Days later, days that had been the loneliest in his life, she had called to apologize, once again the sweet, gentle girl he was in love with.
But he had never again been able to forget the Phyllis Ann he had seen that day, and again and again she had returned. There were days when he thought he could no longer live with the wild swings of her moods, days when he thought he could take no more of her viciousness, her sharp-tongued cruelty, or her self-centered, spoiled demands—but there were also days when she was soft and loving, clinging to him when they lay together, and looking at him in a way afterwards that told him that she did love him. He often still thought of ending the relationship, but he knew that he could not, and that he never would. He loved her, in spite of her very nature, or maybe because of it; he loved her—not the spiteful woman with the acid words and cruel nature, but the girl inside of her, lost and alone, a girl brought up on nothing but hatred and violence and pain. He knew that he saw something inside of her that few other people saw, a vulnerability and an innocence that had been hurt too many times to ever trust or love anyone freely again. He knew that she loved him, as much as she could love anyone. And he knew that he loved her. She had somehow given him a sense of self-worth and value, a sense of being needed. She was his lover, amazing him with a world of sensation beyond anything he had ever imagined—and she had brought something out of him that had been totally unexpected, even by himself, a strength and a self-reliance that had surprised even him, and a sense of maturity and confidence that had been lacking all his life.
Yesterday she had told him never to come back if he saw Elise today, or if he had dinner at the Whitley house—but he knew that he would go back to her. He loved Phyllis Ann, though he often wished he did not, and he intended to spend the remainder of his days with her, in spite of the opinions of people like William Whitley. Even in spite of Phyllis Ann herself if he had to.
Mrs. Whitley was fidgeting now with her knitting in a chair not far from where her husband sat. She stared at Whitley, her eyes never once leaving his face, almost as if she were trying to draw his attention and silence his words. When he lit a cigar and drew in on it heavily, she began to cough, quietly, but rather deliberately, until he silenced her with a look that would have at one time frozen J.C. in his tracks, then, almost without pausing for breath, he continued on with some portent of doom for J.C. should he continue with making a bad match.
J.C. glanced toward Elise where she sat beside him, wondering again if she felt as uncomfortable as he under her father’s proddings, but he realized suddenly that she seemed to be paying little attention to anything that was being said around her. Her eyes kept wandering toward the mantle clock, as if there were some other place she ought to be. Until today she had always seemed embarrassed and ill-at-ease with her father’s less than tactful matchmaking, but it seemed now as if it mattered little to her, as if something had changed, and as if something else mattered a great deal more. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, her mind occupied as she glanced again toward the mantle clock and unconsciously fingered the long strand of beads that hung about her neck.
“A lot of young men don’t realize what an important decision it is they’re making in choosing a wife,” Whitley said, staring at them through the blue haze of smoke around him. His eyes moved to Elise, then back to J.C. again with meaning. “They let feelings and other things that some women can stir up in a man make the decision for them—” Mrs. Whitley’s head rose sharply, but her husband seemed not to notice, or to care. “A man’s got to use good, common sense in making the most important choice in his life. He’s got to marry with the future in mind—but there’s many a man who’ll spend more thought at breeding his livestock than he will at what sort of brood he himself might sire. You’d never consider breeding just any heifer with a prize bull, or a blooded bitch with a mongrel hound, now, would you?”
Mrs. Whitley’s face had drained of color, her eyes set on her husband’s face as if she could not believe what she herself had heard him say. She looked quickly toward the two young people, then back to Whitley again. She cleared her throat loudly, her cheeks starting to redden, and opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, but no words came out.
J.C. tightened his hands into fists—the meaning was clear, and, at last, Whitley had gone too far. Until now J.C. had tolerated his comments, knowing them for what they were, but no more. He would ask Whitley to step outside. He would ask Whitley to step outside, and then he would—
But he caught sight of Elise at the edge of his field of vision, and then turned fully to look at her, surprised to find that, instead of embarrassment as he had expected, there was an absolute fury in her eyes. Her jaw was set, her teeth clenched tightly, her blue eyes angry as J.C. had never before seen them in his life. She looked almost as if she wanted to strike her father, almost as if she wanted to scream and yell in fury—but instead she held her control, her own hands tightening in her lap, a muscle working slightly in her jaw. She refused to allow the anger to explode as it so obviously threatened to, but, instead, only further tightened the control over herself, staring with something very near to hatred at her own father.
There was something wrong here, something very wrong, J.C. told himself, something far beyond the self-serving pushings and insulting comments that Whitley was making. J.C. had never before seen anyone in such angry control, and he felt somehow responsible for it, and for the tension that now filled the room. He knew that he had to get Elise away from her father before that control could break—and he knew that every word the man spoke now only brought that possibility closer.
“Elise, perhaps you’d like to go for a walk?” he asked, interrupting her father’s words mid-sentence.
“Yes, I’d like that very much,” she said, through teeth that were still almost clenched.
J.C. glanced at Whitley as he stood, seeing the obvious delight on the man’s face—pompous ass, he thought, and led Elise from the room.
She seemed to relax almost the moment they left her father’s sight. J.C. watched her, seeing the tension drain away as they walked from the house and out onto the front veranda. She hooked her arm through his and led him down into the yard and out across it without stopping, until they left sight of the house. They entered the woods, walking slowly arm-in-arm until they reached a clearing there, and then they stopped.
J.C. sat down on a stump, watching her as she bent to pick a wildflower. The angry, forced control was gone now, and she seemed once again the carefree girl he had known all his life, talking about mischief they had made as children. He relaxed as well, feeling the comfortable familiarity of her words. They had both changed greatly from the children who had broken the kitchen window and then lied so poorly to cover it. He was a man now, and she a woman—but still there was that comfort of experiences shared, the familiarity of a face long known. There was a feeling of kinship with her, of family, as he had felt with few other people.
“Your father doesn’t give up easily,” he smiled and remarked, absently adjusting his glasses with one hand as he watched her.
“No, but I wish he did.” There was a sigh, a feeling of sadness and wishing about her for a moment. “I really wish he did.”
“Well, he’ll have to give up on me—”
“Don’t you know by now that he never gives up on anything?” She smiled—rather bitterly, J.C. thought.
“He can’t very well keep trying to get the two of us married once I’m married to someone else, can he?”
Her smile was immediate, genuine, and very happy for him. “You’re getting married? That’s wonderful!”
He grinned. “I think so.”
“Phyllis Ann?” Her face became speculative.
“Yes.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing—”
“So do I.” There was doubt, but only a bit, within him.
“You’ve been in love with her all al
ong, haven’t you, since we were children?” she asked, smiling again. “I think I’ve always known, in a way, how you felt about her.”
“Yes. I don’t think I can ever remember not feeling like this.” For once there was acceptance of his decision and his choice. Elise might not like Phyllis Ann, and perhaps with good reason, but still she respected him enough to honor his feelings. She was genuinely happy for him, wishing him nothing but the best in the future, no matter what her feelings might be for Phyllis Ann. Her acceptance and well-wishes felt good—from everyone else he had received only arguments, resistance, and even pity. Elise was different; even after everything else, she was still his friend. “It’s nice, for once not to have someone tell me that I’ve lost my senses,” he said.
“People giving you a hard time?”
“Pretty much. I guess they can’t seem to understand how I feel. I know Phyllis Ann; I know how she is, and I still love her. No one else seems to be able to see in her what I see. She’s not a bad person; she’s just had a rough time of it, with her father and all. I think we can be happy. I really do. She’s—” There came a sound from behind him, a movement in the woods, the loud crack of a branch, cutting short his words. Elise’s expression changed quickly. She was looking past him now and through the trees, her mind obviously more on what she saw there than on what he had been saying. J.C. turned and looked, thinking for a moment that he saw movement there, but unsure. “I thought I heard something—”
“I didn’t hear anything—” she said, too quickly it seemed. There was a nervous pitch to her voice now, and her eyes showed a sudden preoccupation when he looked at her again. “So, when’s the wedding? Have you proposed to her yet?” But her eyes moved past him again and back to the woods even as she spoke.
“Not yet, we still have some things to work out—” Once again the sound of movement came from the woods behind him. J.C. started to turn, but Elise’s words caught him:
“Are you going to have a big wedding?” She was flustered. Her voice was nervous, her manner strange as she stared at him, her words rushed, showing her agitation.
“I don’t know yet; it’s according to what Phyllis Ann—” The crack of a twig underfoot, slight but echoing in his ears—there was someone in the pine woods behind him, someone Elise recognized and wished for him not to see. He was certain of it. It had to be—
“I know I heard something that time—” he said, rising to his feet.
“I—” She seemed suddenly at a loss for words, torn for a moment somehow between him and whoever or whatever it was there in the woods behind him.
J.C. turned and looked again through the trees, catching for a moment a glimpse of blue among the greens and browns—it looked as if someone had quickly moved behind a tree, so brief was the sight. He looked back to Elise, seeing a resignation in her eyes.
“Janson—” She called past him and toward the woods, looking in the direction of the creature he had seen for a moment. “Janson, come on out—”
J.C. stared at her for a moment, and then turned back toward the woods in time to see a man in faded overalls step from behind the trunk of a large tree. It was one of the Whitley farmhands, a man J.C. had seen about the place and in town before, but whose name he had never noted. The man was tall, with black hair and a dark complexion that seemed darkened even further still by sunburn and exposure to the weather. He stared at them for a moment, as if unsure, and then came toward them, walking past J.C. and to Elise’s side. He looked down at her for a moment, and then turned again to look at J.C. with a pride such as J.C. had never before seen in any man.
Elise reached up to put her hand on the man’s arm, bringing his green eyes back to her for a moment, and she smiled up at him, a look in her eyes that spoke more clearly of love than any words ever could—J.C. felt a moment of shock as he watched them; Elise was in love with a dirt farmer. He knew it before any words had to be spoken. Elise Whitley, William Whitley’s daughter, was in love with one of her father’s farmhands—with a man who had sunburnt skin and calloused hands and a shirt that looked as if it had once been a guano sack; with a man who worked in the dirt and sweated in the sun, day in and day out, just to feed himself—Elise Whitley was in love with someone she should not possibly be in love with.
Then he was suddenly angry with himself. He had no right to pass judgement on Elise for how she felt; he had already had enough of people passing judgement on him for his choice in Phyllis Ann.
Elise was looking up at the dark man as J.C. watched her, her feelings written clearly on her face. “Janson, this is J.C. Cooper, the friend I’ve told you so much about, and, J.C., this is Janson Sanders.” She looked at J.C. for a moment, and then back to the man at her side. “This is the man I intend to marry—”
J.C. felt another brief moment of shock—Elise married to a farmhand. Then he was over it. He held out his hand, looking into the man’s pale green eyes as they came back to him.
Janson Sanders stared down at his hand for a moment, seeming somehow surprised by the gesture, then he reached out and shook it. He nodded his head, not speaking, then brought his eyes back to Elise.
She smiled reassuringly and patted his arm. “J.C. is one of the best friends I’ve ever had. We can trust him.”
The man turned to look at him again, distrust still in his eyes. After a moment he nodded his head slightly, seeming somehow satisfied with her words.
“Trust me?” J.C. asked, looking from one to the other.
“We can’t take any chance of Daddy finding out about us, J.C. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” Elise’s expression was serious. J.C. felt himself nod, which seemed to satisfy her. “Daddy’s made it clear that we’re to have nothing more to do with each other. He—he’s gone to great lengths to keep us apart already, so we’ve been having to meet in secret. If he knew about us, he would—” For a moment her words fell silent. She shook her head. “We can’t let anyone know how we feel about each other; Janson would never be safe if Daddy ever found out—”
“You don’t think that Mr. Whitley would—”
But her words cut him short. “I don’t know what he would do, and I don’t want to find out—J.C., he’s capable of things that I never dreamed—” Again there was silence. She looked up at Janson, and, after a moment, continued. “We’re going to leave just as soon as we have the money to start a life somewhere else on. Until then, everyone has to believe that we can’t even tolerate each other.”
J.C. stared at her for a moment, trying to absorb all that she had said. Mr. Whitley could be obnoxious, pushy, and overbearing, but J.C. had never before considered that he might be dangerous—but, then again, men like William Whitley could be capable of doing almost anything to insure that they have what they want, and Elise seemed genuinely frightened. J.C. knew that her father would never allow her to marry a man like Janson Sanders, and that he might do almost anything to prevent that from happening—anything short of murder, and, J.C. wondered, looking at them now, if he would even stop at that. “I understand,” he said at last. “I won’t tell anyone about you—”
Janson put an arm around Elise and looked down at her, and it occurred to J.C. that they looked somehow right together, no matter how different they might be. Now he could well see why Elise had been so enraged at her father’s remarks about keeping the blood lines pure, and he felt an even greater anger at Whitley.
“If there’s anything that I can do to help, all you have to do is ask,” he said, watching the dark man with his patched and faded overalls, and this girl who was long ago more sister than friend. “Anything at all—” Love more often than not had nothing to do with proper choices and good, common sense, J.C. told himself—it had everything to do with feelings and passions and pleasures beyond any right or reason. Everyone had a right to that. Everyone—whether their choice was a man who wore patched overalls and sweated in the sun—
Or i
f it was a girl with a bad reputation, a ruined name, and an often unpredictable nature. And J.C. Cooper would do anything to assure that.
Janson worked harder during those hot fall weeks than he had ever worked before in his life, harder even than he had in those last difficult years of trying to hold onto his land. The cotton harvest had begun, the first bolls breaking open in the green fields to leave the land peppered over with white. Sharecropping families on the Whitley place and throughout the County had already begun to pick the fields they cropped on halves, and, as Janson watched them out among the rows of cotton, it only strengthened his resolve—he would never take Elise to a life such as that. She would never be one of the many farmwives out among the cotton plants; she would never see her children, children sometimes as young as three and four, picking from first light to darkness, picking until backs ached and fingers bled, ignoring school and learning and play and all that children should know, to drag long pick sacks down the rows of cotton, filling them only to empty them and return to the rows again—Elise Whitley would never know a life such as that. Their sons might pick and hoe and chop cotton—but they would do it on their own land, with their own crop, a crop they would never lose half of each year just for the use of land and mules and seed. He owed Elise that much. And his parents. And himself as well.
He picked more cotton during those hot days than did any other hand on the Whitley place, though he knew he could get by with less—running liquor for Whitley could have distinct advantages, but they were advantages he rarely made use of. He went to the fields each morning with the other hands, and picked cotton just as they did, dragging the pick sack down the rows until his shoulders ached and even his mind was tired. He took on extra farm chores whenever he could find them, and made whiskey and hauled liquor anytime Whitley had a need—always there was money he could make, money he could put away toward the day when he and Elise could at last leave here together; and work, work that could exhaust his body and his mind, and that could help the days to pass. There was so little time they could be together now, and so many hours in between when he tried so hard not to think about her, for thinking about her always made him want things he should not be wanting—but the wanting would not stop.
Behold, This Dreamer Page 38