steering wheel harder in his sweating palms, forcing his eyes to concentrate on the few feet of rutted clay road that the headlamps picked out before the truck—he just wanted to get off these damned roads and back on Whitley l
and. He just wanted—
He risked a look back over his shoulder again, seeing the lights bob into view, just coming around a curve—they were closer now. The truck hit a deep rut, throwing him against the door, and he tried to make himself watch the road before him, and not behind—goddamn it, they were closer. He pushed down fully on the accelerator, hearing the truck’s engine whine and complain—but the damned thing could blow up if it wanted to, so long as it got him off these roads first. So long as it—
The lights were growing closer as he glanced back again, gaining distance as he tried to force even more from the tortured machine, the steering wheel becoming slippery in his sweating palms now. He fought to control the truck as it bounced over the deep gullies washed in the roadbed, its frame squeaking in protest as it careened along the rough clay road at speeds neither it nor the road were ever meant for—forty miles an hour, forty-five, the heavy load of sugar shifting beneath the tarp over the back, increasing the pitch of the vehicle into a curve, the tires sliding in loose rock and dirt, almost losing everything as he came out of one curve and went into another. The lights grew even closer, showing now even inside of the truck, all semblance of innocence now gone, and the knot of fear tightened even further in his stomach—he had been followed. He had been followed; and now—
The truck slid into a sharp curve, coming to within inches of the ditch—suddenly all control of the vehicle was gone, the tires skidding in loose dirt and rocks at the roadside, a huge oak tree looming before the headlamps. Janson jerked the wheel in his hands, slamming his foot down on the brake. The truck skidded wildly, the rear end seeming suddenly independent of the front. He yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, praying and cursing all at the same time, feeling the truck jerk, recover for a moment, then go wildly in the other direction. He fought the steering wheel, clenching it in his hands until his palms hurt, struggling to keep the truck on the road as it recovered and finally came out of the curve, the oak tree going by only bare inches away.
Behold, This Dreamer Page 17