Behold, This Dreamer

by Charlotte Miller

  For a moment, through the rain and the darkness and the fogged windshield, he thought he saw something lying in the road ahead, something dimly illuminated by the headlamps of the Model T—a pile of rags, a sack of seed or guano that had fallen from the back of some passing truck, but, as he drew nearer, the pile of rags took on shape and began to look almost like a man lying there in the muddy road. Stan stopped the car and sat staring through the rain-soaked front glass, his heart in his throat—could it really be a man lying there in the rain, maybe hurt, maybe even dead—but there was no reason for anybody to be out here in the first place. There was nothing nearby but the remains of a burned-out old house and several fields of dried-up corn stalks—why had he ever taken this shortcut anyway? Why had he had to find this pile of rags that looked like a man, and why couldn’t he now just turn the Model T around and forget that he had ever come down this road—but, somehow, he could not. He opened the car door instead, and slowly got out, never once taking his eyes from the form lying there in the road.

  The rain pelted him, running down his glasses and getting into his eyes. He left the door open and walked around it, making his way toward the rags—it was a man, and in that moment Stan did not know if it would frighten him more should the man move, or should he continue to lie there as if he were dead.

  “Please, don’t be dead,” he heard himself say aloud, feeling his knees begin to shake beneath him—but he knew he would scream and run if the man should move in even the slightest to prove to him that he still lived.

  But the man did not move, and, as Stan drew closer, he feared that he was about to discover a lifeless body—please don’t be anybody I know, he prayed silently as he reached the man’s side. He knelt slowly and reached to roll him over, finding his hands to be shaking horribly as he took hold of the man’s sleeve—don’t be anybody I know.

  The man seemed so very heavy, and so without life as Stan rolled him over onto his back in the muddy road. The rain fell in the man’s face, washing away streaks of mud and dried blood there—it was Janson Sanders.

  Stan stumbled back, almost falling—it couldn’t be. Janson had left days before, had run off with no warning. Stan’s father had told him—Stan had been hurt, angry; Janson had been his friend, but he had left without telling him, without telling anyone, and without saying goodbye—but here he lay, and, dear God in heaven, he looked as if he were dead.

  Stan tried to move backwards, away from the man lying there in the road. He slipped and almost fell, but managed to stay on his feet—he had to get help. He had to—

  Fear filled him, and panic. He turned and ran, stumbling toward the car, and got in, slamming the door behind himself. He backed the Ford up, then shoved his foot down on the low-speed pedal and felt the Tin Lizzie jerk beneath him. It sputtered and coughed, almost died, then lunged forward. His hands shaking on the steering wheel, he made a wide, sweeping turn in the road, mindless of the ditch that was looming before the dim headlamps—he had to find help. Janson was lying there in the road, so still, so lifeless—and he looked so very dead.

  Daddy—Daddy would know what to do. Stan would get his father. He would go home and get his father and—

  But Bill would be closer, at Louise Diller’s house, as he was every Sunday night. Stan would go get his brother. Bill would know what to do; he would help Janson—oh, why had Stan not at least checked to see if he was still alive! Why had he been so afraid that he had just driven away—but he could not go back now. He had to find help. He had to—

  He came to the main road and made the turn back toward town, not slowing enough and almost losing control of the car as it slid in the mud. He gripped the steering wheel hard in his shaking hands, damning the rain, damning the inefficiency of the headlamps—he had to get to Bill. His brother would help Janson, if Janson were still alive to be helped. If Janson were—

  Headlamps were coming toward him in the rain. He could see a shape looming behind them through the drenched, fogged windshield—but the road ahead seemed too narrow. He would never make it. He would never—

  He jerked the wheel to the right, fearing collision with the oncoming lights, and suddenly found himself off the road and out of control. The car jerked and bounced over the rough terrain, throwing him against the door and knocking his glasses from his face. He slammed his foot down hard on the brake pedal, closing his eyes and praying, feeling the wheel jerk in his hands.

  The car finally came to a sliding stop, his heart pounding in his chest so hard that he could hear it. He opened his eyes and forced himself to breathe, the roaring in his ears so loud that he could barely hear the rain—but he was alive. He was—

  He was shaking so badly that he could hardly open the door—but the Tin Lizzie was useless now. One wheel in a narrow, muddy ditch, it sat with its rear end in the air. He got out, reaching back to find his glasses as he clung to the door for the support that his shaking knees could not give him, then he turned to stare at the useless machinery, tears at his own impotence choking him—Janson was back there, lying in the middle of the muddy road. He had to have help. He had to—

  A shape was coming toward him in the darkness, a man from the vehicle he had thought he would hit, a vehicle now parked unharmed at the side of the road—a man, someone, anyone who could help him—please be Bill or Daddy or someone I know, he prayed, still clinging to the door. Please be—

  Titus Coates peered at him from beneath the brim of a rain-soaked hat as he came nearer. “You okay, Mist’ Stan?” he shouted over the sound of the rain and the roaring in Stan’s ears. “You need some he’p gettin’ out ’a th’ mud?”

  Thank you, God—thank you, Stan thought in a rush, relief filling him. He grabbed hold of Titus’s coat sleeve, still shaking almost too badly to stand. “You’ve got to come—Janson, on the road back there, hurt, maybe dead, I don’t know—”

  He realized his words made little sense, but somehow Titus seemed to understand. “Com’ on, boy. You show me—” His fingers closed over Stan’s arm, his grip almost vise-like. “Leave th’ car. I’ll pull it out later. Com’ on—”

  Stan stumbled along behind him, being held up by the strong hand on his arm. They reached the road and got into the truck Titus had been driving. “Where, boy?” the old man demanded, looking at him.

  No one but his father had ever called him boy in his life, or talked to him in the tone this man was now using—but Stan found that he did not mind. Some remote part of him said that Titus should not speak to him so, for he had always been taught that he was the older man’s better, the son of his employer, and Titus had never before addressed him as anything other than “Mist’ Stan”—but suddenly none of that mattered. This man was going to help him. This man was going to help Janson—if only Janson was still alive.

  He’s got to be alive; he’s got to be—Stan thought, clenching his fists on his knees as the truck bounced over the muddy, rutted road. He was shaking from the chill, shaking from the wetness, shaking from tension as they sped past ditches running in muddy, red streams. Oh—why didn’t I check to see if he was still breathing! Why didn’t I at least—

  Stan pointed out the road he had been on, and Titus made the turn, the truck sliding in the mud for a brief second before grabbing for traction and going on.

  “Up there! Just ahead—” Stan leaned forward, straining to look through the fogged glass before him, squinting his eyes to see through his spectacles. “There! See—right there!”

  The truck came to a quick stop, almost throwing him into the floorboard. Titus was already out, running toward the man lying there in the mud and the rain. Stan opened the door, almost afraid to go to Janson, to see if he still lived, but unable to stop himself. He reached Titus’s side, to find him cradling the younger man in his arms.

  “What they done t’ ya’, boy?” Titus was saying, and Stan realized suddenly that the older man was crying, tears now rolling down his chee
ks to mingle with the rain. “Oh, Lordy, what they done t’ ya’—”

  Stan stared at him for a moment, at last finding his own voice. “Is he alive?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. Titus looked up at him, the old man’s eyes filled with tears—but Stan’s answer came from elsewhere.

  Above the sound of the rain and the drone of the truck’s engine, came the sound of Janson Sanders’s voice, his words barely audible, but clear.

  He was calling Stan’s sister’s name.

  For a moment, it seemed to Janson that he was still in the well. There was pain—everywhere there was pain, around him, inside of him, the only real thing in a world of sights and shadows that floated dreamlike around him, a world he could not touch or feel.

  Scenes and pictures changed in his mind—Elise, beautiful Elise, smiling and so happy, his forever—but they took her away; away, and she had been crying.

  He could feel hands on him, lifting him, and he started to struggle—his body hurt, and he thought they were going to throw him in the well. He would be dead, and Elise would be at their mercy—but they had no mercy.

  A darkness came, washing in on the heels of the pain, and he floated away, then fought to come back—Elise, he was supposed to take care of Elise, to protect her. If he died, then who would look after—

  Time seemed to flow in and out. The first time he had ever seen Elise, the first time they had kissed, the day he had known she loved him, the first time they ever lay together—he could see it all, feel it all, for it only to touch him and then float away again. His body was being moved, and he thought for a moment this was death—but this was not death, for with death there would be no more pain. The pain said he was alive. The pain said—

  Fingers prodded his side, hands touching the bruises, and the pain—so much pain. The world floated in and out, sights and sounds and people around him—but none of them Elise. None of them—

  He had to see—

  They could kill him then, if only they wouldn’t hurt—

  If only—

  Elise—

  Stan stood out of the way in one corner of the small kitchen in the Coates’ house some time later that night, just beyond the circle of yellow light cast by the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. Janson lay nearby on a straw-stuffed mattress, feverish and mumbling, still not fully conscious—his face was beaten and bruised, as was his body. The clothes Mattie Ruth and Titus had cut away from him had been torn and muddy, covered with dried and drying blood—someone had tried to kill Janson Sanders; someone had attempted to beat him to death, and then had left him to die there in the muddy road. Stan had never before seen anyone so badly hurt, so badly beaten, as the young man who lay twisting beneath the quilts, fighting the hands that tried to tend him.

  There had been hushed, hurried words between Titus Coates and his wife, and a look of horror on Mattie Ruth’s face as they had carried Janson in and laid him on the iron bedstead that stood in one corner of the narrow kitchen. Stan had been too frightened to leave, and too frightened to stay, so he just stood as if frozen, watching Mattie Ruth tend to Janson, feeling as if they did not truly trust or want him here. A thousand confused thoughts raced through his mind as Janson’s words became clear enough again for a moment to understand what he was saying—he was calling for Elise again, as he had been doing all along, calling for Stan’s sister.

  But they had never been more than friends, Stan kept telling himself. Janson was one of the farmhands, and Elise was a Whitley—but hadn’t Stan himself wondered, the night he had walked up on them behind Town Hall after the Independence Day dance, if they had not been kissing? But that was impossible. They had only been friends, and even that had ended long ago—but still Janson continued to call for Elise, to beg for her, over and over as Stan stared.

  A frown wrinkled Titus’s forehead, his face worried. “You need t’ let me go git th’ doct’r for him,” he said quietly, staring at his wife across the width of the narrow bed.

  “Ain’ nothin’ a doct’r can do for him that I cain’t—’sides, you know th’ doct’r’s Mist’ Whitley’s cousin—” She said no more than that, but somehow Stan felt the words carried ominous meaning—surely she did not believe his father would not want Janson seen to. His father had always seemed to like Janson. Surely—

  Janson moaned, trying to move away from Mattie Ruth’s hands as they again prodded his bruised side. He twisted beneath the knotted and damp covers, his voice rising slightly, his head tossing on the pillow. “Elise—please—don’t let him hurt Elise. Please—”

  His words were pleading, and somehow pitiful, Stan thought as he stared at him—why would he beg so for Elise? What would make him think that someone would want to hurt her? No one would hurt Elise. No one.

  Janson’s voice quietened back to mumblings again, but still Stan could hear his sister’s name among other words he could not understand. He could not take his eyes from the man who lay there so badly beaten and hurt before him. Janson had been his friend almost from the first moment they had met, and Stan had been hurt and confused when his father had told him days before that Janson had picked up and left with no warning—but now here Janson was, badly hurt, maybe dying—and he was begging for Stan’s sister with almost every breath. Stan felt as if he had stepped into a nightmare with no end, and all he wanted now was to get out—but, still, no matter how hard he tried, he could not make himself move.

  Janson twisted fitfully, his face drenched with sweat even in the chill room, for a moment almost rising from the bed, his voice growing louder. “Elise—please—got t’—Elise—”

  Stan stepped back in surprise at the feeling and need behind the words. He looked up to find Mattie Ruth staring at him, something very near to accusation in her eyes.

  “You see what th’ Whitleys ’a done t’ him?” she asked quietly, her eyes never leaving Stan’s face. “He ain’ never done nothin’ t’ hurt nobody. All he done was fall in love with your sister—an’ look what it’s got him.” Her words were angry, surprising Stan with their feeling, and their meaning.

  Janson, in love with—“I—I didn’t know. I—” he stuttered out.

  “There’s lots ’a things you don’t know—like maybe that it was your daddy done this t’ him—”

  “Mattie Ruth, don’t—” Titus moved around the bed toward her, laying a hand on her arm, trying to silence her words, turning a look to the boy—but she only shrugged him away.

  “It’s time he knew. It’s time he knew a lot ’a things, like how his daddy said he’d kill Janson if he ever caught him anywhere near his precious daughter again—an’ he’s just about done it.”

  “D—daddy? You don’t really think Daddy beat him like—”

  “Or had it done, more likely, an’ then left him for dead,” she said, staring at him, no mercy for any of the Whitleys there in her eyes.

  “Oh, my God—” Stan said, his eyes going back to the young man on the bed. “You can’t believe—”

  “Mattie Ruth—” Titus began once again, but she did not even look his way.

  “It’s you that better believe. Him an’ your sister was runnin’ off t’gether t’ be married—but I guess your daddy foun’ out first, an’ it’s jus’ about cost Janson his life.” She turned her eyes back to the restless form—“An’ it may yet—”

  Janson and Elise. His father—his father trying to kill Janson—it could not be true. None of it could be true.

  Janson was pleading for Elise again, twisting beneath the quilt, his bruised face bathed in sweat. Stan stepped back, hearing the pleading words, somehow frightened—this was all a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. A—

  Suddenly Mattie Ruth crossed the distance between them, taking him by the shoulders, holding him before her as she stared down at him, her jaw clenched, her eyes angry. “That boy might die t’night, but he ain’t gonna die without seein’ your sister. You go
git her—”

  “No, Mattie Ruth, you cain’t!” Titus said, stepping toward her. “You’ll be ’dangerin’ her too!”

  She glanced at her husband for a moment, and then back to Stan, her eyes no less determined as her fingers dug into the boy’s shoulders. “I done all I kin do for him. Th’ rest is with th’ Lord, an’ with Miss Elise. We can do th’ prayin’, but you’re th’ onliest one that can git t’ your sister t’night—bring her back here, right now—”

  Stan could only stare at her, unable to move.

  “You git her, right now!” Mattie Ruth’s voice rose, and she released him with a slight shove toward the doorway.

  Stan stumbled, almost falling, but recovered himself. He stared at her for a moment longer, then turned and ran toward the door and out into the rain. He heard Titus come out onto the narrow rear porch of the house and call something after him, but he did not stop or even look back. He ran on down the muddy road, not slowing his pace even after he was out of sight of the house.

  His mind was reeling—Elise to run away with Janson Sanders; his father trying to kill Janson, beating him and leaving him for dead where he thought no one would ever find him—no, it could not be true! None of it could be true! Mattie Ruth had gone mad; she had lost all reason. She was nothing less than mad.

  Stan continued to run, his heart pounding in his narrow chest so hard that he thought it would burst through the skin. It was all an awful, horrible lie, a lie he would not believe. His father would tell him the truth. His father would see to it that Janson was taken to a hospital and away from those mad people in that house. His father would make everything right again, just as he had done all Stan’s life. His father would.