Behold, This Dreamer

by Charlotte Miller

  His father would—

  22

  Stan Whitley stood before his parents’ closed bedroom door a short while later, one hand on the doorknob—he had been standing there for quite some minutes now, but somehow he could not make himself knock at the door, or turn the knob and enter. He leaned his cheek against the cool, painted wood, hearing the echoes in his mind of Janson Sanders’s voice, of the pain, and of his begging for Elise—but, it couldn’t be true. Elise would not run away with a farmhand, not even with Janson. When she married, she would marry someone fine and educated and wealthy, as J.C. Cooper was. She would not marry a dirt farmer who worked someone else’s land for a living—not even Janson.

  Janson Sanders had been much more than a friend to Stan from that first day those months ago when Janson had asked for help in making a telephone call; he had been the older brother neither Bill nor Alfred had ever allowed themselves to be. From that first day, Janson had always been there for Stan, had always listened, had always seemed to care, and had always been a person Stan could look up to for the things he knew and did—but Janson and Elise? Though Stan liked Janson, respected him even as he did not respect his own brother Bill, he could not imagine his sister married to, or even in love with, a farmhand, not even with—

  But, even to Stan, Janson had always been much more than a farmhand, and, once Stan allowed himself to forget what the man was, he could very easily see his sister with a man such as Janson Sanders. Elise could love someone like that, and she could decide to run away with him—could it really be true? Could it really be—

  No!—Stan told himself, tightening his grip on the doorknob. He could not allow himself to believe Elise would run away with Janson, for that would make it easier to believe the rest could be true as well, that his father had threatened to kill Janson, that he had beaten Stan’s friend so horribly, and then had left him for dead in that lonely, deserted place. No, it was not true! None of it was true! His father was a good man! His father would make everything all right again! He would get Janson to a doctor and safely away from Mattie Ruth and Titus and the lies in that house. He would—

  Stan twisted the doorknob in his hand and started to push at the door, but stopped. In his mind he could hear Janson’s voice again, echoing in his ears—the pain, the need and feeling behind the few intelligible words Janson had said as he lapsed in and out of consciousness. Janson had called for Elise, had begged for her with feeling beyond all words or understanding. Whether anything else in the world was truth or lie, there was one thing Stan could not doubt, and that was that Janson Sanders cared for his sister. The feeling had been there in the sound of his voice, in the words, and the hurt and need behind them. Janson cared for Elise—but the rest could not be true! His father was not some horrible monster, capable of having a man almost beaten to death. This was all some awful nightmare, a lie too terrible to be real in the daylight—but his father would know what to do. His father would make everything all right again. His father would—

  Stan stared down at the hand resting on the doorknob, wanting nothing more in the world than to push open that door and rush in to wake his father, to cry out the whole, terrible story, and have his father say that it was all a lie, that nothing so horrible could ever be real—but somehow he found he could not. He could do nothing but stand there shivering in his wet clothes, wanting to wake from this nightmare, wanting to forget that anything of this awful night had ever happened—but knowing he would never forget.

  He slowly released his grip on the knob, allowing it to return to its normal position, and then took a step back to stand staring at the door for a long moment. Somehow it seemed as if he had closed a part of himself away behind that door he could not open. Somehow it seemed that little Stanny, everyone’s baby brother, was once and forever locked away there, and that the young man who stood now staring at that closed door was someone quite different, someone who did not need his daddy to chase away bad dreams anymore.

  Janson was his friend, and he was hurt. Janson needed him—but apparently he needed Elise even more. Stan could little doubt that Janson held feelings for his sister, and Elise was the only person who could tell him if she loved Janson as well, and if she had really intended to run away with him—and she was the only one who could say if the rest was true, if his father were really the kind of man Mattie Ruth had said he was, if he was really capable of doing the kinds of things that—

  It was the one truth Stan did not know if he would be able to handle, and it was the one truth he knew he had to have.

  He turned and stared at Elise’s closed bedroom door, then slowly made his way across the wide hallway.

  Little more than an hour later, Martha Whitley stood at the foot of the bed where Janson Sanders lay in the kerosene-lighted kitchen of the Coates’ small house. She leaned against the iron footboard, her hands crossed on its cool, painted surface, as she watched her daughter with the young man who had changed all their lives forever.

  Elise sat at the side of the bed, holding one of Janson’s hands in her lap, her fingers securely intertwined with his, as if to assure herself that no one and no thing would ever tear him from her again. She had been sitting there for almost an hour now, never once taking her eyes from his battered face, just quietly watching him as he slept.

  Martha knew they would have to leave soon, to return to the house before William could discover they were missing. If he should wake to find his wife, his daughter, and his youngest son were no longer there—but she could not afford to think about that now. She had known the risks they were taking when she had left the house with Elise and Stan—but there had been no stopping Elise when her brother had told her where Janson was and how badly he had been hurt. She would have fought them all if she had found it necessary, in order to go to him—and so Martha had come, knowing that somehow during this day, somehow in going to her daughter’s room earlier against William’s orders, and in the discoveries she had made there, she had joined in Elise and Janson’s struggle to be together, and she knew now that she would be in that struggle to the end, whatever that end might be.

  As she stood watching Elise and Janson, she found herself wanting to hate this young man who had forever changed the world for them all. He had come into their lives it seemed only to turn everything upside down. He had made her daughter pregnant, and had caused a rift in her family that might never heal; he had shown her a side of her husband she did not like, and now he would take Elise away forever—but somehow she found that she could not hate him as she watched Elise brush the black hair back from his forehead and bend to gently kiss his bruised lips. Martha wanted to hate him, but she could not. Her daughter loved him—God, how Elise loved him—and Martha could no longer doubt the young farmhand loved her daughter as well.

  Elise had been in a near-panic by the time they had reached Mattie Ruth’s house, and Stan’s description of Janson’s condition had served only to frighten her all the more—Martha had tried to talk her out of going to him, thinking of the lateness of the hour, the dampness after the heavy rain, of her daughter’s condition; but Elise would not be stayed. She was going to Janson’s side, and there was no force in heaven or on earth that could stop her. None.

  Martha had come with her, as had Stan, trudging through the woods along a path Stan knew. They had all been damp, chilled-through, by the time they had reached the small, three-room house—but Martha had been glad she had come once she had seen Janson Sanders’s condition. William had lied to her. He had fully intended to kill the boy, and had almost done so—one look at the young man’s battered and bruised body, one look at the torn, muddy, and blood-covered clothes that had been removed from him, and she had known the truth. William had beaten the boy to within an inch of his life, beaten him and left him for dead. If it had not been for Stan using that road as a shortcut home tonight—but, no, the Lord moved in mysterious ways, and Martha could little doubt He had guided Stan’s movement
s on this night.

  Janson Sanders had been badly beaten, then exposed to the chill rain and cold November air for hours before he had been found. Martha had realized it was little less than a miracle that the man was still alive when she had entered the house behind Elise and her youngest son to see him feverish and twisting on the straw-stuffed mattress; he was obviously in a great deal of pain, only semi-conscious, delirious, but calling for Elise with almost every breath—he had quietened the moment Elise had touched him, the girl going to his side, taking his hand, kissing the bruised lips, crying quietly as she touched the battered face, saying she would never let anyone hurt him again. He had stilled, his voice quietening to soft mumblings from which Martha could still discern her daughter’s name, then his breathing had become deep and regular, and he had at last seemed to move into a natural sleep.

  Martha stared at them, somehow wishing that she could reverse time, that she could make it be as if the past year had never taken place for them all. She wanted to go back to the months before this harmless-looking young man had ever come to the County, to a time when her daughter would be forever hers, when there had been nothing within William she had not known and loved, and when it had seemed as if the world would never change—but she knew she could not. She looked at Janson Sanders, wishing for a moment that she had never once set eyes on him, that he and Elise had never met or fallen in love, but knowing that in him lay Elise’s future. He was badly hurt, but he would live, or at least recover from his injuries—whether or not he lived depended on how well they could all keep a secret, and on how well they could manage the next weeks while he mended enough to do the right thing by Elise. Martha had to get her daughter married to this young man, and the two of them away to someplace safe—and she had to do it before William could find out that the boy still lived and was on Whitley property, much less that he had gotten his daughter with child. If either of those two things happened—but, no, it would not help to worry about that now.

  Mattie Ruth came to the side of the bed to lay a gentle hand on Janson’s forehead, then smiled up at Elise. Elise lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips briefly, then held it to her cheek, her eyes settling back to his face—they would never have an easy life, Martha well knew, Elise and this farmhand. But it was a life Elise had chosen for herself, a life that she had determined to have, and it was that determination that had brought them all to this day.

  The back door to the small house opened and Titus came in, followed by Stan—poor little Stan, tonight had perhaps been hardest on him of all. It had been difficult, learning hard truths about his father. William Whitley was not the saint his youngest son had always thought him to be, and there was now a grim acceptance in the boy’s eyes of the reality he had discovered this night. He had spoken hardly a word since Elise had confirmed everything Mattie Ruth had told him, but he had accompanied them back to the Coates’ house to see about his friend—he had gone back out with Titus to pull William’s car from the ditch where he had left it earlier. In the morning everything must appear normal, the events of the night completely hidden, locked away until Janson could recover and he and Elise could be far away from here, safe from William’s reach.

  “We got th’ car pulled out ’a th’ mud,” Titus said. “It’s outside now.”

  Martha nodded, not speaking. She knew Titus and Mattie Ruth were risking everything in caring for Janson. If William should ever find out, they would be immediately thrown off the place, left with nothing, and there was little Martha could do to help them if that should happen. They would be left with no home, no money, no livelihood; even the farm tools Titus used in the garden belonged to William. They were risking everything they had for the young farmhand they had grown to love, and for the girl they had known all her life—they were good people, good in a way Martha had never taken the time before to see, and she realized suddenly that each moment that she, Elise, and Stan stayed here not only increased the danger to Janson, but also to Mattie Ruth and Titus as well—and they had already been here too long.

  “Elise, we’ve got to go now,” she said softly.

  Elise looked up, clinging even more desperately to Janson’s hand, her eyes pleading. “Please, not yet. Can’t we stay just a little—”

  “It’s not safe. If your father wakes—” She left the sentence unfinished.

  Elise understood. She nodded her head reluctantly and looked back down to the young man sleeping quietly now on the straw mattress. She lifted his hand to her lips again and kissed it briefly, then gently untangled her fingers from his. Martha moved toward the door to give her a moment’s privacy, glancing back to see her rise from the bed, then bend over the sleeping young man to kiss his bruised lips gently and brush her fingers against the smooth black hair at his temples, her eyes never once leaving his face.

  After a moment she joined her mother at the door, turning her eyes to Mattie Ruth who stood nearby. “You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?”

  Mattie Ruth smiled and took her hand for a moment. “You know I will, honey.”

  Elise looked back to Janson, then reluctantly followed her mother through the door and out onto the narrow porch.

  “I’m prayin’ hard fer you, Miss Elise, an’ fer Janson, too,” Mattie Ruth said from the open doorway behind them.

  Elise stopped for a moment and turned back to hug the older woman. “We’ll need your prayers,” she said quietly, smiling though she looked as if she wanted to cry.

  We may all need them before this is over—Martha thought as she walked down off the porch and into the dark yard. We may all need them.

  The days passed in misery for Janson, not from the pain, or even from the soreness that now seemed to inhabit his body, but from worry over Elise. He was of little use to her now, laid up in bed from the injuries he had suffered during the beating her father had given him. He had no hope of looking after her or protecting her; he had to depend on Mattie Ruth and Titus, her mother, and Stan to do that.

  He hated being confined to the bed, but it hurt too much to move around, so he just lay there, feeling of little use or good to anyone, watching as everyone else went about their chores, and wishing there was something he could do to help, something that would help to pass the time, something that would just occupy his hands and his mind for even a few moments. Elise came whenever she, her mother, or Stan could manufacture some reason for her to be away from the house, but still long stretches of time passed when he could do nothing but lie there and think, and worry about her. It was easier for her to see him now, now that her mother and Stan knew and were helping—and now, Janson well knew, that William Whitley thought he was dead.

  It had been hard on Elise when he had told her of coming to consciousness in the well, hard on her, and on her mother and her brother as well, but he had realized the necessity of telling them, for their own sake and safety, as well as his own. William Whitley thought he was dead, thought he had killed him—and any man capable of doing what Whitley had done, capable of throwing a living human being down a well to drown, or to die slowly of starvation, could be capable of doing anything, and no one, not daughter or wife or son, could be safe in dealing with him. Janson knew how lucky he had been that there had been little water in the old well, just that terrible muck he had come to consciousness in, and he still did not know how it was that he had been able to climb out and to drag himself into the road where Stan had found him—the memories of that place stayed with him still, haunting him as nightmares from which he would waken bathed in a cold sweat, his hands clawing at the quilts that covered him, his mind terrified once again that he would never be able to climb out, never be able to see Elise again.

  But, as horrible as the nightmares were, the look on Elise’s face when he told her of waking in that place had been so much worse. She had clung to him and cried, and he had held her, propped up against the headboard of the bed, in spite of the soreness in his body and the p
ain her arms had caused him. Mrs. Whitley had left the room without a word, her eyes filling with tears, and Stan had just sat in silence, staring straight ahead, as if seeing things for the first time in his young life. It was not easy on any of them now, but at least knowing made them safer—please, God, it made them all safer.

  It had surprised Janson to find out that not only did Mrs. Whitley and Stan know about him and Elise and their plans, but that they somehow seemed to approve of them as well. The first few times Mrs. Whitley had come with Elise to visit him, she had seemed cool, reserved and distant, speaking to him only when she had been forced to, but now even that had passed—he and Elise belonged together, she had told him, and she would do whatever she had to do to see to it that they could leave, be married, and have the life they had both dreamed of.

  But now Janson wondered if that life would ever be.

  He stood at the side window in the Coates’ small kitchen that morning, looking out, waiting for Elise. He was dressed in freshly ironed overalls and a clean, though worn, workshirt—it was the first time he had worn anything other than a nightshirt since the day of the beating, though it had taken more than an hour to dress himself that morning amidst the pain and soreness in his body. He had been determined not to face Elise in night clothes on this of all days, for this would be the first time they would have alone together since the beating her father had given him—and it would probably be the last time he would see her for perhaps a very long while.

  The money was gone—no matter how many times he told himself that, he could still hardly believe it. The money he had worked so hard for and saved, all the plans and dreams they had made—gone. Titus had found his things lying at the edge of the road near where he had been found, and had brought them to him. The old Bible and book of poetry Elise had once given him were both water-marked, but not ruined, the photograph of his parents left somehow undamaged among the yellowing pages of the Bible; his few clothes had been rain-soaked and mud-spattered, but had been set right with the washing Mattie Ruth had given them—if anything could ever seem right again after finding that empty sock, the one he had the money knotted into, among his other things. It had felt as if the world were coming to an end—all the plans they had made, all the dreams of the life he would give Elise; that little, white house on those red acres, the best cotton land in all of Alabama, all stolen from them now—and so much more.