Behold, This Dreamer

by Charlotte Miller

  Her father yanked at her arm, hurting her, demanding her attention. “You just keep your mouth shut—” he said, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Do you hear me?”

  Elise yanked her arm free of his grasp and took a step back to glare up at him. “Oh, I hear you all right, Daddy.”

  He looked around quickly, at the others getting out of the car, at the picnic baskets being unloaded, the festivities being prepared for, then he looked quickly back to her, his eyes growing only darker. “You forget what you saw, or what it is you think you saw. You don’t know a goddamn thing—and I’m getting tired of your smart mouth. All you’ve got to worry about today is J.C. Cooper, and being nice to him. That’s all you’ve got to worry about from now on—do you understand me?”

  Elise stared up at him, realizing for the first time in her life that she did not know, or even really like, her own father. “Yeah, I understand you, Daddy,” she said. “Maybe for the first time in my life, I understand you.”

  By the time Janson reached town that morning, there was already a sizeable gathering of people at the meadow, some already sitting down to picnic dinners, others only now just arriving. He had caught a ride toward town on the wagon of one of the Whitleys’ sharecroppers, sitting on the back in silence, his legs dangling down, the ride seeming to him to take forever to cover the distance. The farmer had taken him to within a mile of the edge of town, and he had walked the remainder of the way, his steps determined, single-minded—he had to talk to Elise, whether she wanted to see him or not. He had to talk to her, make sure she was all right, and then make certain that she forgot forever what it was she had seen today, not for his sake, or for her father’s, but for her own. She could never know about the bootlegging operation, but she had to understand enough to know that she could never confront her father again about what she had seen, never take the chance of pushing him too far—Janson had known before that William Whitley could be a dangerous man, but he had never realized how dangerous, not until today, not until he had seen that beating take place, that beating that he had known had been as much for his benefit as for Gilbert’s own. It had been a message, a clear warning, that he should never let himself become a threat as well.

  He made his way past a group of small boys shooting off firecrackers at the edge of the picnic grounds, past a group of men heatedly discussing politics, and several young couples walking arm-in-arm over the newly mown grass, his eyes searching the area for Elise. It seemed as if most of the County had turned out for the celebration, for the picnic, the speeches, and the dance and fireworks that would come later. There were families already sitting down to picnic baskets, elderly ladies gossiping beneath the shade of nearby trees, and young people courting away from the eyes of meddlesome mothers. Janson caught sight of Stan Whitley standing at a distance of about half-way across the meadow, J.C. Cooper nearby, and he started in their direction, knowing that Elise would be somewhere not too far distant—then he saw her, kneeling at the edge of one of the blankets her family had spread out, both she and her mother helping to unload the picnic dinner that had been brought in the many baskets surrounding her. She seemed to lift her eyes and see him at the same moment, appearing surprised at first, then flustered; then she hurriedly got to her feet and started away, toward the far side of the picnic grounds, putting an even greater distance between them.

  Janson started toward her, pushing past a group of men near the edge of the meadow, stepping around picnickers, almost knocking one man off his feet in his rush to reach her—she would have to listen to him; he would give her no other choice. She would have to listen to him, and then—

  And then only God knew.

  Elise did not know where she was going, and she did not care. She only knew she had to get away, away from Janson before he could reach her, away from her father and the picnic grounds and all the people who did not know that the world had forever changed on this day. She saw the woods ahead of her and she headed in that direction, knowing somehow she would never make it to their cover before Janson could reach her side.

  She felt his hand on her arm, gently but firmly drawing her up short, putting an end to her flight, and she turned to him, rage filling her as she tried to jerk free. “Let me go, goddamn you!” she demanded, struggling against him, only to have his free hand close over her other arm as well. For a moment his eyes searched her face, and she felt herself weakening, then she shoved hard against him again, determined to not lose herself to the lies she knew that lay behind those green eyes. “I said, let me go!”

  “Quit fightin’ me, Elise, before you hurt yourself—”

  “Isn’t that what you intend to do, Janson Sanders, beat me up as well?” she demanded, finally stopping her struggles only to stare up at him.

  His hands fell from her arms and a hurt look came into his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t never hurt you—”

  “But you hurt other people, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been doing all along, isn’t it, all the times you left and told me lies about where it was you were going and what you were doing—you and my father, you’re involved in something you don’t want anyone else to know about, something that’s wrong, something that’s illegal. That’s it, isn’t it—he’s got you doing terrible things for him, hasn’t he, just for the money. Just for the—”

  “Leave it be, Elise—”

  “Hasn’t he!”

  “I said leave it be! You don’t unders—”

  “Oh, I understand enough, and I hate you for it. You’re not the man I thought you were, and I can never forgive you for that, never!”

  For a moment he only stared at her. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I mean!” she said, clenching her hands into fists at her sides, her entire body shaking now with fury. “You’ll do anything for money, won’t you? Anything—”

  “But, you don’t—”

  “Why did Daddy have you do it? Why did he have you beat up Gilbert—you, Bill, Franklin—”

  “Leave it be, Elise. He’s got his reasons. It ain’t my place t’ say—”

  “Well, maybe my father will say!” She turned and started away, back toward the center of the picnic grounds, back toward her father and her family and the picnic dinner she knew she would never be able to eat, but suddenly he had her arm again, turning her to face him, holding her still before him. When he spoke his voice was low, firm, something unreadable in his eyes.

  “You listen t’ me, Elise Whitley. You leave your pa alone; don’t you go askin’ him no questions.”

  She tried to jerk free, but he would not release her, his hands holding her only more firmly, his eyes never once leaving her face.

  “You just stay outta this, you hear me? Don’t you go messin’ in things you don’t know nothin’ about—”

  “You sound just like my father!” She spat the words at him, unable to stop herself.

  “Maybe I do, but you listen t’ me. You stay outta this. Don’t go messin’ with him; he ain’t nobody t’—”

  Suddenly he seemed to realize he had said too much. She stared at him, realization slowly coming. “You actually think he would—Janson, he’s my father! You can’t really believe he would hurt me!”

  “I ain’t sayin’ he’d hurt you, but it’s best that you forget you ever saw anythin’ t’day. No matter what it is you think about me, or about anythin’ else, don’t go sayin’ nothin’ more t’ him about it.”

  She took her arms from his grasp, and this time he released her willingly. She took a few steps away to stand with her back to him. “You really believe he would—” but her words trailed off. After a moment she spoke again. “He has you doing something illegal, doesn’t he?” she asked, but he did not respond. “Damn it, answer me!” She turned back to face him. “I have the right to know! He’s my father, and you’re—” but she could not finish.

  “He’s got
his reasons for what he does, Elise. Just leave it be—”

  “I will not leave it be! And I don’t care what his reasons are! I see you helping to beat a man half to death, and my father—what is it you’re involved in?”

  “I said leave it be!”

  Something of the urgency in his voice cut through her. She stared at him, an awful understanding coming to her. “My father, he could turn on you like that, couldn’t he?” she asked, but he would not answer. “What happened to Gilbert, it could—”

  “Elise—”

  “Answer me!” she demanded, her voice rising. “It could happen to you, couldn’t it?”

  “Your pa don’t do nothin’ unless he’s got a reason.”

  “But, if he had a reason, he could hurt you, have someone else hurt you, maybe even—”

  “I ain’t givin’ him no reason—”

  But she knew. She stared at him, realizing fully what it was her father might be capable of doing. “Janson, you’ve got to stop whatever you’re doing for him, quit it now, before he—”

  But he cut her words short. “I cain’t do that—”

  “Why not? Is the money that—”

  “Th’ quickest way for me t’ end up like Gilbert Baskin is for me t’ quit doin’ what your pa says—is that what you wanted t’ hear!” he demanded, and then seemed to realize what his words had done to her. “Elise, I—”

  But she turned away, her voice hushed as she spoke. “My God, what kind of man is he—”

  “Elise, it ain’t important. Just forget—”

  “Do you really think I can forget?” she demanded, turning to him, knowing suddenly that she was going to cry. “Seeing you hurting someone, and my father—how did you ever get involved in something like this?”

  “I do what he pays me t’ do—”

  “Even hurting people!”

  “I ain’t hurt nobody.”

  “I saw you! You were helping to—”

  “An’ I put a stop t’ it when it went too far—” But she only stared at him. He sighed and shook his head. “That don’t matter now,” he said after a moment. “Th’ only thing that matters is that you leave your pa be. Don’t go askin’ him no questions.”

  Elise stared at him for a moment, and then turned her eyes away, looking toward the throng of picnickers, toward people she knew she would never be able to see in the same way again. When she brought her eyes back to him she found him watching her, a look in his eyes once again that she could not understand.

  “Are you all right?” he asked after a moment, his eyes never once leaving her face.

  She nodded, looking away again.

  “Your pa, when he came back t’ th’ house, he didn’t—”

  “No, he didn’t,” she answered, not letting him finish, not wanting to hear the words.

  “You an’ me, I don’t guess you’ll ever—” but his words fell silent. When she looked back at him there was pain in his eyes.

  “I’ll ever what?” she asked.

  “After t’day, I don’t guess you’ll want anythin’ more t’ do with me again.”

  She could only stare up at him for a moment. “You’re still my friend,” she said finally, her words quiet.

  “You said you hated me.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I should never have said that.”

  “But, do you?”

  “No, I couldn’t hate you.”

  He was silent for a long moment, his green eyes moving toward the nearby picnickers, and then coming back to rest on her again. There was a longing in him she could almost sense, that she could see in his eyes, and she knew that he had not been a lie, that he had never been a lie, no matter what it was she had seen today. “Before, you said that you wanted t’ spend part ’a th’ day with me. You don’t have t’ now, not if you don’t want t’—”

  For a time she could only stare up at him, letting the realization of all she had learned sink into her, the realization of all that she still did not know. Then she suddenly found herself smiling, and she reached up to place a gentle hand on his cheek, knowing somehow that she would love him anyway, no matter what else it was she might learn. “Yes, I still want to spend the day with you, as soon as I can manage to get away from my family.”

  A slow, reluctant smile touched his lips, and he reached to place a warm hand over her own. For a moment she understood, knowing more certainly than ever before that he did love her. Then his face sobered. “Elise, you just remember what I said. You forget what you saw this mornin’. Don’t say nothin’ more t’ your pa about it.”

  But she would not answer.

  “I mean it, Elise, don’t you go pushin’ him—”

  “You just be careful,” was all she would say. “Just be careful—”

  William Whitley stood beneath the shade of a large water oak at the edge of the picnic grounds that morning, never once taking his eyes from his daughter and Janson Sanders—they looked more like bickering lovers than merely friends, he kept telling himself. They looked more like—

  Somewhere inside of himself he knew that he had made a mistake. He should never have allowed the relationship to go on this long, to have become this close. He should have put a stop to it much sooner—but it was not too late even now. Elise might be making a fool of herself and William as well here in a public place with half the County watching—but it was not too late.

  Elise was far too headstrong, and she could be trouble enough on her own—and now it seemed as if Janson Sanders might present a problem of himself as well. The boy had already shown a streak of defiance that day, sticking his nose in where it did not belong, trying to put a stop to what Gilbert Baskin had rightly earned for himself—and William did not like defiance, especially not out of a farmhand, and most especially not out of one he was using in the bootlegging operation. The boy was forgetting his place, and William knew that could be dangerous, considering what the boy already knew, and also considering how close he was becoming with Elise. Janson Sanders was a normal, healthy young man, and Elise was a pretty and naturally flirtatious girl, with more daydreams than she had common sense—yes, William should have put a stop to this long ago. Elise had J.C. to think about, and William had no intention of letting the half-breed Sanders make more of a problem of himself than he already was.

  William folded his arms across his chest and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth, watching as Elise smiled up at Janson and reached up to touch his face—William’s teeth clamped down hard on the cigar. That gesture said too much. There was an intimacy to it, a caring. It said too—

  “Is there something wrong, Daddy?” his son Bill asked from where he stood nearby, but William’s eyes never once left the young couple.

  “Could be,” William answered, squinting in spite of the shade of the tree beneath which they stood. “Could be you’ve been right about Janson Sanders all along. He might have to be taken care of before he can turn himself into a real problem.” He watched them for a moment longer. “He just might have to be.”

  14

  Phyllis Ann Bennett lounged back against the rough bark of a pine tree in the midst of the picnic grounds that morning, ignoring the stares of the old women who sat nearby on chairs pulled beneath its shade. She bit into the large apple that was the last remnants of the picnic lunch she had shared with Bullock Calhoun before she had managed to so recently, and quite intentionally, lose track of him—Bullock would never have been her first choice in a man, with his thinning red hair and his great, sweeping mustache that made him look as if he were part of another century; but he had been the only man to have asked her to the picnic, and to the dance afterward.

  And she knew whose fault that was.

  The wind lifted a lock of her bobbed brown hair and blew it into her eyes, and she brushed it away absently, staring out across the picnic grounds toward wh
ere J.C. Cooper stood talking to Stan Whitley, the older boy continuously fidgeting with his eyeglasses—Elise’s fiancé, or so she had been hearing. But, then again, she had always known the two of them would get together one day, in spite of all Elise’s protests to the contrary. J.C.—James Calvin—she smiled to herself, the weak fool. He was the only kind of man who would ever be interested in Elise, if he could even be called a man, the only kind of man Elise would ever be able to have—if she ever had any man at all. Elise probably thought she had her future all planned—

  But, then again, Elise was so seldom right about anything these days.

  Too bad—Phyllis Ann thought, smiling to herself. This was the end of Elise Whitley always getting what she wanted. Elise would not be a bride this year or any other—not if it was the last thing she ever did. The very last thing.

  Phyllis Ann laughed to herself, drawing peculiar stares from the old women who sat nearby. She tossed the apple aside with only the one bite taken from it, and then started across the picnic grounds, leaving the shade of the pine tree to the old women beneath it.

  The air in the basement of Town Hall was thick with tobacco smoke that night. People moved about the crowded room, laughing and talking in a hundred different conversations, often trying to shout over the loud jazz music that came from the Atlanta musicians on the raised platform that dominated one corner of the room. Young couples danced, while others flirted outrageously in odd corners, and still others slipped outside through the sets of large, double doors that opened out onto the area behind Town Hall, hoping for the privacy that the night, and the parked cars, might provide them.