She had lain awake half the night trying to think of a way out of having to spend the early part of the day with her parents and with J.C., but, try as she might, she could think of no reason that would excuse her from the picnic without also excluding her from leaving the house for the remainder of the day. She would have to spend the morning with them—but, as soon as she could slip away, she would have the afternoon and the evening with Janson. The day was theirs; he had promised her that. There would be no mysterious ‘errands’ for him to go off on, no secret ‘work’ that he could never tell her about. He belonged to her for the day. And to her alone.
She spun happily around, hugging herself. There would be the dance tonight, following the picnic and the hot dogs and the patriotic speeches. A group of young people from the County had made arrangements for musicians to come all the way from Atlanta, over the objections of many of the older people that jazz music, and even the already-outdated Charleston, not to mention bobbed hair and hip flasks and the blatant sexuality of rolled stockings and short skirts, were morally corrupting. Elise had attended dances at the Town Hall before, had often been one of the most popular of the young flappers there, dancing with more of the County boys than did any other girl in attendance—but she had never before looked forward to any dance as she looked forward to the one tonight. She knew she would not be able to dance publicly with Janson, for her father would never permit that—but there was always the chance she might get him off into some quiet corner, or even into the darkness outside Town Hall. He could be so awfully old-fashioned about some things—but still she might talk him into a private dance, just the two of them, alone in the darkness, something old-fashioned and slow, so that he would have to hold her. She could flirt with him—not too much, for she well remembered his reaction the last time she had flirted, and she would not have him think she was not behaving like a lady again. She would let him know that she did care about him, was interested in him as a man, without ever having to say a word. Once the music was playing, soft and low in the background, and she was in his arms, close against him, she knew it would have to happen—he would lean to her and kiss her and—
And after tonight he would forget all about that other girl in town.
No matter what it was he said, she was certain he had a girl, someone he would not tell her about—what else could take him away at such peculiar hours and times? What else would he not be willing to tell her about?
But she refused to think about that today. Today he belonged to her, and only to her, for this one day alone. She would make him forget that other girl, all other girls—she knew they were meant to be together, and he would know it as well before this day was through. He had to love her; she could feel it—women always knew such things, she told herself. Janson had to love her, and that other girl, whoever she was, was nothing more than a diversion because he did not believe that Elise felt exactly as he did. But, tonight, once she was in his arms—
Her father would be furious, but she would not let herself think about that now. She and Janson would be married—how that could be, in the manner of those who have had all they have wanted in their lives, she did not consider. She wanted Janson, and she was determined to have what it was she wanted.
She smiled happily at her reflection in the mirror, thinking of all the days ahead, thinking of the green of Janson’s eyes, the curve of his jaw. She felt she could never wait an hour or more to see him, to begin this day that she would remember forever—if she could just steal a few moments with him now, under the pretext of telling him where and when to meet her later. He would be in his room, getting ready for the picnic—it would be so easy, just slip out the back and over to the barn. Just a moment with him, to renew his promise that his day belonged to her today. Just a moment—
She slipped down the wide hallway toward the door that opened out onto the back veranda, glancing back once to make sure that her father was nowhere within sight. She went through the door and closed it quietly behind herself, then crossed to the steps that led down into the yard—her father would have a fit if he caught her. He had seemed so strange earlier when he had told her not to leave the house until time to leave for the picnic. But seeing Janson even for a moment would be well worth the risk. Her father might scream and yell, but even he could not ruin this day for her. This was her day, Janson’s day, and nothing would spoil it. Nothing.
With that thought in mind, she slipped quietly around the edge of the house, across the yard, and toward the barn, knowing this day would change her life forever.
There was a sick feeling in the pit of Janson’s stomach as Franklin Bates stopped before them. Gilbert Baskin was struggling in his grip now, struggling, not out of defiance as before, but in fear, a film of perspiration beading over his upper lip. Bates took a step forward, flexing his massive hands before knotting them into fists, and Janson turned his eyes away, the sickness rising to his throat for he knew what was about to happen.
William Whitley stood just a short distance away, his back turned toward the work about to be done on his order, a thin wraith of smoke rising from his cigar as he finally lighted it. Janson stared at him, realizing for the first time how dangerous the man could be—he was a man who could do anything, anything at all, if he were only pushed far enough. Janson’s eyes moved back toward Bates, and then to Gilbert Baskin who dragged at him as he tried to back away—and then he caught sight of Bill Whitley, and a cold chill moved up his spine. The man was smiling, a cold, hard excitement in his eyes—he’s enjoying this, Janson told himself. My God, he’s enjoying this.
The first blow almost collapsed Gilbert to the ground, his knees sagging beneath him. He dragged at the two men holding him, struggling to free himself. His words were incoherent now, pleading, begging, all defiance gone—but there was no use. The second punch collapsed his knees beneath him, almost pulling Janson and Bill down as well. A trickle of fresh blood appeared at the corner of his mouth from where he had bitten his jaw to keep from crying out—this isn’t right, some part of Janson kept saying. This isn’t—
Franklin knotted his fists for another blow, his face absolutely impassive, business-like—this has gone too far, Janson thought. Gilbert was shaking his head back and forth, spittle drooling from his mouth and down over his chin—too—
“That’s enough!” Janson heard his own voice over the sound of Gilbert’s near-incoherent pleading. Franklin’s eyes flicked to his for a moment, and then moved toward where William Whitley stood at a distance, Bates hands still tightened and ready before him.
Whitley had turned back toward them, surprise, something near disbelief, in his eyes as he took the cigar from his mouth and stared at Janson for a moment. “What’d you say, boy?”
“I said he’s had enough.” There was anger building inside of Janson—there were many things in this world he would do for money; but this was not one of them.
“You goddamn coward!” Bill Whitley said, his voice filled with anger and hatred from where he stood just at Gilbert Baskin’s other side.
“Shut up, Bill!” Whitley snapped, but his eyes never left Janson. “I’m the one who’ll decide when he’s had enough, boy—” he said, clear threat in his words.
“He’s had enough.” Janson kept his gaze locked with Whitley’s as he supported Gilbert Baskin’s sagging body. He knew he was walking a thin line; one misstep and he could meet with what Gilbert had received—or even worse. Whitley was no man to provoke; he had well learned that this morning—and he knew he might have already gone one step too far.
Whitley’s jaw clenched, his eyes filling with anger as he stared at Janson. “Boy, don’t nobody—”
But a shocked female voice cut through his words, silencing him as quickly as a slap. “Oh—dear God—!”
Janson turned quickly in that direction—but he already knew. Elise stood at one corner of the barn, her eyes taking in the scene before her, and then settling on
his own. He felt he could never take the weight of that gaze, and of all that it said. There was accusation there in her eyes. Accusation, and a sudden, horrible understanding.
Elise felt as if she herself had been delivered a blow, so great was the shock—her father, Bill, and Janson—oh, dear God, Janson—Gilbert, looking so battered, so hurt. What she saw said everything—what kind of men were these, to be able to hurt another human being so easily, so without feeling. Her father, her brother, the man she loved—Janson, her Janson, holding another man for a beating—
“Oh—dear God—!” was all she could say, staring at him.
“Elise, go back to the house!” Her father’s face was set, drained of color, as her eyes came back to him.
“No! I won’t! What in the name of—” Her voice was pleading, demanding—it could not be as it seemed. Not her father, not Bill—not Janson. Her eyes moved to Gilbert as he was released, as he sagged to the ground—no man could have deserved this. No man. “What are—”
“Go back to the house!” Her father’s voice rose in anger.
“No!”—please, God, let me be dreaming, she begged. Let this all be a nightmare—but this was no nightmare. It was all too real, in all its ugly, glaring truth. And suddenly she understood—all the times Janson had left her, had gone places he could not tell her about, done things he could not tell her about, had been times like this, times when he had done terrible things for her father just for the money it could bring him. Just for the money. Her eyes moved back to Janson, and she stared at him in disbelief—Janson, hurting someone, helping her father to hurt someone. Janson, but not the man she had known, never the man she had known. A stranger inside of him, a stranger who wore his face and had his voice. A stranger who mocked and angered and frightened her. “Why? Daddy—Janson—how could—”
“I said, go back to the house, goddamn you!”
“No!” She screamed at her father for the first time in all her life, feeling as if she wanted to cry—but the tears would not come. They stayed locked inside of her, hurting far worse than any she had ever shed.
The color returned to her father’s face in a rush. His cheeks reddened, and he clenched his hands into fists angrily at his sides. Janson’s eyes seemed to dart quickly to him, and then back to Elise. His voice suddenly came, even more commanding than her father’s had been.
“Get back t’ th’ house, Elise!”
Her chin rose, defiance suddenly flaring within her, defiance stoked by shock and hurt—how dare he not be the man she had thought him to be. How dare he present her with this mocking stranger behind the face she had loved so well. How dare he—
“Get t’ th’ house!” His voice rose, a stern look in his eyes that allowed no disobedience. “Now!”
Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to get away, away from this place, away from her father, away from Janson. She needed to be alone, needed to think, to sort it all out in her mind. She felt as if she had been slapped cold, hard in the face by something she had not been prepared for, something she could never have been prepared for. She turned and ran—toward the house, toward the shelter of her room, toward the comfort and safety she had always known. Her mind was filled with Janson, a Janson she had never known before, a Janson she did not like—and a Janson she did not want to love.
But into her mind crept the one thought as she ran toward the road, the fields, and the house beyond, momentarily crowding out all others, and bringing with it a stab of bittersweet pain—there had been no other girl in his life. The days he had been gone from her, days so secretive and mysterious, had been days such as this—days spent doing wrong and unpleasant things for her father, not days spent in the arms of another woman. He had been hers more completely than she had ever known, and the hurt of that knowledge learned too late ached inside of her, for she hoped nothing more now than that she would never have to see him again.
Janson strode up the steps and onto the wide front veranda of the Whitley house less than an hour later, his heavy shoes making dull, thudding noises on the wooden flooring beneath him—he had to find Elise. He had to find her and make her understand before she could say or do something that might push her father too far—and it might already be too late. If Whitley had come here directly after leaving the barn, he had been home now for over three-quarters of an hour—three-quarters of an hour in which Elise could have confronted him, could have said or done anything that might have set him off. Janson had never before believed that Whitley might actually harm his own daughter—but this time he could not be certain.
The man’s temper had been at the breaking point already after Janson had stopped the beating, and then Elise had shown up. Janson had known from the look on her face that she had to be gotten out of there before she could say or do one thing too many—it had torn him apart inside to watch her run away, knowing what it was she had to think of him now after what she had walked into.
And now she had been here in the house with her father for over forty-five minutes. With her temper, with how quick she was to speak without thinking, with her pure cussedness, Janson knew she would have confronted him by now. Forty-five minutes—
He caught sight of himself in the frosted glass panes set into the wide front doors—he was dressed in a new pair of dungarees, his best Sunday shirt, and the only pair of shoes he owned. His straight, black hair, so neatly combed back and pomaded earlier, was now tousled and disheveled—he had been so careful with his appearance this morning, had taken time as never before, because he had known he would be spending the day with her. He had wanted her to notice the care he had taken, had wanted her to be totally unashamed to be seen with him on this day, had even allowed himself to dream—
But that was all gone now. After what she had seen, after what she had walked into, after what she must believe of him now—
But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was that he had to find her, make sure that she was all right, and that he calm her temper and still her questioning before she could push her father too far—if it was not already too late. He knew she could never be told the truth, never be told that Gilbert Baskin had simply become a threat to her father’s bootlegging operation—no, she could never be told that. He had hoped earlier that by getting her away from the barn as quickly as possible, by putting that distance between her and her father, that both tempers would have time to cool before they could confront each other. He and Franklin had been sent into town to put Gilbert on the first train out of Endicott County, to warn him one last time that to ever show his face within the County line again might mean his immediate death—as they had driven away, he had seen Whitley start for the house, an angry look on his face. Forty-five minutes ago, and anything could have happened by now. Anything.
The place seemed deserted, too quiet, neither Whitley’s car nor Bill’s parked in the curve of the drive before the house. There was no sound of the radio playing from within the front parlor, or of the Victrola, or even of voices—Janson pounded on the heavy wooden door until the frosted glass pane rattled in its frame, waited a moment, then pounded again. “Goddamn it—answer—” he swore aloud, clenching both fists at his sides.
One of the heavy doors swung inward almost in response to his curse, and he found himself staring down into the surprised face of Mattie Ruth Coates. He pushed past her and into the wide hallway, looking toward the staircase that rose to the floor above. “Where’s Elise?”
For a moment she did not answer, staring up at him with clear disapproval in her eyes. “She’s done gone—”
“Gone—gone where?”
“T’ th’ doin’s in town, with th’ family.”
“An’ her pa?”
“He went with ’em, made her go. She didn’t much want t’—” But the remainder of her words were lost as he pushed past her again and out onto the wide veranda. “Where’re you goin’?” she yelled after him from the open
doorway.
“Int’ town,” he said, not stopping or looking back. “I got t’ find Elise—”
The gawky Ford rattled down Goodwin’s Main Street as it neared the picnic grounds at the far end of town that morning, finally rolling to a stop beside the collection of cars, wagons, and trucks already parked there at the edge of the meadow. Elise sat staring out the car window, unmoving, her eyes set on the growing crowd of picnickers, until her door was yanked open and she looked up to find her father glowering down at her. She got out of the car quickly and moved a few steps away, wanting only to distance herself from him—but she felt a sudden rough hand on her arm, drawing her up short, turning her to face him.
“You listen to me, Elise—” he said, his tone hushed, angry, his brows lowered, his eyes dark and furious still as they stared down into her own. “You keep your mouth shut about things you don’t know anything about; do you hear me?”
For a moment she did not answer, but just stared up at him, the anger and rage growing inside of her again—she had not wanted to come here in the first place, had not wanted to spend the day acting just as if she had seen nothing, just as if she had learned nothing as she now wished she had never known.
This had been his idea, his demand, when he had returned to the house—she would forget what she had seen, what she had walked into. She did not understand what had happened, he had said, or the reasons for it—but she understood enough; she understood there was something her father was involved in, Bill was involved in, even Janson was involved in, that she had been meant to know nothing about. They were doing something wrong, wrong perhaps both in the sight of God and the Law, and Gilbert Baskin had somehow gotten in their way—she knew Gilbert had left the place sometime during the months she had been away at school, sometime during the months when Janson had first come to the place; but now Gilbert was back, and they had beaten him, perhaps even meant to kill him if she had not interfered. No man alive could have deserved what they had done to him, what they had intended to do; her father, Bill, Franklin Bates, Janson—how she despised them now for what they had done, what they were capable of doing. They somehow frightened her, enraged her, for they were none of them the men she had thought them to be. None of them, not even her own father or brother. Not even Janson, who she had wanted to spend her life with—how much she had thought she loved him, and what a fool she had been. What a fool.
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