But she had shown them. She had gone after Carson Edwards with a single-mindedness of purpose she had shown few times in her life. The son of the Baptist minister could come in handy for so many things. Association with him could remove the taint from her name, and divorce her in the minds of so many from what everyone thought her father had done. She might even marry Carson, though she had never really considered before that she might marry anyone until she was too old to really care if she ever had any fun again—he was good-looking enough, though he was old, practically twenty-five already, and he was not as good in bed as she would have liked, but that was what love affairs were for anyway. Besides, it would be worth marrying him just to see what a fit that cow of a mother of his would have the very thought of her precious boy marrying the County bad girl. It would be worth marrying him indeed.
Phyllis Ann glanced again at her wrist watch and then paced across the room toward the full-length mirror that stood near her bed. She stopped for a moment, admiring her reflection, her impatience at being kept waiting forgotten as she turned sideways to admire the flat chest, the slim hips, the boyish figure that everyone so envied now days. Her dress had been carefully chosen, barely touching her knees at all, her stockings rolled down into garters beneath it. She smoothed a spit-curl of bobbed hair down against a rouged cheek, and then swung the long strand of beads that hung about her neck—all she needed now was the white cloche hat that waited on the bed, the gloves, and her new handbag to complete the picture. Carson would be at her feet—but he was practically at her feet anyway. He had been more difficult than she had ever thought he might be to start with, wary, because of the things that had been told about her father, but she had taken care of that. She had run into him time and again, seemingly by accident, had practically thrown herself at him—they had been seeing each other for over a month now, but today was the first time they would be out together in public. Carson would be taking her shopping, maybe even to the movies, before they found some quiet place to park his car, share some bootleg whiskey, and have some fun.
She nodded with satisfaction at her reflection in the mirror, hearing Carson’s Oldsmobile at last turn into the drive before the house—there had been no doubt in her mind whether or not he would not show. He would never dare to stand her up; no man would dare to stand her up. She would leave him standing downstairs for a while to teach him a lesson for making her wait, and then she would make him buy her something expensive in apology. Something very expensive.
She put on her cloche hat and took up her gloves, slowly beginning to smile to herself—oh, yes, her plans were well under way.
The knock sounded at the front door for a second time. Ethan Bennett cursed under his breath as he set his drink aside and pushed himself to his feet—damn Paula and Phyllis Ann, they were never around when you needed them, never around when they were supposed to be. It was not a man’s place to have to answer the door in his own home; that was what women were for, one of the few useful things they could do in life, other than satisfy a man’s needs and get pregnant even when you did not want them to—Paula and the girl both knew that, and, if they had forgotten, he would make sure they never did again.
He started for the door, and then turned back to take up his glass, allowing himself another generous swallow of the bootleg whiskey as he entered the hallway. The knock came again just as he reached the door, and he cursed as he started to swing it inward—the damn fool must think he was deaf or something; somebody ought to—
But the thought ended there, incomplete, and died, as he found himself staring into the face of the young fop son of the Baptist minister. The boy stood there on the front veranda, flawless in a white linen suit, a look of barely concealed dislike on his face as he met Ethan’s eyes, and for a moment Ethan wanted nothing more than to hit him—over the past two months almost everyone in the County had slighted him at one time or another, but none so badly as had the Baptist minister and his family. After all the years Ethan had been a member of that church, after all the money he had given, all the time he had wasted in Matthew Edwards’ long-winded sermons, the son-of-a-bitch had dared to have him removed from office as a deacon just because of that little bitch, Elise Whitley, and her brother—and now Carson Edwards stood at his front door, just as if nothing had happened, just as if Carson’s father had never stabbed Ethan in the back, just as if—
“What the hell do you want?” Ethan demanded, blocking the doorway with his body. “If you’re out drumming up people to go to that goddamn church of yours, you better—”
“I’ve come to pick up Phyllis Ann. We’ve got a date.” The boy’s chin lifted defiantly, as if daring Ethan to throw him off the place.
“A date—hell no you don’t! My daughter’s not going anywhere with you!”
“Phyllis Ann agreed to—”
“I don’t give a damn what she agreed!” Ethan shouted, cutting off his words. “You’re sure as hell not taking my daughter anywhere, not after the way you and that goddamn family of yours has treated me! That son-of-a-bitch father of yours turning me out as a deacon—and now you’ve got the nerve to come to my house sniffing after my daughter! Get the hell off my property, boy, before I beat your ass for you!”
Carson’s face had blanched, but now it began to redden. He shifted his stance, clenching his fists at his sides. “Now, you listen—”
“I said get!” Ethan shouted, and then on impulse slung his drink in the boy’s face, watching with satisfaction as the bootleg whiskey soaked into the fine white linen of his suit. For a moment he thought the young fop would stand and fight, but then the boy seemed to think better of it, turning on his heel and striding across the veranda and down into the yard without another word.
“And I better not see you out here again, or I will beat your ass for you!” Ethan shouted after him, still standing in the open doorway. Suddenly he was shoved aside, as Phyllis Ann reached the door in time to see Carson get into his car and slam the door shut behind himself.
“Carson, wait!” she yelled, but the boy only looked back at her for a moment, a look of clear anger on his face, and then turned away, jerking the car in gear and starting to back down the drive.
Ethan yanked her back from the doorway, slamming the door shut behind them so hard that the glass panes rattled in their frames.
“What the hell do you think you were doing, saying you’d see that boy!” he shouted. “I told you not to have anything more to do with any of them!” He shoved her backwards, down the hallway, toward the wide curved staircase at the far end. “And look how you’re dressed, showing yourself off like you were some cheap little whore for him—you know all he wants is to stick it in you! Him and that whole family of his, thinking they’re so high and mighty, passing judgements on me—but that doesn’t matter to you, does it? All you want is what’s between that boy’s legs. All you—”
He grabbed her arm, holding her before him, watching as a look of fear passed across her face. She began to pry at his fingers, trying to free herself, but he would not allow it, shaking her soundly to silence her words as they came.
“I’ll teach you to betray me, you little—” He slapped her hard, backhanded, across the face, sending her cloche hat spinning across the floor. “Damn little tramp—” He slapped her again, and then again, hard, stinging blows that left her face red and his hand stinging. One blow struck her across the nose, sending blood spurting across the clean white cuff of his shirt and down over the lower half of her face—suddenly she seemed to go wild, no longer just struggling to break free, but lashing out to hit him across the face instead, yelling with rage. She clawed out and dug her nails into his cheek, scratching him deeply from the ear downward to his chin.
He yelped with surprise and shoved her away before she could do any further damage, his hand going to his scratched and bleeding face. She fell backwards against the staircase banister and clutched at it for support, breathing h
eavily, her bobbed hair wild from the struggle, falling into her face. He stared at her for a moment, wary of the look of sheer self-preservation in her eyes.
“Get your ass up those stairs, and don’t come down again until I tell you to!” he ordered, keeping his distance from her. She did not move, but continued to clutch the banister instead, her chest rising and falling, her eyes fixed on him. “I said get up those stairs!” he yelled again, taking a step toward her.
She straightened up quickly, and he froze, but she only stared at him for a moment, and then slowly turned and started up the stairs, making a deliberate show that she was no longer afraid of him.
He stood clenching his fists at the bottom of the staircase, shaking with rage as he watched her ascend. When she left his sight, he slammed his fist hard into the wall, leaving a mark on the wallpaper and making his hand and arm ache, and then he turned and kicked over a nearby table for the pain in his hand.
“Damn little bitch!” he shouted to the empty hallway—but she would pay for it, and she would pay dearly. He would see to it—oh, how he would see to it.
Phyllis Ann sat on the bed in her room a short while later, her knees drawn up to her chest, her back against the headboard. She had heard her father leave the house already, had heard the front door slam and the LaSalle start down the graveled drive toward the red dirt road—she hoped he was drunk enough to drive into a tree and kill himself. Her life would be so much simpler if only he were dead.
She looked down at her dress, now rumpled and stained from the bloody nose. It had been so fresh, so pretty, only half an hour before, and she had been so lovely in it, all ready to meet Carson, ready to put her plans into motion, ready to regain her rightful place in the community—but all that had changed now. Her father had ruined her plans, had managed to undo everything she had already accomplished—stupid fool, he had already ruined his own life; now he would ruin hers as well. The goddamn stupid fool.
The violence she had met with today was nothing new to her. It had been an ordinary part of her life for as long as she could remember—but today something had changed. Today she had backed him down, had even managed to hurt him a little—how good it had felt to see that look of pain in his eyes, that look of wary distrust. How good it had felt just to hurt him for once as he had hurt her so many times in the past.
She hated him now even more than she had ever thought it possible to hate him, more than she had ever hated him before. She needed all those people he now despised, all those people of social prominence in the County, all those people who could make her life be again as it used to be—all those people who were now shocked and scandalized by what he had done, by what Elise had told about him, and by the way Alfred Whitley had gotten himself killed. Carson had been the first step in getting her life back as it should be, back as it had been before when she had been the most popular girl in the County, the most envied, the most wanted, and the most despised by the other girls just for her looks and her flair and her sex appeal. But her father had ruined that; he had interfered, ruined her plans. It had been hard enough to sway Carson to her charms this time; she knew she would have no chance at him again, no chance at any of the men in the County who might be of use to her, not once Carson told everyone what her father had done today, not once—
Then her mind hit upon another thought—Elise. Elise had started all this, had caused it. Phyllis Ann knew her father had never tried to rape the little bitch; that had all been Elise’s imagination, some bid for attention, and look at all the trouble it had caused. The least Elise could do now was make amends, undo the damage she had done to Phyllis Ann—and Elise would do it. As one of the Whitleys, as the one making the accusations in the first place, Elise could set everything right again—oh, why had she not thought of this before! She knew she could not trust Elise, for her one-time friend had long since proven herself a self-serving little liar in the past months, thinking only of herself—but Phyllis Ann could handle her; she had always handled her. There had never been one time in all her life that Elise had not done exactly as Phyllis Ann had wanted, and this time would be no different. No different indeed.
Phyllis Ann got up from the bed and went to her dresser mirror, then flinched as she saw her reflection. Her nose had quit bleeding now, but blood had dried beneath it on her upper lip, and an ugly bruise was just beginning to show beneath her right eye. She stood considering her face for a moment, and slowly she began to smile—hadn’t Elise always been concerned about the violence Phyllis Ann lived with. A bruise or two might be just what it would take to bring out the streak of maternal sympathy that Phyllis Ann knew existed within her. Elise would never be able to turn her back on her old friend when she was in such obvious need of help. Never.
Phyllis Ann continued to smile at her reflection for a long time—Elise Whitley would be putty in her hands. She always had been.
12
Elise sat on a cushioned straight chair behind her table at the church bazaar that Saturday morning, fanning herself in spite of the shade of the cottonwood tree beneath which her table was located. The day was hot and sticky, and her light summer dress already clung to her from perspiration—but the day was only just beginning, her table still laden with plates of cookies and candy, boxes of fudge, and cakes of all varieties, from lemon pound to chocolate to coconut, that Mattie Ruth and the part-time girl from town had been baking for days. There would be a long day ahead of her before she could go home to find some cool place to rest; a long day, and too much time to think.
She watched the people move about the church grounds, listening to the sound of Saturday morning traffic as it made its way toward the cluster of store buildings downtown. The sound of jazz music started up from a Victrola in the church basement nearby, and for a moment it seemed as if the day might improve for at least a time, but then the preacher marched across her line of vision, headed toward the building, a look of stern disapproval on his face. After a moment, the music fell silent and the preacher reappeared, followed by several young people who looked as if they would rather not have been caught, and the day settled back into silence above the sounds of traffic and the hum of the voices of those at the bazaar.
Elise stared past the plates and boxes of sweets on her table, thinking of the days of delicious smells that had surrounded the area of the kitchen during their baking. She had so looked forward to this day, to sitting behind her table and talking to the people as they stopped to buy her cakes and fudge and candy, to seeing the new dresses the church and town girls would be wearing—and, most of all, to the time when Janson Sanders would come to her table to buy one of her cakes, as he had promised. They had planned a picnic supper for later, once the bazaar was finished, and slices of the cake for dessert—but now that would never be, and she knew it. She watched the boyishly shaped girls passing by in their light-colored dresses, all of them looking much like pale, immature butterflies on the arms of their young men in light summer suits, and she felt as if she were the only person alone today.
She was being kept busy at her sales, and the large display of cakes and sweets that had burdened her table was growing smaller by the minute, for Mattie Ruth’s baking was well known as some of the best in the County—but Elise was finding it difficult to even be civil to the many people as they stood and chatted about their neighbors and the weather and the other church members. Her mind was not on the gossip, or on the summer dresses, or even on the news that Alice Marsh had just given birth after only five and a half months of marriage—her mind was on Janson Sanders instead, as it had been for days now.
She had not seen him except at a distance since the argument several days before, and she was still angry. She had not intentionally set out to insult his damnable pride—and yet he had said that she did not know how to act like a lady, had called her a spoiled brat. Well, if he wanted to act that way, then let him. She did not need him anyway. She did not need—
And, even as
she told herself that, she realized she had never before missed anyone so much in all her life. He had grown to be such a normal part of her days, and, even though she was no less furious, to her anger she was also no less in love—stupid, stubborn, ill-mannered farmhand; it was not her fault that he could not read, not her fault that he had seemed so determined to be insulted, no matter what it was that she had meant. Well, if that was the way he wanted it, then he could certainly have it that way. He could certainly—
She caught sight of him standing at a distance across the churchyard. He was with another of her father’s farmhands, someone she had seen before, but whose name she could not recall. They were both dressed in what was probably their best, Janson in a clean white shirt and dungarees, his hair combed back and groomed as neatly as she had ever seen it—he was looking at her, and for a moment their eyes met across the distance; then he turned away, back to the girl behind the table where he stood, and Elise felt a hot flush of anger spread to her cheeks—at him, at herself, at the girl he was talking to, she did not know which. She looked away, furious—how dare he come here after—
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