“It—it was J.C. Cooper—he—he raped me, Daddy! He raped me!”—it would work; it had always worked. Just turn him on someone else and—
“Goddamn tramp!” The slap came as a complete surprise, causing her senses to spin—it couldn’t be! He didn’t believe her; he didn’t believe—
“He raped me, Daddy! J.C. raped—”
“Out whoring all night; come sneaking in—did you think you could fool me? Did you!?”
He wasn’t hearing her—dear, sweet Jesus, he wasn’t hearing her! She was about to die, and he would not hear—“It was rape! J.C. made me! He hurt—”
He slapped her again, hard, backhanded, across the face. She could taste blood from where she had bitten her lip, smell it, from where her nose had begun to bleed. “How many others? Damn you—how many others!”
“Daddy, he—”
“Slut!” He slapped her again, making her face ache. “Stupid bitch—how many have there been! How many—ruining my name all over the County, spreading your legs for just anybody—” He struck her again and again; her face hurt, her body hurt, her head hurt. She could taste blood, feel it over the lower part of her face. “Goddamn—”
Suddenly something snapped inside of her—she wanted to kill him. She could die happy then, if only she could—her hand flailed out, searching for something, for anything she could use. It would end tonight, everything would end—the abuse, the beatings, the curses, what he had done to her life, the hell she had lived in—it would all end; he would end. He would die. She brought her hands back to his face, clawing at his eyes—she knew she had to get free, even if just for a moment. Her nails dug in, bringing a scream of pain from him as he shoved her away. She hit the floor hard, knocking the breath from her body—but he was after her again, coming toward her. She scrambled through the open parlor doorway, almost falling over the rug as she made her way across the room toward the fireplace—she grabbed up a poker and turned to hold it on him, keeping it raised between them.
“Come on, you fucker!” she screamed, the rage filling her. “Come on! I’ll show you what hurting is, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch!”
He stopped half way across the rug, staring at her. He breathed heavily, swaying slightly on his feet.
“Come on, you coward! You’re so goddamn brave, beating me up when I can’t defend myself—how about now! Come on, you cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch, how about now!”
With that he screamed with rage and lunged at her—but that was what she wanted. She brought the poker up and swung it hard, aiming for his temple, but the blow struck his jaw line instead, sending him staggering sideways, shock and disbelief in his eyes. She swung again, this time impacting his temple, then again—there was a moment of knowledge in his eyes, and then they went glassy. He stumbled and fell against a table, then crashed to the floor, pulling the table and lamp over on top of him.
She stood there for a long moment, holding the poker in her hands, swaying slightly as she stared down at him—he’s dead, she told herself. He’s dead; I killed him. For a moment, there was nothing, no feeling, no thought, just the fact—he’s dead; I killed him. There was an awful ringing in her head; her entire body ached, and she could taste blood from her nose and where she had bitten her lip.
He’s dead; I killed him.
Slowly feeling returned, relief flooding her. It was over. It was over forever.
He’s dead; I killed him.
She looked down at the still form lying on the floor, blood already matting the graying brown hair on one side of his head, running down his cheek to soak the blue rug beneath him—her tormenter, her nightmare. Her father. Dead.
He’s dead; I killed him.
She dropped the poker, hearing the dull clang as it struck the floor, then stood for a moment, taking deep breaths of air as she stared down at him. There was a sudden scream from the open doorway behind her, and she turned to find her mother standing there, clinging to the door frame with both her hands.
“Ethan! Oh, God, no—Ethan!” She stumbled across the room, almost falling over the hem of her long wrapper, then sank to her knees beside her husband’s body, her short, bobbed hair falling into her eyes. She began to wail, rocking slowly back and forth on her knees, her hands clasped together in her lap as if she could not bear to touch him.
Phyllis Ann stared down at her for a moment, the grief before her meaning nothing.
“It’s over, Mother,” she said at last, her voice very quiet. “He’s dead.”
Slowly Phyllis Ann Bennett began to smile—He’s dead; I killed him.
15
Janson stared through the side window of William Whitley’s truck that next morning, his eyes fixed on the tall, straight pines that passed alongside the road—he was uneasy, ill-at-ease, as he sat beside Franklin Bates. There was something in the man’s manner, something about the look in his eyes, or the set of his jaw as he steered the truck over the rutted clay road, that made the hairs along the back of Janson’s neck rise. He had been at the stills earlier, getting ready for a run of corn liquor with Tate, when he had turned to find Bates there.
“Mr. Whitley wants to see you, boy—right now,” Bates had said, that peculiar look in his eyes.
Janson had gone, but not before he had exchanged one quick look with Old Tate—there had been concern there in the old man’s eyes, worry. He knew, just as Janson did, that Franklin Bates was no messenger boy.
The truck turned in the drive before the Whitleys’ big house, then rolled to a stop only a few feet short of the front veranda. Janson’s eyes searched the tall windows for sight of Elise as he got out of the truck—the night before seemed now almost a dream to him. But it had been no dream; it had been real. He had held Elise Whitley in his arms, had kissed her—he had awakened this morning knowing she could love him, if not now, then someday. She would never have let him hold her, kiss her, as he had done, if she had not at least felt something for him, if it were not at least possible that—but, as he entered the house behind Franklin Bates that morning, she was nowhere to be seen. And last night seemed very far away.
He followed Bates through to the library, entering the imposing room just as he had on that first night he had come here those months ago. It was all still there—the books, the brocaded settees, the desks and reading lamps, just as he remembered it. William Whitley stood now across the room, his back turned to them, his hands clasped together behind him, his eyes staring out one of the tall windows at the smooth lawn and the green cotton fields beyond. Bill sat at the rolltop desk, a sheaf of papers in his hands, his eyes rising to meet those of Franklin Bates as he and Janson entered the room.
Janson heard the heavy wooden door close behind them. He could hear the ticking of the mantle clock, and, in the silence, he fancied he could hear the breathing of each of the men in the room. He waited, staring at Whitley, feeling the imposing presence of Bates where the man stood just behind him. It seemed a very long time before Whitley turned—and, when he did, Janson felt the cold knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He had seen that look in Whitley’s eyes only one time before, had felt its presence—it was the same look he had given Gilbert Baskin just before he had ordered the man beaten.
Janson took a deep breath and prepared himself for what he knew was to come—Whitley might order him to be beaten, for whatever real or imagined sin, but the man would have no satisfaction from it. Janson would not beg for mercy as Baskin had done; he would not plead to be spared—Whitley would kill him first.
He lifted his chin and returned the man’s stare. He was not afraid.
William Whitley stared at Janson Sanders for a long moment before he spoke—the boy’s face was unreadable, but his eyes held strength. There was no fear there, not even a hint of subservience—the boy looked at William as if he thought he were his equal. And William wanted nothing more than to kill him for it.
He had waited until thi
s morning, had waited until he thought he could control his temper before he had the boy brought to him. But now it seemed as if the wait had been for nothing. The anger returned, the outrage, just as strong as it had been the night before, and he fought again to control it. The image of his daughter and this half-breed filled his mind—but the boy would die before William would allow that to happen. He knew now that he could never allow the relationship to continue, not in any form—William Whitley had no intention of having dark little grandchildren with one-quarter Cherokee Indian blood in their veins as well as his own, and no intention of having Elise make any greater fool of herself than she already had. He would sooner kill the boy now than ever to allow Elise near him again, even in friendship, for friendship could so very easily become so much more. It would end, or the boy would end. It was as simple as that.
“Bill, Franklin, leave us—” he said at last, his voice low and controlled, his eyes never once leaving Janson Sanders’s face. Franklin moved immediately to obey, but Bill delayed. “Leave us!” The carefully held control threatened to break, and William fought again to maintain it as he heard the door at last close behind Bates and his eldest son, leaving him alone with the farmhand.
I want to kill you—William thought as he crossed the library rug toward Janson Sanders, seeing the proud, defiant look that remained on the boy’s face—I want to kill you, for the feeling I see in my daughter for you, for the feelings I see in you for my daughter. I want to kill you, but I can still use you. I want to kill you—and I will, if it does not end here. The friendship is over—if I ever see you near her again, your life is ended. I will kill you with my own hands.
“You and me need to have a talk, boy,” he said, trying to force his nature under control. The boy did not respond, but the green eyes never left William’s face. The pride there made William want to hit him—but he clamped a tighter rein over his temper instead, clenching the cigar in his mouth only more tightly between his teeth. He knew that if he let go now he would kill the boy—but he could not afford to do that, not unless he had to. Janson Sanders was too valuable an asset to the bootlegging operation for William to allow himself to get rid of him in a fit of rage—how long it had taken William to realize that in the hours since he had first begun to see what this farmhand and his daughter were starting to feel for each other. He needed the boy to haul corn liquor across the County line for sale, and he needed him in the stilling itself. There were too few men who could be trusted, too few men who could keep their mouths shut, when the law and the revenue agents were constantly out to put a man out of business and into jail if he were caught. Janson Sanders had proven himself valuable over the past months, and he could prove himself valuable far into the future—but not at the expense of William’s daughter, or of the plans he had made for her so long ago. William would not give up the Whitleys’ good name, or his family’s standing in the community. Elise would marry no farmhand—but neither would William give up a key man he needed in his bootlegging operation just because of the foolishness of a girl. It had taken most of the night, but William had at last found the way—after today there would be no more chance of a romance between Elise and this half-breed. No chance at all.
“Sit down, boy.” He motioned to one of the settees, and, after a moment, the boy moved to sit down. He had not once spoken since entering the room, and his silence was somehow unnerving to William. The green eyes stared up at him—proud and defiant, William thought as he stood over him. “There’s no other way to say this, boy, than to just come out with it,” he said. “Elise came to me this morning and asked me to talk to you. I don’t know what’s been going on between you two, and at this point I don’t want to know, but she wanted me to tell you that she wants you to stay away from her from now on.” He told the fabrication easily, and watched the boy’s expression change—he had hit a nerve. It was evident on the dark face; and he knew he had acted none too soon. “She’s afraid you’re starting to feel things for her that you shouldn’t be feeling—now, you believe me, boy, I’d kill you right now if I thought you’d ever tried to take any liberties with her. I don’t think you would, and, if I ever find out differently, I’ll break your neck with these two hands myself, do you understand that?” He stared at the boy for a moment. “Elise is worried that you’ve taken a fancy to her. It’s understandable if you have, boy, because she’s a pretty girl, but you’ve got to realize, like she has, that she’s a cut above you. She’s grateful for what you did that night to save her from Ethan Bennett, and she feels sorry for you, but she just let it go too far. You’ve been taking up too much of her time, and you’ve been interfering between her and J.C. She’s afraid you’re forgetting who and what you are, and that you’re starting to think you’re just like the rest of us, when you’re not. You’ve been getting too familiar with her, and too attached to her, and she’s worried that you’re starting to think she’s feeling things that she could never feel for someone like you.”
He felt a moment of inward triumph—there had been a flicker of pain in the boy’s eyes. William had gotten through that wall of pride and strength, and had actually managed to hurt him.
“Elise will be getting married soon, and she thinks it would be best if you stayed away from her from now on. She’s afraid people will start to talk about her, considering who and what you are, and she’s right about that, so I’m telling you myself to leave her be. I’ll tell you one other thing, boy; if she had taken a fancy to you as well, I’d kill you first before I’d see the two of you together. Elise is my only daughter, but I’d see her dead as well before I’d see her with the likes of you—but I don’t have that to worry about, do I, boy, because she’s going to marry J. C. Cooper. She’s got her future to think about, so you just stay away from her.” He watched the agony he fancied going on inside the boy for a moment. “You understand me, boy?”
Janson stood, surprising William, who took a step backwards. “I understan’.” The boy spoke for the first time since entering the room. His voice was low, controlled, the green eyes now masked, showing nothing. But a muscle clenched in his jaw. “You through with me now?”
William stared at him. “Yeah, boy. You can go.”
Janson Sanders turned and left the room, his eyes fixed straight ahead as the heavy door closed behind him. William watched him go, relief coming to him. The boy was hurt and humiliated. He would stay far away from Elise from this day on—and his pride would never allow him to speak to anyone, least of all to Elise herself, of what had happened in this room on this day. He would simply end the friendship, the relationship, before it could have the chance to go any further—and he would do it because he believed it was what she wanted. She would never know what had happened. She would be confused, even hurt; she might even try to question the boy—but Janson Sanders’s pride was his undoing. In his mind, Elise wanted nothing more to do with him. In his mind, she was afraid that her reputation would be soiled by association with someone so far beneath her—as it would have been. In his mind, she felt sorry for him, and, to Janson Sanders, that would have been the worst insult of all. He would never face her with the truth of what he had been told, because his pride would never allow it. If she forced her presence on him, he would simply walk away; his pride would allow him to do nothing else. She would never know what her father had done for her, and might be so adrift after the loss of the friendship that she could even be easier to handle, more pliable to his will, as a daughter rightfully should be. He would tell her some story as well, that the boy had come to him, asked him to speak with her—she would be no more difficult to handle than Janson Sanders had been. Her own pride would never allow her to confront him either once William was through with her. Pride was the one characteristic the two of them had in common. The only one.
And, still, William had managed to salvage a man valuable in the bootlegging operation. He had no real concern that the boy might quit now, pack up and leave the place. Sanders might have take
n a fancy to Elise, and that could be understandable, for she was lovely and charming and would have to be far above any other girl someone like him would ever have known. His pride might be hurt now, even his feelings—but pride and hurt feelings would mean little to the boy compared to the money William paid him. Janson Sanders had a liking for money; why, William did not know, for he still never seemed to spend any. He was willing to do whatever it took to earn a dollar. Even run a still. Even haul bootleg whiskey—and Elise could not have meant that much to him anyway.
William moved across the room to the mantlepiece, struck a match, and lit up his cigar. Martha might whine and complain later about the scent of smoke in the draperies—but, Martha be damned, this was his home, and he was master of it. He would smoke if he damned well pleased. He would do anything he damned well pleased.
Janson sat on the ground with his back against a tree at the edge of the clearing in the woods a short while later. He did not know why he had come here, to this place they had shared so many times, this place where they had picnicked, had laughed and talked—after he had left Whitley, he had just walked, feeling that he wanted only to escape the words the man had given him. After a time he had looked up to find himself here, and here he had stayed.
At first there had been nothing inside of him. Absolutely nothing. There was just a blankness crowding out the confusion. He sat, staring toward the pines that bordered the clearing, not thinking, not feeling—and then a thought had come: This is life without Elise; and the first wave of almost physical pain had hit him.
Until then there had always been a dream, always even the slightest hope somewhere in the back of his mind that she might learn to love him. When she had allowed the kisses, the closeness, the night before, he had even let himself believe—
But there was no belief left now. No hope. No dream that she might someday love him, might even be willing to marry him, no matter how different they might be. She was going to marry J.C. Cooper.
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