“Elise is going to start doing what I say, and she’s going to start today,” he had said before leaving for the train station. “I won’t have you interfering, filling her head with more nonsense. She is going to marry J. C., even if I have to beat her black and blue to see that she does—it’s for her own good anyway. He’s a fine boy; he’ll make her a good husband—”
And you’ll be closer to getting your hands on the mill—she had thought, but had said nothing. She had given in, had stayed home, not wanting to make Elise’s reception any more unpleasant than she already knew it would be—she would see her daughter soon enough; and there would be time later to worry over how they might delay William’s plans.
Her hands moved the needle through the fabric with little conscious involvement of her mind, her usually smooth brow furrowed on other matters now. She stuck her finger and a drop of bright red blood stained the delicate stitching, but she hardly noticed—she was worried over what Elise might do once William made clear his intentions that she would marry J.C. Cooper, and marry him soon. William had never once made secret his hopes that his daughter and J.C. would one day wed, and had taken every opportunity in the past to push the two together—but he had never before stated it with such finality that they would marry, and marry soon, no matter Elise’s feelings. Martha was not worried that William might actually physically hurt the girl as he had threatened to do, for he had never once struck any one of the children through all the years, no matter his threats—but there were other things he could do. And there was not much she would put past her husband. He would be determined to have his way, and determined to do whatever he had to do to have it.
Elise was not one to easily control her temper; she had enough of her father in her to assure that. She readily spoke her mind, often without thought, and especially when she was angry—she did not want to marry J.C. Cooper, and had never once made secret her feelings for the boy over the many years they had known each other. She thought of J.C. just as she thought of her brothers—they had grown up together, had played together as children, fought just as Elise had fought with her brothers, and had even discovered together that boys and girls were different one afternoon out behind the kitchen in the year that Elise had turned three.
But they were not in love, and they never would be—damn William for knowing that, and for not thinking it mattered.
J.C. was a nice-enough young man, from a good Georgia family, a family that had been in that part of the state for generations longer than the Whitleys had. He would have money and property, and the best education that his father could buy for him, as well as the Cooper name and standing in the County—but, even if he and Elise had been in love, Martha knew she would have had reservations about the choice of him as husband for her daughter. He was not at all the sort of man she hoped Elise would spend her life with, though she did not yet know what sort of man she hoped that would be. Elise had plenty of common sense, though she was often plagued by a hasty nature. She had the intelligence and strength of character that would make her a strong woman one day—but she was still but a child now, only sixteen, not yet ready to be faced with life and marriage and children. J.C. Cooper had no interest in marrying Elise, any more than Elise had in marrying him, but Martha knew he would lack both the strength and the courage to speak his mind and put a stop to William’s plans—that would be left up to Elise, and to Martha. Martha would not easily have her daughter forced into a loveless marriage. Not now. Not ever. No matter how badly William might want it, or for whatever reasons.
She sat her needlepoint down and got to her feet to cross the room to the front windows again, then stood staring out, looking across the broad expanse of yard toward the quiet road. William would be home soon with Elise, and then the struggle would really begin. For the first time in her life, Martha Whitley knew she would be on the opposite side from her husband, and that worried her. She knew William all too well. He would do whatever it was he had to do to get what he wanted.
And William Whitley was not one to lose too often.
Ethan Bennett had not spoken a word since leaving the train station that afternoon, and somehow his silence frightened Phyllis Ann more than any yells or curses could ever have frightened her. She cowered against the inside of the car door, as far away from him on the front seat as she could possibly get, trying to make no move or sound that might draw his attention. It seemed almost that he had forgotten her now, almost as if he had forgotten her presence, her very existence—he stared straight ahead through the windshield of the LaSalle, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands clenching the steering wheel in a grip that turned his knuckles white. Phyllis Ann stared at him, praying that her breath would make no sound, praying that the car would go off the road and into a tree, or over the embankment and into the deepest part of McGarrett’s pond—if he did not kill her today, then it would be some other day, for some other reason, if he needed one at all. At least that way she would see him die as well, know that for even that one moment he had suffered just as she suffered—she would gladly burn in hell for all eternity just to have that moment. She had been living in just another sort of hell all her life anyway.
He had been drinking, and rather heavily. He stank of it, as did the car. An empty flask lay on the seat between them, drained even before he had reached the train station—he was drunk, but, then again, he was always drunk. Not an amusing drunk, like the boys she knew from Atlanta, who were more like playful kittens when they had been at the gin, but an ugly drunk, prone to beating both her and her mother, as well as anyone else who might happen into his way.
He drove like a madman on the way home, taking the LaSalle around curves at speeds even its powerful engine was never meant to handle, causing Phyllis Ann to cling to the door all the more desperately to keep from being thrown over against him—God, don’t let him remember I’m here, she prayed. God, don’t let him—
She stared ahead at the tall, white house as it came into view around a curve, the six fluted columns across the front gleaming white in the sunlight, the lines elegant and regal, almost like the palaces she had dreamed of as a child—but there were no palaces, no knights in shining armor, no fathers kind and protective and gentle. Life was not sweet and soft and smelling of roses and sunshine—it was hard, with sharp edges, and teeth that could cut and wound; it came quickly and passed fast, and you had to grab hold to get the most you wanted, whether that be pain or pleasure, love or joy or sorrow. She stared at the house, feeling as if she had been cast back into some pit, for hell lived for her within those beautiful walls—don’t let him remember I’m here. Please, don’t let him remember—
The car turned off onto the long, graveled drive that led up to the front of the house, then went off onto the smooth lawn, cutting up turf and destroying spring flower beds before finally coming to a rest only inches short of the wide front steps. Phyllis Ann was thrown into the dash by the suddenness of the stop, and recovered herself only slowly, sliding back onto the seat and pushing her short, brown hair back from her eyes to look up—he was looking at her now, a muscle clenching in his jaw. He was looking at—
He was out of the car almost before she knew it, slamming the door shut behind himself. She stared in horror as he came around the LaSalle to her side, knowing what would happen, knowing he would—he yanked the car door open even before she could move, reaching inside to drag her from the seat, twisting her arm, hurting her wrist. For a time he only stared down at her, a muscle working in his jaw, then he began to drag her toward the front steps, jerking brutally at her arm as she resisted, his fingers digging into her flesh. She heard her own voice begging, pleading—but it was no use. He dragged her across the brick-floored veranda, in through the front doors and into the wide hallway that ran the depth of the house, finally releasing her with a shove that sent her sprawling onto her back on the hardwood flooring.
The heavy door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment h
e stared down at her, his black eyes filled with anger. She could hear her mother sniffling from the open parlor doorway to her right, and she turned her eyes in that direction, hoping for interference, hoping for help—but she knew she was alone, alone though her mother stood only that short distance away, clinging to the parlor doorframe. An ugly bruise already shown along one side of Paula Bennett’s face, a face that had once been lovely before long years of beatings and fear had aged it—Phyllis Ann was alone, alone with him no matter what he chose to do, for her mother could not interfere. They both knew he would very easily kill her if she did—but, then again, he would probably kill them both one day.
Phyllis Ann began to slowly slide backwards across the floor, pushing with her hands and feet, putting as much distance as possible between herself and her father. He started toward her slowly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his eyes black and filled with rage.
“You stupid little bitch—” he said, his voice so low that for a moment she had to strain to hear it. “You damned stupid little—”
“Daddy, please, you don’t understand. I—”
“Don’t understand!” his voice exploded at her. “Don’t understand why you went out of your way to make a fool out of me. To have the entire County laughing, thinking I didn’t raise you any better than for you to get yourself thrown out of that school for—”
“No—it wasn’t like that. I never meant—”
“After everything I’ve done for you. After—”
“No, please—” She shook her head, continuing to slide backwards. “You don’t—”
“You’re going to be sorry you ever thought about cheating. By the time I’m through with you, you’re—”
Her back came up against the wall; she could go no farther. “Please, Daddy—please, don’t—” She managed to push herself to her feet, sliding her back against the wall, her hands flat against its surface, until she was standing. She looked quickly past him, licking her lips that were suddenly dry—if she could get past him, make it to the door—
She shoved hard against him as he reached for her, and tried to run—but he caught her, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders and slamming her hard back against the wall again. Her head struck with force, making her knees buckle and her senses swim—she was crying, crying so hard that she could not breathe, crying so hard that she choked on her own tears. He drew her away from the wall and slammed her back into it again, then again, cursing her, calling her names that she had never—
“After everything I’ve done for you, tried to raise you right, teach you right from wrong—” He stared down at her, the muscle clenching again in his jaw, his dark eyes going over her, as if seeing her fully for the first time. “Look at you, coming home dressed like some cheap, speakeasy floozy—” He took her dress by the sleeve, bunching the fabric in his hand. “Going around looking like some painted-up whore—is this the way I raised you to dress? Is this—” She could hear the dress fabric tearing, the sleeve separating from its seam—suddenly something gave way within her. She shoved hard against him and managed to pull away, stumbling, falling against the nearby hall table. Her mother’s favorite china figurine toppled from its surface and crashed to the floor, breaking into tiny slivers of nothing around her.
She picked up a heavy book from the tabletop and flung it at him, then another, seeing it strike a glancing blow against his rib cage. She grabbed up another and attempted to throw it, but he blocked it with his arm and slammed her back against the table—he was a madman. He was a madman, and now he was going to—
He slapped her hard, backhanded, across the face, and then again, his arm rising to—a sheer desperation took over within her, a pure instinct for self-survival, for life. She heard herself screaming the words even before she consciously thought them, screaming the words, over and over again: “It wasn’t me! Elise was the one who cheated! It wasn’t me!”
His hand stopped only inches from her stinging face, and he stared at her, his breath fetid in her nostrils—for a moment she was afraid that he had not heard, that he had not—
“Elise—” he said at last. “Not—”
“Yes, Elise—” she said, her gaze locked with his—he had to believe her. He had to—
“It wasn’t me, Daddy. You know I wouldn’t cheat. You raised me better than that, didn’t you?”
He stared at her. “I raised you better than—” Some degree of normalcy had returned to his voice, some degree of control. “I should have known—” he said, almost to himself. “William Whitley’s girl, and not mine.” He reached out an almost gentle hand to pat her hair, and she almost cringed away, but he did not even seem to notice. “Never my little—”
“Never me—you know I wouldn’t do that, don’t you, Daddy?”
He looked at her for a moment longer, and then released her to move a step away. He straightened his coat and vest, then looked toward his wife where she still stood cringing against the wooden frame of the open parlor doorway. “Paula, you’d better feed the girl. She’s lost weight since she’s been away.”
Paula Bennett seemed almost to tremble beneath his gaze for a moment. She released the doorframe only reluctantly, then moved into the hallway, seeming to go no closer to her husband than she had to.
“Come, child,” she said, quietly, her voice almost at a whisper. “Dinner’s already on the table.” She took Phyllis Ann’s hand and gently drew her away.
Ethan Bennett turned and walked through the door and into the parlor, then stood looking around the room for a moment before going to take up a bottle of gin from where it rested on the bookshelf in the corner. He crossed the room and collapsed onto a velvet settee, stretching his long legs out before him. His wife came into the room only a bare few steps, remaining what seemed a safe distance away. “Ethan, will you be—”
“No,” he said, and turned up the bottle of gin to drink, not bothering with a glass. She hurried from the room, back to the comparative safety of the hallway, and Phyllis Ann glanced up at her, looking away from the torn sleeve she had been examining.
“He ruined my dress.”
“I’ll have it fixed for you, dear,” her mother said, glancing from her back into the open parlor doorway.
“I don’t want it fixed; I want a new one.”
“Then we’ll buy you a new one—but go on up and change now. We’ll talk about it later. The cook has dinner waiting.”
Phyllis Ann started toward the wide staircase that curved from the rear of the hall to the bedrooms on the floor above, feeling almost pleased with herself at how she had handled the situation—it was over now. Her father had someone else to blame at the moment, and she was safe. Tomorrow, if he was sober, he would feel guilty; he would buy her a new dress, perhaps even two. He was in there drinking now, and would be very drunk by nightfall. He would probably leave later, going into town to blow off steam before returning to the house to sleep it off. He might beat up one of the mill hands in town, or one of his own sharecroppers, maybe even some hobo down by the railroad tracks if one happened to get in his way. There was even a chance he might go to the Whitley place intending to confront Elise—
She paused for a moment, turning her eyes toward the telephone that sat on the hall table nearest the staircase. She considered calling to warn Elise, but quickly decided against it. Elise would be mad that she had laid the blame at her feet—and, besides, Elise had always been the strong one. She could take care of herself.
Phyllis Ann Bennett stared at the telephone only a moment longer, and then started up the wide staircase, the only concern remaining on her mind being the style of the dress she would buy.
9
Elise Whitley sat on the white-counterpaned bed in her room that afternoon, staring across the bright rug to the trunks she was supposed to be unpacking—but she hadn’t the heart to unpack now; she hadn’t the heart to do much of anything but
sit and stare and wish that she were anywhere else other than where she was at the moment.
She had known all along that her reception at home would not be an easy one, but still she had not expected to feel as she did now those hours ago when her father had met her at the train station. She had expected that he would be angry, furious with her in fact, and at first she had been pleasantly surprised at his attitude—he had seemed fatherly, almost affectionate, as he kissed her cheek and stepped back to admire her dress.
“My, but don’t she look pretty, J.C.!” he had said, taking her off guard. He stood with one arm around J.C.’s shoulders, looking at her with obvious pride in his expression—this was nothing as she had expected him to be, and at first she had been unable to do anything but stand and stare, wondering what it was that he was up to, for she knew her father never did anything without a reason.
“Y—yes, you look very nice, Elise,” J.C. had stammered out at last, his cheeks coloring slightly as he fumbled with his glasses and moved a step away from her father. His eyes kept straying away, his mind seeming to be occupied elsewhere, and Elise followed his gaze, finding him watching Phyllis Ann and the cold, almost silent, reception she was receiving from her own father.
“I couldn’t keep this young fellow away once he heard you were coming in by train this afternoon—”
“That’s very nice of you, J.C.,” Elise said, looking again at J.C.—but his eyes never left Phyllis Ann, and Elise again felt a pang of worry for her friend, and for what might very well happen to her now that they were home.
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