No matter what Whitley had done to them, no matter the lies he had told or had forced them to tell, no matter the beatings he had given or the threats he had made, he had been unable to take Elise from Janson or to keep them apart—until now. When Whitley had thrown him in the well to die, he had done more than just try to take his life; he had stolen the only way Janson had of making all the dreams come true. He had stolen the money Janson had worked so hard for, dreamed so long over—and he had at last stolen Elise from him.
Janson had known he could never have hoped to give Elise the kind of life she deserved, the kind of life she had always known—but, with the money, he could have given her a good life, a happy one, back on his parents’ place in Alabama. They would have had a home, land to farm, and each other—but now that would never be, at least not for a very long time to come.
He stared out the window at the barren yard, watching for the first sight of Elise, knowing this would have to be the last day he would see her for a very long time. He would be leaving tonight, leaving though his body still hurt almost too much to stand or to walk—he could not stay here any longer on Mattie Ruth and Titus’s charity, knowing the danger he was putting them in by even being here, and the danger his nearness also created for Elise, her mother, and Stan. She did not know yet that the money was gone, did not know that they could not be married in a few days or weeks as she planned, did not know that he would have to leave tonight—he would leave a message for her with Mattie Ruth once it was too late for anyone to stop him. She would know that he loved her, that he was leaving only to earn the money it would take to make their dreams a reality, and that he would be back, if she would only be waiting for him.
He knew he was somehow lying to her with his very silence, but he also knew he could not face her now, could not tell her that the money was gone and that he would have to leave alone, at least for the time being. He could not see her tears, could not let her talk him into taking her along to whatever kind of life he could provide for her now, for he well knew she could, and he knew somehow that he wanted her to. He did not want to spend years alone without her, perhaps lose her forever for the decision he had been forced to make. He knew that a man could not ask a woman to wait forever for a dream; she had a right to a husband, a home and family—but he could not take her to the only kind of life he could give her now, as the wife of a sharecropper or farmhand, living hand-to-mouth for years, perhaps even for the remainder of her days. Elise Whitley was a lady, and he could offer her nothing less than the best he could give her, not even if that meant years alone and the risk of losing her—please, God, don’t let me lose her, he prayed silently, staring out the window.
He knew there would be a danger in leaving her here with her father, knowing now what Whitley could be capable of doing, but he hoped the danger to her would be gone once he was, and he also knew that her mother and Stan, Mattie Ruth and Titus, and J.C. Cooper as well, would be there to look after her. He did not know yet where he would go or what he would do once he left here, and it really did not matter. He would hop a freight and go wherever it took him, find work, and save every cent he could—it did not matter what he had to do, whether it be run moonshine, cheat or steal, he would get the money it would take to give Elise the kind of life he had promised her; and then he would come back for her, if only she would be waiting. She had to be waiting.
He stared through the window, watching as she came to the edge of the woods along the rarely used path she had followed from the big house. She stopped for a moment to look around, making sure she was unobserved, and then crossed toward the small, unpainted house where he waited. A lump caught in his throat as he stared at her, his eyes trying to memorize every movement, every line of her body—how could he leave her behind, not touch her, not see her again, for years. He watched as she crossed through the fall garden, the sun catching in her red-gold hair and turning it to fire—God, how he loved her. He knew this would be the hardest day he had ever lived through, leaving her behind without even letting her know, with only the message he would give Mattie Ruth to say goodbye, when he wanted to say so much more. But those would be words he would not be able to give her for a very long time, not until the day he came back—if she would only be waiting. Please, God, if she would only be waiting.
Janson wanted to see her—that was the message Mattie Ruth had brought Elise that morning. In the days, weeks now, since the beating, there had been so little time they could spend together, even with her mother, Stan, Mattie Ruth, and Titus all now helping with excuses and reasons that would allow her to be away from the house—Janson would be alone today, and he would like to see her, to be alone with her, if she could manage to get away.
Elise made her way down the long rows of turnip and mustard greens there in the Coates’ fall garden, going toward the front of the small house where Janson would be waiting for her—it had been easy enough to slip away that morning, easier than she had ever thought it might be. Her father and Bill had gone all the way to Columbus on business for the day, and she had simply lied to her mother to keep from having to go to school—Martha Whitley had come into the dining room only moments after Mattie Ruth had given Elise the message from Janson, and Elise had simply told her that she was feeling nauseated, too nauseated to sit through classes for the day, and her mother had believed the lie easily enough. No sooner had Martha turned her back, however, than Elise had been out the back door of the house, headed here—Janson wanted to see her, to be alone with her, and that was all that could matter.
She slipped through the garden, and then cut across the narrow yard, going toward the rear porch of the house, her eyes searching the area to make sure she was not being followed. She knew her father and older brother were both far from here today, but still she could not abandon caution altogether, especially since she knew that Janson’s life could be the price exacted for that kind of carelessness. Knowing she had been the cause of the beating he had suffered would already haunt her through the remainder of her days—and what had happened afterwards had been even so much worse. She could not allow herself to think of Janson having come to consciousness in the old well, hurt, so badly beaten; she could not allow herself to think of how he had been forced to drag himself up the side of the well in order to save his life—and she could not allow herself to think of the horror of that place as it must have been to him in those moments. He had believed he would die there, alone in the darkness.
Elise could not now look at her father without thinking of that place as it must have seemed to Janson, of the fear he must have felt, the horror—her father no longer forced his presence on her, no longer saw her except at the supper table each night. He thought he had killed the man she loved; she knew that, though he had told her he had only had Janson taken out of the County and left, alive, at the side of some road. He planned to send her away to school again in only a matter of weeks—how surprised he would be when she was long gone from here by then, run away with the man he thought he had killed. How surprised, and how furious—but he could burn in hell with his fury for all she cared; she and Janson would be far away, in Alabama, living on that land he had told her of so often.
She stopped at the foot of the few board steps that led up to the porch of the little house, turning back toward the woods one last time to make sure she was not being followed. Then she walked up the steps and crossed the narrow porch.
Janson must have been watching for her, for the door swung inward as she touched the knob, and she was suddenly in his arms even before she had a chance to enter the house. He drew her in and closed the door behind them, and she pressed her face to the sun-dried freshness of his shirtfront for a moment, enjoying the feel of his arms before lifting her eyes to his, expecting to be kissed—but he did not kiss her, staring at her instead as if he had not seen her for a very long time, making her somehow uneasy with the very intensity behind his green eyes. She noticed that he was in his best overalls and w
orkshirt, his black hair neatly trimmed and combed back with something that made it shine—she knew he was trying to appear as if nothing had happened, though the bruises were only now beginning to fade from his face, and the soreness in the side he still favored clearly attested to the beating he had suffered at her father’s hands.
“I was hopin’ you’d be able t’ come,” he said, wincing slightly at the pressure of her arms around him. She slid her hands down to his waist, not wanting to hurt him, but he held her only more tightly against him in spite of the pain she knew it made him feel. After a moment, he looked down at her again, taking her face in his hands and staring at her as if he were trying to memorize her every feature. At last he kissed her, his lips moving over hers slowly, lingering with hers for a long moment before he looked down at her again. Then he released her and moved away.
She stood staring at him as he crossed the room, wanting only to still be in his arms as he walked to the mantle to lean against it and stare down into the fire burning there in the fireplace.
“How’d you manage t’ get away without your ma comin’ with you?” he asked, not turning to look at her.
“I just slipped out. I told Mama that I was sick once Mattie Ruth told me you wanted to see me; that way I wouldn’t have to go to school today.”
“Oh.” That was all he said. He stood staring down into the fire, seeming so very distant from her in that moment, though he stood only the space of a few feet away. She watched him, telling herself that it was only the pain in his body that made him seem so strange, though she could feel something different, almost a physical presence standing between them, such as she had not felt in a very long time.
She wandered about the kitchen, his silence seeming almost loud in her ears. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to talk about their dreams and plans for the future, but somehow she could not. She saw his old Bible lying nearby on the worn kitchen table, the Bible she had seen in his room so many times, the aged leather binding cracked and worn from the many years of use both his parents had given it. She walked toward it, wondering briefly why he would have left it lying out here in Mattie Ruth’s kitchen, for she knew he could not read it, at least not well enough to understand the words he saw, though he could quote much of it from memory due to his mother’s and his grandmother’s teaching. Then she understood. The edge of an old photograph was visible from between its yellowed pages, a photograph she knew, for he had shown it to her once months before. She gently opened the pages, then stood looking down at the picture, at Janson’s parents from years past when he had been little more than a boy. She traced a finger over the proud faces, the tall man with the thick, wavy hair and eyes so like Janson’s, and the beautiful, dark woman. How she wished she could have known them, this man and this woman who had given Janson life, just as she and Janson had given life to the child who grew within her now, the child she had not even told him of yet.
She felt his eyes on her even before she turned, staring at her, touching her somehow from across the room. He did not turn away as she looked at him, but only continued to stare, looking at her in a way he had never looked at her before; and, suddenly, for some reason she could not understand, she felt lonely. So very lonely.
Finally he turned away, and she felt almost as if he had touched her, almost as if he had taken her, so intimate had the look been that he had held on her for such a time. She wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him and hold him, to tell him how much she loved him, how much she would always love him—but, for some reason, she could not. She could only stand and stare at him, and wonder what was wrong.
“You think your ma’ll come lookin’ for you when she realizes you’re gone?” he asked, as if the moment had never taken place between them.
“No, she’ll know where I am. I think she’ll let us have some time together.” Or, at least, so she hoped, she thought, still staring at him.
“Titus said your pa an’ Bill were gone.”
“They had to go to Columbus on business. They’ll be gone all day; we won’t have to worry about them—”
“Your pa, he’s leavin’ you alone?” he asked, turning to look at her again.
“He hardly speaks to me anymore. After what he thinks he did—” She did not finish the sentence, and did not have to. They both knew what her father thought he had done to Janson; she did not have to say the words.
She did not want to talk about her father, to waste this time they had. She wanted to talk about the future, and their plans, and all the years they would have together.
“I’ve been thinking; in another couple of weeks we’ll be married and living in Alabama—I can hardly wait to meet your grandparents. I feel like I know them already from everything you’ve told me—” What a wonderful life they would have, back on his parents’ land in Alabama: Janson, her, and their child. She already knew exactly how she would tell him about the baby; she would wait until they were married and in Alabama, and she would ask him to take her to that land that was such a part of him, the land they were going to buy, and she would tell him once they were there that he was going to be a father—oh, it would all be so perfect. So very perfect. They had been through so much to be together—but it would all be over so soon, just as soon as they could leave here together.
She realized how terribly silent he was being as he turned to look back down into the fire again, but she continued to talk, feeling inside that there was something wrong, but not knowing what it might be. He continued to stare at the flames, and she could feel him thinking, feel his thoughts touching hers—she could not understand the loneliness she felt, the sadness. She wandered about the room, unable to go to him, to touch him as she wanted to. She felt his eyes on her again, but she didn’t turn to look at him. She stopped by the kitchen window instead, staring out, folding her arms before her chest, feeling suddenly chilled. She knew she was talking about their life in Alabama, but was suddenly unsure as to what she was saying. Her words fell silent, and she just stared out. She felt his eyes leave her, and she knew he was once again staring down into the flames—she did not have to turn to see; she could feel it, know it, just as surely as her eyes could ever tell her.
For a moment, silence stood between them. Then he spoke. “The money’s gone, Elise,” he said quietly.
She turned to look at him, his eyes rising to meet hers from across the room. She could only stare at him, not believing—
“It’s gone, every cent,” he said again, his eyes not leaving hers.
“Gone—but, it can’t be—” It couldn’t be true, not the money he had worked so hard for, not the money he had saved, their entire future.
“It is. When Titus found my things, th’ sock I had it tied int’ was there, but the money was gone—”
“Daddy.” The word came as a statement, and the anger within Elise increased.
He nodded his head, not speaking, and she turned away—all that work, all those months of waiting, and her father had—
“I’m gonna have t’ leave t’night, Elise, by myself.”
She turned to stare at him again, not believing he had said—but he was suddenly there, crossing the room to her in a few broad strides in spite of the soreness in his body, holding her in his arms, saying it again, though she did not want to hear—
“I got t’ go on by myself for right now, but I’ll be back in a couple ’a years, maybe even less, as soon as I can get th’ money again t’—”
She pulled out of his arms and took a step back to stare up at him. “You’re going to leave without me?”
“It ain’t like that. It’ll only be ’til I can get th’ money again t’ give you th’ kind’a life I promised I’d give you—” His eyes were pleading, begging for her to understand, but she could not. “I knew I shouldn’t ’a told you, but I couldn’t just stand there an’ listen t’ you talkin’ about—”
“You weren’t even going
to tell me? You were going to leave and not even—”
“I was gonna give Mattie Ruth a message for her t’ give t’ you. I—”
“I thought you loved me.” She could hear the tears in her voice, feel them choking the back of her throat, but she refused to allow herself to cry—he was going to leave her. He was going to—
Suddenly his arms were around her, holding her close, and she could not resist, could not pull away. “I do love you; you know I love you. That’s why I got t’ leave for now. I got t’ be able t’ make some money an’ save it, so I can give you th’ kind of life I promised I’d—”
“But, you weren’t even going to tell—”
“I knowed what’d happen if I told you. I knowed you wouldn’t want me t’ go—but I’ll be back soon as I can. An’ then we’ll leave an’ be married an’—”
“Why can’t we leave now? We still have the money you gave me, and some I’ve been saving; it’s enough to get started somewhere on. I don’t care if we can’t have the house and land. All I want is to be with you—”
“We cain’t do that.”
“But, why not? Why—”
“No.” He released her and moved a step away, turning his back to her, clenching both hands into fists before him as if he wanted to strike out at something that neither of them could see. “Don’t you understan’; I ain’t got nothin’ t’ offer you now. Nothin’—no home, no wage t’ put food on th’ table; I couldn’t even put a roof over your head—”
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