“Don’t give me that innocent look of yours; it won’t help you any now.”
Her eyes moved to the whiskey bottle held in his right hand. “Mr. Bennett, you’ve been drinking. You don’t know what you’re saying. You just go on home, and we’ll forget you ever—”
“Did you really think I’d just let you get by with it?”
“Get by with what?” She could hear the fear in her own voice, and she prayed that he could not hear it as well. She took another step away, looking again toward the brightly lighted house—but his words stopped her.
“You think you’re so good, don’t you, acting like you’re so innocent and pure—but I know the truth about you. Phyllis Ann told me, do you know that? Phyllis Ann told—”
“Phyllis Ann—”
“She won’t lie for you anymore. Everyone in the County will know the truth, that it was you and not my baby that cheated—”
The full import of his words hit her. “But that’s not true! It was Phyllis Ann who—”
Suddenly, he was on her, grabbing her by the arm and shoving her hard back against the tree, the whiskey bottle sliding from his grasp. Her head struck with such force that for a moment her senses swam and her knees began to buckle—but he held her upright, pinning her against the tree, his free hand coming down over her mouth before she could make a sound.
“You hush your lying mouth about my little girl,” he hissed, his face close against hers. His breath, hot on her cheek and stinking of liquor, made her want to vomit—she could hardly breathe, the hand over her mouth almost closing off the supply of oxygen. She stared up at him, horrified, somehow knowing, still unprepared—
“Don’t you think I know what it is you want, anyway?” His body, close, crowded hers; the smell of stale sweat, of liquor, filled her nostrils—she gagged against his hand, feeling hot tears begin to sting her cheeks. “You’re just like the rest of them, no matter how innocent and good you try to act. All you want is a man between your legs to—”
She began to fight him, clawing at his face, striking out with all the force there was in her. She managed to struggle away from the tree, only to be shoved hard back against it again, her head striking with even greater force than it had the first time, her knees trying to give way beneath her. The painful grip on her arm was released, and for a moment she thought she might be able to break free—then there was a tearing sound, as the front of her dress was ripped downward to the waist. She tried to scream against the hand covering her mouth, but little sound came out as he fumbled inside her torn neckline for her breasts. His hand left her mouth, only to knot in her hair and force her head back. His mouth came down over hers, his tongue forcing its way between her lips as he pinned her back against the tree, one knee pushing its way between her thighs through her skirt. She clawed at his eyes, gagging as his tongue touched hers—she wanted to die, prayed to die, rather than to—
Suddenly, the pressure of him holding her back against the tree was gone. She sank to the ground, her lungs greedily taking in deep drafts of the clean night air, her senses so addled for a moment that she wondered if God had not actually answered her pleas with the release of death—then Janson Sanders was kneeling beside her, a concerned expression in his eyes as he said the same words, over and over again: “I’m here; you’re all right now. I’m here—”
She looked toward the form of Ethan Bennett where he lay on the ground, and she began to shake, realizing what had almost happened, what would have happened, if—
For a moment she thought she saw movement, then was certain, her heart almost stopping within her as she saw the man slowly regaining his feet, reaching for a jagged half of the whiskey bottle broken sometime during the struggle with her, grasping it by the unbroken neck, turning toward them—
And Elise began to scream.
Moonlight glinted off the jagged edge of broken glass as Ethan Bennett moved what was left of the liquor bottle in Janson’s direction. “You’re a dead man for—” But then the man’s eyes moved toward Elise Whitley, and back again, something in his face changing. “Go on, boy, this ain’t none of your business.”
Janson did not speak, moving instead to stay between the broken bottle and the girl behind him. He stared past the weapon to the eyes of the man holding it—there was violence there, violence and rage and something more.
“I said go on, boy!” Bennett’s voice rose. “Or I’ll take care of you before I—”
“You ain’t gonna touch her,” Janson said, feeling the man’s body tense with rage even over the distance. The bottle moved again, its sharp edge catching the sparse light—the girl’s screams were loud in his ears. He knew he would die tonight before he would let any man hurt a sixteen-year-old girl.
There was a yell of rage as Bennett lunged at him, the bottle coming to within inches of Janson’s chest as he leapt away. He went in low at Bennett, reaching up to block another sweeping arc of the weapon, somewhere in the back of his mind amazed at the man’s sheer, drunken strength.
For a moment the jagged glass began to lower toward Janson’s face. He twisted away, trying to free himself, only to have his left arm captured and pushed up behind his back, such force behind the movement that he thought the bone would shatter at any moment. His right arm strained to keep the bottle away, the muscles aching as it was forced lower and lower, the shattered edge finally touching his throat with a stinging sensation as it was drawn along the skin—he was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, his free arm useless now to counteract the pressure of that jagged piece of glass.
Time slowed as he stared at the open horror on Elise Whitley’s face. He could think of only one thing, over and over again: God, don’t let her see this. God don’t let her see—
Ethan Bennett’s breath was hot in his ear, each word spoken clearly, as if to make certain he understood. “I’m going to slit your throat for interfering with me, boy. And, when I’m through with you, I’m going to take my time going at that little girl right here on the ground. I’m going to—”
Pure hatred and fury rose within Janson. He screamed with rage and released his hold on Bennett’s wrist, feeling the glass cut into his skin as he twisted to one side and brought his elbow back into sharp contact with the man’s ribs. Lowering his head, freeing the arm held pinned behind his back, he twisted to land a hard blow to the man’s jaw, then another.
Bennett stumbled backwards, then went down, the broken bottle falling from his grasp—suddenly Janson was over him, the jagged remainder of the whiskey bottle held in his own hand, its sharp edge already cutting into Bennett’s throat. He stared down into the man’s eyes, knowing he was about to kill this man who had—
Then he caught sight of Elise Whitley where she sat beneath the oak tree, her hands trying to hold together the torn top half of her dress, a look of horror on her face. He caught sight of—
He released Bennett and stood to go to her, knowing he could not kill even this man before a girl’s eyes—but, before he could reach her side, her family was suddenly there, surrounding her, her screams having finally reached over the distance to the house, bringing Whitley, her mother, her brothers, and Franklin Bates. Someone took the broken bottle from him, and he released it without struggle, never knowing who it was who had taken it—she was safe now, her family there, her mother holding her as if she were a small child.
Alfred Whitley froze for a moment as he reached his sister’s side, then lunged for Bennett, his hands closing over the older man’s throat where he lay on the ground. “You goddamn—”
“No!” his father shouted, dragging him back, leaving Bennett choking and coughing. “I said no! Let the sheriff have him.” He shook the boy as he continued to struggle. “I said no!”
Alfred stared at his father for a moment, the fury still obvious on his face, then he yanked free and went to his sister, kneeling at her side to turn an angry look back up to Whitley. Janso
n watched as Martha Whitley, Stan, and Alfred helped Elise to her feet and led her toward the house, Alfred unbuttoning and taking off his own shirt to drape it across her shoulders over the torn dress. Janson stared until they left his sight.
As soon as they had entered the big house with the girl, Whitley turned toward Bennett, grabbing him by the shirt collar to drag him from the ground. “I ought to kill you, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I ought to—” He stared at the man for a moment, then doubled him over with a hard fist to his stomach. Ethan Bennett gagged and went to his knees, gasping for breath as Whitley turned away.
“Franklin, take him to the barn to wait for the sheriff,” Whitley said, and the big man nodded, but did not speak. He reached to drag Bennett from the ground again, hitting him hard in the face as he began to struggle, bloodying his nose and splitting his lip before dragging him away. Bill Whitley followed at a short distance, walking slowly.
Janson stared after them until they left his sight, William Whitley beside him. “I should’a killed him,” he said quietly, staring after the man who had tried to hurt Elise Whitley, the man who had tried to kill him.
“Somebody will someday,” Whitley said.
“I hope it’s me,” Janson said, never turning his eyes to see Whitley’s approving nod. “I hope to hell it’s me.”
Sometime later, Janson stood just within the wide, brightly lit entry hallway that ran the depth of the first floor of the Whitley house—he had not been invited here; he had just simply come, following William Whitley, and had not been asked to leave. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he had been standing here, but still he would not leave, not until he knew for certain that Elise Whitley was unhurt.
Her parents were upstairs with her now, and the doctor, who had come from town to give her something to help her sleep, had already left. Stan Whitley sat on the lower steps of the wide staircase that rose to the second floor, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, a worried and concerned expression on his young face. Alfred sat to himself not too far distant, on a brocaded settee tucked in against one wall of the wide hallway, his lowered brow showing an anger such as Janson had seen but few times in his life. Bill Whitley and Franklin Bates had returned to the house long before, and Ethan Bennett had been turned over to the sheriff—Janson knew the hour was late, but still he continued to stand, to wait, as he would wait until someone could tell him that the girl had not been hurt.
There was a sound on the stairs, and Janson looked up to find Whitley descending from the floor above. He straightened from where he had been leaning against the frame of one of the open parlor doors, and waited. Whitley patted Stan on the shoulder as the boy rose, and looked at his second son as Alfred met him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Is Elise—”
“She’s okay,” Whitley said. “She’s been pretty badly shaken up, but she’ll be all right.”
An angry muscle clenched in Alfred’s jaw, his hands tightening on the carved newel post before him. “That son-of-a-bitch ought to be killed for what he—”
But his father cut him short. “Sheriff Hill has him now. He’ll see to it that—”
“The law won’t do to him what he deserves for what he tried to do to Elise! He should be—”
Bill Whitley interrupted his brother’s words, entering the hallway from the front parlor just opposite where Janson stood. “He already got something of what he deserved before we turned him over to the sheriff.”
“‘Got something of—what did you do?” Whitley demanded, but Bill only shrugged, returning his father’s stare.
“It doesn’t matter. Sheriff Hill has him now, and maybe he’ll handle the rest without doing any further damage to this family’s name—”
Janson tightened, anger filling him. “Your sister almost got raped t’night, an’ you’re worried about your goddamn family name!” he yelled, taking a step forward, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
Bill turned toward him, as if suddenly noting his presence there in the hallway. “Who the hell do you think you are to be telling me what I should be concerned about—and what are you doing here, anyway? You don’t have any business—”
“Who th’ hell I am is somebody that’s worried about your sister—looks t’ me like you’re more worried about you!”
“You goddamn half-breed—” Bill lunged at him, but Whitley stepped between them, holding his son back.
“That’s enough of it between you two!” he yelled. “Tempers are running high tonight, and I won’t have any punches thrown here in this house.”
Bill only continued to stare at Janson, his body tensed.
“Now, Bill, go on, and you boys, too,” Whitley said, releasing his eldest son and looking toward Stan and Alfred. “I want to talk to Janson alone.”
After a moment, Stan quietly pushed Alfred up the stairs, but Bill stood unmoving, staring past his father to Janson.
“I said go—” Whitley gave Bill a slight push—for a moment, Janson thought Bill would strike the older man. Bill’s body tensed, as if ready for a fight, his right hand tightening into a fist—he stared at his father, something in his eyes that Janson could not read; and then he seemed to force a control over himself, looking at Janson, and then back to Whitley again. He turned and left the wide hallway without another word, slamming the heavy front door behind himself.
Whitley turned his eyes toward Janson for a long moment. “I want to thank you for what you did tonight, boy. If you hadn’t come along—” He fell silent. “I appreciate it, boy,” he said, reaching back to pull a thick wallet from the rear pocket of his trousers, then opening it to begin to count out bills from it. “And I want to pay you for—”
“No,” Janson said, not even taking the time to think.
“No?” Whitley’s eyes rose to meet his.
“I didn’t do it for no pay. I did it for her. You keep your money. I won’t take no pay for helpin’ her.”
Whitley stared at him for a long moment. “You sure, boy?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
Whitley replaced the bills in his wallet and shoved it back into his pocket. “If that’s the way you want it, boy,” he said, “but it’s not soon I’ll forget what you did for us tonight—”
For her—Janson thought, but said nothing. After a moment he said: “Now that I know she’s all right, I’ll be goin’ on.” He turned and started for the door.
“Well, like I said, I appreciate it, boy.”
Janson paused for a second, but did not turn back. He went on through the door and pulled it shut behind himself, then walked across the veranda, down the front steps, and out into the night.
Janson slept very little that night. Each time he would drift off, it would only be to awaken again, thinking he had heard Elise Whitley call his name. As dawn came, he got up and dressed, pulling on his least-frayed shirt and the only pair of dungarees he owned that had no patches, then made himself a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, coffee, and hard biscuits rewarmed from the day before. He sat on his narrow cot and tried to eat, thinking about the girl, and about the things he had said to her the day before. After what she had gone through last night—
For the first time in his life, Janson Sanders knew what it was to feel sorry for something he had done. He should never have said the things he had said to her, not to any girl. He would probably not be thrown off the place now, not after having been able to help her the night before, but still he should never have said the things he had said. He should never.
It was a Saturday, and he had the morning free. Most of the other hands on the place had been in the fields since before daybreak, but Whitley had told him there would be no farm work for him this day. There would instead be a haul of corn liquor to be made all the way to Columbus that night, and he was supposed to be resting—but he could not rest; he could do nothing but sit and think about Eli
se Whitley and know that he had to see her.
He left his room and made his way across the fields toward the big house, smelling the heavy odors of manure and sun-baked earth around him. He stopped at the edge of the woods and on impulse gathered a large handful of spring wildflowers, then cut across the red clay road and through the rows of cotton to the yard of the big house.
It was quiet; Whitley’s Ford was gone, as was Bill’s Packard, but Janson paid little attention as he walked across the yard, up onto the wide veranda, and to the front door. He knocked, and then waited, looking down at the wildflowers he held in his hand, and then beyond them, to the worn and cracked shoes on his feet, the only pair of shoes he owned, the pair that no amount of cleaning and polishing would ever remove the scuff marks or red dirt from. He suddenly realized what a ridiculous sight he must make, coming to the front door of this big, fine house, in his threadbare clothing and cracked shoes, with his wildflowers gripped in worn farmer’s hands—wildflowers, for a girl who could have hothouse roses anytime she might want them, simply for the asking. He had the sudden impulse to leave, but the door swung inward before the impulse could become action, and he found himself looking into the surprised face of Martha Whitley.
Elise’s mother looked him over, and then quickly masked her surprise with a kind smile, inviting him in just as if it were a common occurrence for one of her husband’s farmhands to come calling at her front door.
“I thought that Elise—that Miss Whitley—” he corrected himself, realizing suddenly how very forward he was being, “might like these—do you think she might be willin’ t’ see me, even for just a minute?” he asked, feeling so very awkward now that he stood within the wide hallway, the heavy front doors with their frosted glass panes now closed behind him.
Mrs. Whitley smiled. “I think she would like very much to see you, to thank you for what you did for her last night. Why don’t you wait in the parlor. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
He nodded, and watched as she went toward the stairs, then turned and went through the open doorway she had indicated to the right, stopping just inside to stare around himself at the room before him.
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