Behold, This Dreamer

by Charlotte Miller

  “Alfred—Mr. Bennett’s free; Bill saw him in town at the drugstore. Alfred went after him—oh, you’ve got to stop him; he’s got Daddy’s gun. You’ve got to stop—”

  He took her back to the house, walking quickly with her through the woods and the edge of the cotton fields, holding to her arm all the while, and left her there on the veranda, starting toward Bill’s Packard as Elise heard the front door open behind her.

  “You goddamn half-breed son-of-a-bitch, I won’t have you in my—” But as soon as Bill left the veranda to stop him, Janson hit him hard, sending him into the dirt. He turned and got into the car without saying a word, looking back up at her one last time as he backed the car up and started toward town.

  As soon as he was gone from sight, Elise sagged against one of the huge white columns that supported the veranda roof, all the strength leaving her body—Alfred would be all right now. Janson Sanders would find him, stop him, before he could get to Ethan Bennett, before he could kill the man, before he could be killed himself, before he could be thrown in jail for murder or assault, or for—

  Bill got up from the ground, knocking the red dirt from the legs of his white trousers, cursing, calling Janson things such as she had never before heard in her life. She stared at him for a long moment, knowing for the first time in her life what it was to truly hate, though he was her own brother.

  “You goddamn, selfish—” she began quietly, seeing him turn to stare at her, a surprised look coming to his face. “You goddamn—” but she could not finish the words. She turned and walked into the house, slamming the heavy front door behind herself, leaving him standing alone in the red dirt of the drive.

  Janson pushed the Packard for all it was worth those minutes later, demanding even more from the powerful engine, trying to hold the big car in curves at speeds he had never driven before—but it was not fast enough. He knew that Alfred Whitley had gotten too much of a head start on him, that he had already had too much time. If Bennett was enough of a fool to have stayed where Bill had seen him, Alfred would have found him long before Janson could reach town, long before Janson could stop him—but he had to stop him; someone had to stop him, before Alfred Whitley could commit a murder publicly, or be killed himself.

  Janson held tightly to the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car on the road and out of a ditch at the speed he was driving. He cursed Alfred Whitley with almost every breath—as long as he lived, he knew he would never forget the look he had seen on Elise Whitley’s face as he had driven away. The girl had already been through so much in the past two days, and now, if someone did not stop her brother in time, she would have to go through even more. Alfred was hotheaded, bad tempered, just stupid enough to go after Bennett in public with a gun, and just stupid enough to wind up in jail, or possibly even shot himself, because of it. There were better ways to take care of Ethan Bennett if the law let him off, better ways her father would likely take care of later if he had to, but not like this.

  The car went wild into a curve and Janson fought to control it, almost ending up in a deep gully alongside the roadbed. He swore under his breath as the Packard recovered, seeing the headlamps of another vehicle coming toward him on the narrow road. He honked the horn to warn the other driver aside, but the man gave him no leeway, almost forcing him from the road instead as the truck neared and then passed with only bare inches to spare. The other driver braked hard, almost going off the road and into a ditch—

  William Whitley—

  Janson jammed on the Packard’s brakes, almost off the road himself, then yanked open the door to lean out and yell over Whitley’s cursing: “Alfred’s gone after Bennett with a gun!”

  Whitley’s words fell immediately silent, an awful look of understanding coming over his face even in the darkness. “Where at?” he demanded.

  “In town. The drugstore—” But Janson did not wait for Whitley’s response. He got the car in gear and got it back on the road, headed toward town. He had to stop Alfred Whitley.

  Janson reached town before Whitley did, the man left somewhere behind him—the area before the drugstore was too quiet, Main Street too still, but Janson already knew what was happening. The Whitleys’ Studebaker was parked on the brick pavement before Dobbin’s Drugstore, Bennett’s new LaSalle as well. Alfred had already found Ethan Bennett.

  He drove the Packard up onto the sidewalk before he could stop it, badly nicking the fender of another car, but he hardly noticed. He was out of the car almost before it could stop, leaving the door open behind him as he headed toward the glass windows at the front of the drugstore—there were people crowded back against the soda fountain, people crowded back against the walls beyond small tables where sat half-eaten sandwiches and dishes of melting ice cream. In the middle of the luncheonette area stood Alfred and Bennett, the boy slowly shifting back and forth from one foot to the other as he held a gun on the older man. There was a nervous perspiration broken out on Alfred’s upper lip, among faint reddish hairs that were supposed to be a mustache. His face was flushed, and, as Janson entered the drugstore, he could tell the boy’s hands were trembling—if someone yelled, Alfred might very well wheel and fire from sheer panic. Someone else in the room, some woman or young child, could be hurt, could even die—Janson began to slowly inch his way past the front windows and toward the soda fountain. If he could reach Alfred—

  “Now, you put that gun down, boy,” Bennett was saying in a tone that was meant to be soothing, one hand stretched out before him toward the boy—his face showed dark, ugly bruises, and his lower lip was nothing more than a crusted red gash where Franklin Bates had split it the night before. One of his eyes was almost swollen shut, and the other was very nearly black—Bill and Franklin had done him justice. Janson only wished they had killed him instead. “You know you don’t want to hurt me, boy. You’re just confused right now. You don’t know what really happened last night. Your sister—”

  “You shut your dirty mouth about my sister!” Alfred yelled, his hands visibly shaking now. His courage was beginning to leave him before the very real possibility of killing a man, even a man like Ethan Bennett—but every word that Bennett said now only brought him closer to death, only increased the likelihood of the boy pulling the trigger. The man was just too stupid to know it.

  “Alfred, you’ve got to know the truth, boy. Your sister didn’t get anything more than she was asking—”

  “Shut up!” Alfred screamed, enraged, and for a moment Bennett fell silent, his eyes on the gun in Alfred’s hands. “You tried to hurt Elise. You tried to—you’re going to pay for what you did. You’re going to—”

  “Give me that gun, boy! I’m not playing with you anymore—give me that goddamn gun!” Bennett took a step forward, but froze as Alfred leveled the gun at his chest.

  “Stay back! I mean it!”

  Bennett stared at him for a long moment, a look of nervous fear coming to his face as he licked the busted and swollen lips. Across the room a child began to cry, a small voice begging to go home. Mr. Dobbins and an elderly man tried to intervene, but fell silent as the gun moved in their direction for a moment, Alfred seeming very close to the breaking point now. Bennett’s eyes darted to Janson where he moved slowly along the edge of the soda fountain, and some degree of understanding seemed to come to his face—if it wasn’t for what Elise Whitley has already been through, I’d let him kill you, Janson thought. I’d kill you myself.

  Bennett’s eyes moved back to the boy. “Alfred, I’ve known you all your life. I know you can’t really believe—”

  Only a few more steps—Janson told himself. If he could get his hands on the gun, disarm the boy, then it would be over. If the law did not make Bennett pay for what he had done to Elise Whitley, what he had tried to do, then they would make him pay: her father, Alfred, Franklin Bates. Bennett would not get off scot free. He would pay—but not like this. Not like—

  “
Alfred!” Whitley’s shout as he entered the drugstore startled the boy. Alfred turned, the gun turning with him. A lady screamed, and Janson moved quickly—but it was not quickly enough. Bennett was already on the boy, trying to wrest the gun from his hands. They struggled for a moment, knocking over chairs and a table as they fought—and then there was the sound of a gunshot, its reverberation filling the air around them.

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Alfred Whitley took a step back, his hands to his chest. There was a startled, disbelieving look on his face, a look that turned to horror as he drew his hands away and looked down at them. They were covered with blood.

  He stumbled slightly and collapsed to the floor. There was a strangled shout for a doctor, but Janson never knew the voice—Whitley was already kneeling beside his son, trying to pull the boy’s head to his lap. Tears were coursing down the big man’s cheeks, fear and horror there as Janson had never seen before.

  “You’re going to be all right, boy. You’re going to be just fine. You’re going to be—”

  Alfred looked up at him, tears filling the blue eyes that seemed suddenly so like those of Elise Whitley. “Daddy?” he said softly, reaching up a bloody hand to touch his father’s face.

  “Don’t try to talk, boy. You’re going to be just—”

  “It doesn’t even hurt, Daddy,” the boy said, and closed his eyes, his hand dropping from his father’s face, leaving a bloody handprint there. “It doesn’t even—” There was a rattle deep in Alfred’s chest, and then again, louder. He lay still for a moment, taking one last breath. And then he was silent.

  Bennett’s voice rose loud above Whitley’s, above the sound of a child crying across the room, and of a young lady weeping nearby, drowning out all else. “It was self defense! All of you saw it; you saw him come after me with the gun! It was—”

  Janson turned and hit him hard in the mouth with the force of all the anger and pain inside of him, sending him stumbling backwards, knocking over chairs and tables in his path before finally coming to rest on the floor across the room. Then he knelt by Whitley, putting a hand on the big man’s shoulder, crying with him as Whitley rocked his son’s body in his arms, unable to speak as he heard the man say the same words over and over again:

  “Open your eyes, boy. You’re going to be fine, you hear me. Listen to your daddy now, you’re going to be just fine—”

  Janson left the Packard where it sat half on the brick pavement of Main Street, one of its front tires up on the sidewalk. He drove Whitley home in the truck, silently respectful of the older man’s grief as Whitley stared out the window beside him at the passing night. Whitley’s tears were dry now, but Janson knew his hurting was none the less—sometimes grief went beyond tears, beyond feeling. On the back of the truck, beneath a blanket someone had brought out from the drugstore, lay the body of Whitley’s second born. Alfred Whitley was going home for the last time.

  Janson stared ahead through the windshield at the few feet of red dirt road that the headlamps picked out before the truck—how can I tell her I couldn’t stop him? How can I—

  Elise, her mother, and Stan came out onto the veranda as the truck pulled up before the big house. There was silence as he and Whitley got out, as Elise, her mother, and younger brother descended the wide steps to the yard. She came to stand before him, looking up into his eyes in the darkness, and for a moment he could not speak for the fear he could see on her face. He could not be the one to tell her—

  “You weren’t able to stop him?” she asked quietly.

  Janson slowly shook his head.

  “Alfred’s dead, isn’t he?”

  No words would come to him because of the pain he could see in her eyes. But she needed no words. She knew. She came into his arms, the tears starting to move down her cheeks, and he held her, his own pain at seeing such grief almost more than he could bear. He heard himself saying mindless, comforting words, trying to ease her loss, all the while knowing there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, that would ever help.

  He heard Martha Whitley cry out, saw her collapse into her husband’s and Stan’s arms as she saw the body of her son beneath the blanket. He heard Whitley saying that it had been quick, that there had been no pain, that the boy did not suffer long—but he could only think about the girl in his arms, of the hurt she was feeling, of—

  He caught sight of Bill Whitley standing near one of the tall white columns at the edge of the veranda. The man’s face was unreadable, his eyes on Janson and his sister, and a cold chill moved up Janson’s spine—there was no grief on the man’s face, no—

  Elise Whitley was warm in his arms, crying quietly against his chest as he held her, and he turned his attention back to her, hurting for her pain and grief, wishing there were something he could do to lessen her hurt, something—

  Whitley and Stan led Mrs. Whitley up the steps to the veranda, supporting her, half carrying her, as her knees sagged and she leaned against her husband. Bill gave her only a slight glance as they passed him, not offering to help, not moving to open the door, not speaking—then his eyes moved back to Janson and Elise, and Janson felt the cold chill return. He held Elise only more tightly to him, and returned the stare—Bill Whitley’s face was no longer unreadable. There was nothing but cold hatred there.

  11

  Elise passed through the days in a haze of pain and grief, feeling nothing more inside herself than a terrible ache of emptiness that it seemed nothing could ever fill again. She had never known loss before, had never known tears of grief and hurting, had never known anything that her father’s name and influence could not set right again in the world.

  But this William Whitley could not set right. This he could not even deal with himself —Elise had heard him crying like a child behind her parents’ closed bedroom door, had heard her mother’s tears as well. She had gone to them hoping to find comfort, hoping to find someone who would be strong to let her cry. Her brother was dead and she was hurting, blaming herself in the times when she was alone, for Alfred had gone after Bennett only to revenge and protect her—and she was alone often in those first days, crying into the pillows in her bedroom until there were no tears left. Everywhere she looked, everything she touched, reminded her of Alfred, reminded her of the boy he had been, the man he would never be. She needed her family, needed her parents and Bill and Stan, needed to know they did not blame her, even as she blamed herself—but they were not there for her, not there even for each other; they were each involved in their own grief, each hurting in their own way, each somehow and completely alone even in the times when they were together.

  Her father was working too much, immersing himself in business, her mother moving about the house as if she were not even the same person she had been before, talking about Alfred sometimes almost as if he were still alive, almost as if he were still the small child he had been long ago. Stan was spending too much time alone, reading, forgetting, withdrawing into the worlds of others to escape his own. He rarely talked to her, or to her parents, or to anyone—but she could see the hurt in his eyes, the pain, the grief, and she turned away, unable to deal with his hurting anymore than he or her parents could deal with her own.

  Only Bill showed no pain. Bill, who said everything right and wore his mourning as if it were a cloak. There was no hurt in his eyes, no pain, no grief. It was as if Alfred had never been, had never existed, had never died, in his world—and Elise sometimes felt as if she had lost two brothers that night instead of one.

  There was only one person who seemed to be there solely for her, only one person who was not involved in his own pain and grief, but who seemed concerned only to lessen her own. In those first days of grieving and loss, Janson Sanders became the one constant of caring, understanding, and support in her world.

  He would sit with her for hours, letting her cry when she needed to, or talk when she felt like it, letting her grieve and m
ourn, and heal. He sat in silence as she talked, letting her tell him about her brother, about a boy she would always remember, always love. He did not say the stupid things everyone else said when she cried, did not tell her that her brother was with God or in a better place, but instead he just sat in quiet sympathy, respecting and allowing her her grief. Many of her friends had turned away now, embarrassed at her pain: young people she had known all her life, her own cousins, even J.C., the pressure for them to wed gone now for the time being in light of her family’s loss—they could deal with her pain no more than her family could. They no longer came to call on her, no longer asked her to visit—but Janson Sanders was there to fill the place they all left. The place they all left, and more.

  He began to call on her each day, coming to the side door and knocking softly, spending with her whatever time he could find free from farm chores and from the work he did for her father. At first it seemed as if she talked to him only of Alfred, remembering days long past, just as her mother did, but gradually she found him leading her away from the memories that were at once so bitter and yet so sweet—she found herself telling him things she had told no one else, about Phyllis Ann and the reasons they had been asked to leave the school. She told him of the choice she had made to remain silent, and of the betrayal she had found in Bennett’s words that night—Phyllis Ann had lied to save herself, just as Elise had remained silent such a short while before in trying to protect her. Elise’s silence, her lie of omission, had resulted in her own brother’s death—if she had only told the truth in the principal’s office that day, if she had only let Phyllis Ann face the consequences of what she herself had chosen to do, then Bennett would never have come after her, and Alfred would never have gone into town with the gun, and—