Behold, This Dreamer

by Charlotte Miller

  Young flappers in straight, shapeless dresses that barely even touched their knees danced and carried on and strolled about the edges of the room, flirting with first this boy then that, teasing and laughing and then moving on. A bottle of bootleg whiskey was being passed about almost openly in one corner of the room, and corn liquor was being sold from a car parked not far outside the building. Older people sat in chairs beneath the bright lights, nodding their heads now from the lateness of the hour, the large suppers many had by now eaten, and the amounts of illegal liquor that some had already consumed. The musicians began the already-outdated Charleston, and many of the nodding heads came up, expressions showing clear disapproval—scandalous, down-turned mouths and lowered brows said as young people laughed and danced and enjoyed themselves. A flash of thigh was seen, and many a view of the tops of rolled silk stockings as couples tried to outdo each other, and pouting lips, shaken heads, and set expressions showed reaction—young people these days would come to no good ends, the faces said; all they thought about was sex and drinking and doing things they shouldn’t do in parked motor cars, petting and necking and carrying on in all sorts of immoral ways. The entire generation was going straight to the devil, said the faces—straight to the devil in a handbasket.

  Janson made his way through the edge of the dancing couples, his eyes scanning the room for Elise. She had kept her promise to him even after all that had happened that day, had met him behind the Methodist Church at the edge of town just as soon as she had been able to slip away from her family. They had gone for a long walk through town and the nearby countryside, then had talked for hours, sitting on the grass at the beginning of the woods near the edge of town, sharing for supper the sandwiches and apples she had thought to take from her family’s picnic dinner. Several times she had brought up the subject of what she had seen earlier in the day, until finally she had seemed to realize he would tell her no more. She had at last promised that she would leave her father be, and that, for now, was enough for Janson. Still the worry was there—but the day had been so wonderful, so special, that even that worry could not ruin it. Elise was his for just this one day. Tomorrow she might go back to being Miss Whitley—but for today, for tonight, she was Elise, his Elise, and he could allow himself to dream.

  All day long, since she had first met him behind the Methodist Church after the picnic, she had been treating him differently, not, it seemed, because of what she now knew, or suspected that she knew, about him and her father and Bill, but simply because he was a man, a man like any other, and a man she seemed to care about. She had talked to him, had listened to his opinions and thoughts, as she always did, just as if he were the most knowledgeable and educated man she had ever known—and she had flirted with him, flirted with him as she had not flirted since that day when she had learned that he could not read. For the first time in the months he had known her, he was allowing himself to hope, to believe that they were nothing more than a man and a woman, and that their differences did not matter—she could care about him; she could love him. When she looked up at him, when she smiled, when she touched his cheek, he told himself that it did not matter that he was a farmhand, that he did things for her father that she could never know about—it did not matter, not if she loved him. Tomorrow morning he might not be able to allow himself to believe—but tonight, for just this one night, he could dream; tonight, at least, he could believe.

  They had come to the dance together, slipping in through the double doors that led into the basement from the rear of Town Hall, and had stood listening to the music for a time. They had gotten lemonade from ladies serving at a table in one corner, and then had watched the dancers, had laughed and talked—he knew what an odd sight they must make, he in his farmer’s clothes, and she in her fine dress and silk stockings. There were other country people there, hired men from the various places, small farmers, sharecroppers, but they were staying mostly to themselves, dancing rarely, for the most part being tolerated, and ignored, by people such as the Whitleys. Elise had seemed not to even notice the stares being directed their way, or the whispers that seemed to pass between people she had known all her life. She laughed instead, swaying to the music, touching his hand on occasion, just as if touching him was the most natural thing to do. She had not asked him to dance with her, and he had been glad, for he had never once danced in all his life, having been taught against it in his growing up—but now he wished he knew how. Now he wished that it were proper to take her out among the other couples and hold her in his arms to slow music, as so many of the other young people were doing.

  She had suddenly seemed to grow nervous, and Janson had soon realized why. Her father was standing directly across the room from them, staring at them through the haze of cigarette smoke and the laughter and dancing couples in between. Elise had excused herself for a moment, and Janson had not followed, though he had felt a trace of worry—it would not have been proper for him to follow, just in case she had excused herself in order to use the water closet, or to freshen up, as he knew ladies often did.

  But that had been half an hour ago, and still she had not returned. Half an hour ago, and he had now lost track of her father as well. And he was worried.

  Elise had promised that she would not question Whitley again about what she had seen, what she now suspected, but, with her temper, Janson knew she would speak before she thought if her father once brought it up. There had been no kindness whatsoever on her father’s face as he had stared at them from across the room—there had been anger there, anger, and something more. Hatred?—but there was no reason for that.

  A knot of anxiety tightened in Janson’s stomach as he moved through the room, his eyes searching for Elise. He kept telling himself over and over again that Whitley would not have hurt her, not his own daughter—but where was she? She would not have left him on this of all nights, not after the day they had just shared, left him to not return of her own free will—something had happened. Something had happened, and he was going to kill William Whitley if he had hurt her in any way. He was going to kill William Whitley, and—

  He stopped before one set of the doorways that opened out onto the area behind Town Hall, his eyes searching the room one last time for Elise—he would go back to Whitley’s place if he had to, search the big house room by room until he found her, and if Whitley had hurt her—

  There was a sudden touch on his arm, a hand grasping him by the shirt sleeve—there was no time for him to think, no time to react. There was time only for one startled gasp before he was pulled through the open doorway and out into the darkness behind Town Hall.

  “Elise, what in the name of God—where have you been? You had me worried half t’ death!” Janson said, his face a mixture of concern, surprise, and relief as he stared down at her in the sparse light that fell through the open doorways behind them.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well—” His eyes moved over her for a moment, as if to assure himself that she was unhurt. “Where were you? I looked all over th’ place for you.”

  “I saw Daddy watching us. I didn’t want him to ruin the evening, so I slipped out here. I was beginning to think you would never come this way; when you did, I just grabbed your sleeve—”

  “You had me worried half t’ death.”

  “I’m sorry. I never meant for you to worry,” she said, smiling at the concern on his face, and, after a moment, he smiled as well, seeming to relax. “It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” she asked. “Quiet, and no tobacco smoke. Just the two of us, and you can still hear the music—it’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  His eyes never once left her face. “Yes, it is—” he said, very quietly.

  She glanced back toward the open doorways. “We’d better move away from the doors; someone might see us out here—” She put her hand on his sleeve again and led him farther out into the moonlight, away from the lighted building, and into the shelter of
the tall hedges blooming there thick with summer scents. Her pulse was racing—she had him alone. Not just alone, but together here in the moonlight, the rustling branches of the oaks and the pecans and the cottonwoods overhead, the scent of flowers in the air—she could have planned it no better. She would remember this night, this moment, forever, she told herself. It would be a part of her as long as she lived.

  “I was hoping you’d ask me to dance earlier, when we were inside,” she told him once they were away from the building, in that moment damning conventionality and lady-like behavior forever behind her.

  “Your pa wouldn’t ’a liked that—”

  “Well, he’s not here now.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, then smiled, an embarrassed look coming to his face. “I don’t really know how.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I can show you—” She moved into his arms easily, feeling her heart speed up at his nearness. She took his hand, guiding the other to her waist, thanking God in one breathless moment that the music was slow and romantic so that he would have to hold her. She looked up at him, preparing to say something—but all words left her as she stared at him, finding his eyes moving over her own. For a long moment she thought that he would kiss her—but he only continued to stare, his eyes holding hers for a time before bent at last, and briefly, lightly, touched his lips to hers.

  When he looked down at her again she saw a touch of uncertainty in his eyes, and she realized suddenly that he was afraid she would pull away from him—but she stayed where she was, looking up at him until he released her hand to put both of his at her waist, and his lips came to hers again, touching them lightly. Then again, as she moved closer into his arms. When his lips at last left hers and he looked down at her, she started to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips, silencing her words. “No—don’t talk, not yet—”

  Her eyes searched his face in the moonlight, memorizing each curve, each line, making the vision of him a part of herself. His finger left her lips and trailed lightly over her cheek for a moment, then his lips came to hers again, his arms drawing her closer—I love you, she thought the words she had been about to speak. I love you, Janson Sanders.

  She felt as if she could stay in his arms, feel the warmth of his body against her, for as long as she might live—I love you, she thought. I—

  There was a sound, the crack of a twig, the rustle of leaves nearby. The kiss ended abruptly, and Janson released her and moved a step away. She looked at him, longing to be back in his arms, longing for his nearness, for the kiss, to continue.

  “Elise—?” came a voice, and she turned to find Stan staring at her from beyond the hedges that stood between them and Town Hall, his face somehow unreadable behind the round-rimmed glasses. “Daddy sent me to find you. He says we’re leaving, for you to come—”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, brushing her hair back from her eyes self-consciously, feeling a slight blush rise to her cheeks.

  “Daddy said now.”

  “Okay, in a minute I said.” Her voice rose slightly.

  Stan looked from her to Janson, then back again, his face never changing. After a moment he turned and started back toward the lights of Town Hall, leaving them alone once again in the darkness.

  Elise looked up at Janson. He smiled at her, a thousand thoughts and feelings in that smile. No words needed to be spoken. They both knew. They both understood. Perhaps they always had.

  He reached and gently took her hand, squeezing it briefly, then releasing it. He turned and walked away.

  William Whitley paced back and forth on the sidewalk before Town Hall, stopping occasionally to take the watch from his vest pocket and hold it to read the time by the light from the windows behind him—eleven p.m., and no Elise. Damn that girl, she would soon drive him to an early grave with her constant trouble, arguments, and stupidity. She did not know her own mind, and seemed lately only to delight in making him trouble—but no more; never again after this night.

  He had been pleased earlier in the day when Elise and J.C. Cooper had both disappeared from the picnic grounds at near the same time, satisfied for the moment that the worries he had held about his daughter and the farmhand Janson Sanders had been unfounded—maybe the girl was at last coming to her senses. Maybe she had at last realized what a catch young Cooper was. There could be nothing wrong in the few kisses or embraces they might share, and it might be just what was needed to finally light a fire under the boy and get a ring on Elise’s finger—William was not getting any younger, after all; he could not wait forever to get his hands on the cotton mill. Elise would have to hook the boy, and hook him soon, before some other girl could set her cap for him—and perhaps she had at last decided to make her move. Perhaps she had realized that her father had only her best interests at heart. Perhaps—

  And then she had shown up at the dance tonight with Janson Sanders, with one of his farmhands. William Whitley’s daughter and a farmhand—the damn fool girl would have the entire County gossiping about her. Elise Whitley and a farmhand—a cold anger filled William with even the thought. J.C. Cooper was off only God knew where, and Elise was here making a spectacle of herself with a dirt farmer—and, good God, the boy wasn’t but half white! William had thought things could be no worse, and then Elise and the boy had both vanished again, and William’s mind was now playing over a thousand images, each worse than the last. Bill or Stan had better find her, and they had better find her soon. She was going home before she could do any further damage to her reputation, or to William’s good name. And, as for Janson Sanders—

  Janson Sanders would never be a problem to anyone again after this night. Never.

  Phyllis Ann quietly made her way across the closely clipped lawn toward the front veranda of her home that night, her eyes on the dark house before her. J.C. had wanted to bring her right to the door, but she had made him let her out at the end of the road, and she had walked the remainder of the way—what she needed less than anything else at this moment was a car waking her father at this hour. He had been drinking before she had left earlier, and she was in no mood to face an ugly drunk. One look at her would be all he would need—the disheveled hair, the rumpled clothes; he would know she had just bedded a man.

  A man—she almost laughed aloud with the thought; no, J.C. Cooper had been no man, but he was much more one now than he had been a few hours before. He had been so easy, had left the picnic grounds with her much more readily than she had ever believed he would—but, then again, she hadn’t known that he was in love with her then. That was the most ironic part of all—J.C. Cooper had been in love with her all along, had wanted her, and never Elise. It was just too bad that she had not known that until after she had let him have her—let him; but it had not really been like that. It had seemed that he would never get on with it, amidst his shy kisses and bashful fumblings. They had taken his car to a deserted spot on a back road and parked. He had been backward, shy and inexperienced, leaving Phyllis Ann to make the first move, and almost every one after that. He trembled as she touched him, and whispered her name as he lay on her; he had even finished so quickly that she had not even had time to make him pull out.

  And then he had said that he loved her, that he had always loved her, and that he wanted her to be his wife—she had almost laughed in his face at the very idea. Mrs. J.C. Cooper, putting up with his bumbling touch every night—no, thank you very much. But she had left him room for hope, room for his pathetic little dream, for he was, after all, Hiram Cooper’s son, and, as such, he could help her undo the damage that had been done her in the County because of her father’s stupidity.

  She sat down on the front steps to remove her shoes, then quietly gathered them into one hand and walked up the remaining steps to the veranda. She turned the doorknob in her hand, wincing at the squeak of the ancient hinges as she pushed the door open just enough to slip through and into the wide hallway. She breat
hed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her—she had made it; it was just up the stairs now and to her room. She had—

  “Goddamn slut—” a voice came from the darkness of the open parlor doorway to her right. She gasped and turned in that direction, feeling for a moment as if her heart had leapt into her throat to choke her.

  There was a groan of shifted weight on leather upholstery, and then the room was flooded with light that spilled out into the hallway to wash over her. She blinked for a moment at the sudden brightness, her eyes hurting—and then she saw him, her father, sitting in an arm chair, staring out the open doorway at her.

  He rose slowly to his feet, his eyes moving over her, taking in her appearance. “Goddamn slut, out rutting all night, like a bitch dog in heat—” His voice was deadly calm; he was past anger, past drunk, and she knew her heart would stop beating inside her as she stared at him—he was going to kill her this time; she knew it. He was going to—

  “Who was it this time? Who’ve you been fucking—and how many others while you’ve lived under my roof: five, ten, twenty—” He began to cross the parlor rug toward her, coming out the open doorway and into the hall—she could smell the liquor on him, even over the distance between them, and she tried to move away, but her back came up against the closed front door behind her.

  “You don’t understand, Daddy, he—”

  “Who was it!” He grabbed her as she tried to dart past him, slamming her hard back into the door. “Who was it!” His fingers dug into the flesh of her arms, bruising her, his breath hot on her face, the smell of stale alcohol filling her nostrils. He pulled her away from the door again, then slammed her hard back against it, then once more, until she heard one of the glass panes crack as her head impacted it. “Goddamn you—tell me!”