“None of that matters, just so long as—”
His eyes came back to her again, eyes that were filled with anger. “It does matter—do you think I could take you t’ th’ kind ’a life I’m gonna have t’ go t’ from here? I couldn’t ask you t’ live in a tenant shack or in some room off a barn. I couldn’t ask you t’ eat just whatever it was I could provide for us t’ eat. I couldn’t stand t’ see you bein’ cold in th’ winter, or havin’ t’ work in th’ fields—an’ I couldn’t stand t’ see you start hatin’ me for th’ life I’d be givin’ you. If I go on by myself, it won’t take much for me t’ get by on my own. I can sleep wherever I find myself, an’ I’ll be savin’ every cent I make—in a couple ’a years, maybe even less, I can come back for you, an’ I’ll be able t’ give you th’ land an’ th’ home I promised I’d give you. There ain’t no way we can get married now an’ leave t’gether; I don’t have nothin’ at all I can give you now, nothin’. It’s got t’ be like this, Elise; there ain’t no other way—”
She opened her mouth to tell him that he had to marry her, that she was going to have his baby, and that he had to make her his wife and take her with him no matter what else he had to say—but somehow she could not. She could only stare up at him, knowing, realizing that he would marry her if she told him, realizing that he would take her with him and provide her and their child with the best life he could provide for them—and realizing that he would grow to hate himself for the very life he provided. She could not tell him—she could not. Not like this. Not like—
She turned away, hugging her arms for warmth, and, after a moment, heard his voice again, from very close behind her. “You don’t know how bad I want t’ take you with me,” he said, quietly. “You don’t know how it feels, knowin’ I won’t be able t’ see you for years, knowin’ I won’t be able t’ touch you or hold you—but there’s nothin’ else I can do, Elise—”
But she could not speak. She could only bow her head and shake it slowly back and forth, feeling tears begin to slowly move down her cheeks, knowing she could make him take her with him, knowing she could make him marry her—but not like this. Not like—
“Please don’t hate me—” The words were spoken so softly she could barely hear them, and she turned back to see the look of pain in his green eyes, pain greater than any she had ever seen there before. “Please—I couldn’t stand it if you hated me—”
“I just want to be your wife—don’t you understand that? It doesn’t matter to me where or how—”
“Elise, I cain’t give you anythin’ now. Nothin’. I cain’t do that t’ you—”
“Don’t I have a right to decide for myself? Don’t I—”
“You cain’t even understan’ th’ kind ’a life I’d be takin’ you to if you left with me now, even with th’ little bit ’a money we’d have—Elise, you ain’t never lived that way. You shouldn’t have t’ live that way, in a tenant shack or in some rented room—”
“Couldn’t your grandparents take us in until you could find a—”
“They’d take us in. My gran’pa might even could use somebody for a while, but that wouldn’t be fair—”
“Fair on who?” she said, seizing upon the idea, wiping at a wet cheek with the back of one hand as she stared up at him. “You said he could probably use somebody, and if—”
“It wouldn’t be fair on you. You cain’t know th’ kind ’a life—”
“That wouldn’t matter, not so long as we could be together—”
“Elise, you don’t even know what you’re sayin’; you cain’t even understan’ th’ life you’d be choosin’. They’d take us in; I know they would, but we’d be livin’ in a place not much bigger than this, sharin’ it with both my gran’parents, an’ my cousin, Sissy, an’ two ’a my aunts, an’ just whoever else might be visitin’ at th’ time. It wouldn’t be anythin’ but a roof over our heads an’ a bed t’ sleep in—we wouldn’t have but just that little bit ’a money t’ get started on, Elise, nothin’ ’a our own. I could find work as a hand for wages once he couldn’t use me no more, an’ find us a place t’ rent—but there’s no tellin’ how long we might have t’ live like that, just gettin’ by from one day t’ th’ next, with us tryin’ t’ save every cent we could so we’d be able t’ have that place ’a our own someday.”
“That wouldn’t matter, not so long as we’d be together. I know it would make it harder on you, with two of us to support—” Three—she told herself, once the baby arrived; but she pushed that thought out of her mind.
“Two of us wouldn’t matter—but, Elise, you cain’t even understan’ th’ kind ’a life it’d be. You’ve never knowed anythin’ like it. It wouldn’t be fair on you; I cain’t—”
“Do you think I’d rather live here in that big house with all Daddy’s money than be with you? Do you think that could make me any happier than living with you in your grandparents’ house, or in a rented place, or even a sharecropped house—”
“You wouldn’t never have t’ live in no sharecropped place, not so long as I’m able t’—”
“Don’t you understand, it wouldn’t matter to me. Not so long as we’re together.”
For a long moment he stared at her, then he moved to take her hands in his and draw her over to one of the benches by the kitchen table, making her sit down, and then kneeling at her feet, his face grimacing in pain with the soreness in his body. He looked up at her, holding both her hands tightly in his own. “You got t’ listen t’ me, Elise,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t want us t’ have t’ be apart for years any more ’n you do, but I cain’t ask you t’ live th’ way you’d have t’ live if my gran’parents took us in—so many people in that little house; you cain’t know what it’d be like. An’, once he couldn’t use me no more, we’d have t’ find us a place ’a our own—you ain’t never lived in a house where th’ roof leaks an’ th’ wind whistles in aroun’ th’ door, but that might be th’ kind ’a place we’d have t’ live in if we left t’gether now. We’d never have t’ sharecrop an’ lose half a crop every year, not so long as I’m able t’ do anythin’ else; I’d be workin’ as a hand for a wage—but it’d never be much. We’d have t’ scrimp an’ save an’ just squeak by lots ’a times. You wouldn’t have nice things, an’ a lot ’a times you might even have t’ do without things you really needed. When I had th’ money, goin’ back t’ Eason County didn’t seem s’ hard, but now—now we’d be goin’ back with nothin’, Elise; you cain’t imagine what livin’ with nothin’ is like—”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“Yes, it does matter. If we leave t’gether now, we’ll be fightin’ it for years, maybe even for th’ rest ’a our lives, t’ ever have anythin’ that’d be our own. There’d be a lot ’a years ’a hard work, a lot ’a doin’ without—I cain’t ask you t’ live like that. You cain’t even imagine—”
“I know it would make it harder on you. I know it would take years longer for you to have your dream if you had a wife and family to support and worry about while you were trying to save the money to—”
“It wouldn’t matter if it took longer—don’t you know by now that you’re more important t’ me than th’ land is? I want it back, just as bad as I ever wanted it back, but I want it for you, for us. You’re th’ most important thing in th’ world t’ me, us bein’ t’gether—”
“Then why can’t you understand that I feel the same—” Suddenly she was crying in earnest, and she could not stop herself, no matter how hard she tried—she did not want him to see her like this, but the tears would not stop. “Why can’t you understand that being with you is all that matters to me as well. I don’t care if we have to live with your grandparents; I don’t care if we have to sharecrop for someone; I don’t care if we have to live in a rented house with a leaky roof and the wind coming in around the door—I just want to be with you. I don’t want to spend years wit
hout you, to have to worry if you’re safe and dry, to have to worry if you’re even alive or dead. I just want to be your wife and live with you and have your children. I just want—” Suddenly she was crying too hard to even speak. She was on her knees with him and in his arms, and she did not even know how she had gotten there. He held her, gently soothing her, letting her cry, his hands gently touching her hair, her face—
“I won’t leave you, not if you really don’t want me to. I won’t leave you—” He was saying the words, over and over again, as he held her. “We’ll get married an’ go t’ Eason County if that’s what you want. I’ll give you th’ best life I can, I promise—Elise, please don’t cry. Please—”
She looked up at him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You really want that; it’s not just—”
“You know I want it.” He kissed her and held her close against him, his arms tight around her in spite of the pain in his body. “All I ever wanted was you—an’ I’ll give you th’ rest, no matter how long it takes me, no matter how long—”
“You won’t hate me if it takes longer? You won’t—”
“I could never hate you,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and looking down at her. “Never—”
She buried her face against his shoulder, unable to turn him loose, to let him go. “Just hold me—”
For a moment his arms tightened around her, then he released her and pushed himself to his feet, drawing her up to stand beside him. He put an arm around her waist and led her to the old iron bedstead he had there in the kitchen from Mattie Ruth and Titus’s charity, then lay down with her and held her, slowly beginning to touch and love her in spite of the pain and soreness that filled his body. She held him, gently touching the bruises, seeing what her father had done to him, knowing what he could do again—she began to cry anew as he drew her close and entered her, unable to let go of him, unable to quit touching him, to quit loving him, even as the pleasure came and she lay crying in his arms afterward, hearing him say the same words, over and over again:
“I won’t never leave you. We’ll be together always. I won’t never—” And she could only pray in that moment that he would not grow to hate himself, and her as well, for the words he said.
23
The night was cold and clear, with a bitter chill in the air that told of a hard winter that would be soon settling in over the Georgia countryside—but they would be far away from here by then. It was still hours before daylight, but the minutes seemed to be slipping by quickly, and Janson found himself looking again and again toward the east to assure himself that dawn was not yet ready to come—there was no lightening of the horizon yet, no growing hues of pink and yellow to show that day was about to begin, but still he was worried. They would have to be away soon or they would lose the cover of night and sleep that lay across the countryside, and each moment that passed now only increased that danger, only increased the chance they might be found out and stopped, and he knew he would not live to see another day if that should happened.
He stood to himself beside the old truck Titus would be using to take them out of the County—his grandparents would be expecting them as soon as they could arrive in Eason County. Elise had written to them from Janson’s instructions, explaining they would soon be married, and asking if they might be put up for a while in exchange for work Janson could do on the place. They had received a letter back by return mail, a letter addressed to Mattie Ruth Coates, a letter never once asking why it should be posted to a stranger—Janson had been told to come home and to bring his bride, that they were welcome, that they would always be welcome, and that Tom and Deborah Sanders’s home would be their home as well for as long as they needed it to be. Elise had cried as she had read him the letter, cried and told him it was a decision they would never regret making.
He watched her now as she stood in the yard near the far edge of the porch, her mother and Stan beside her. She was saying goodbye, goodbye to her family and to this place that had been her home all her life. Janson knew she might never see these people, this place, ever again after they left here today, and he was determined not to rob her of even one of her goodbyes, though he knew that each moment that now passed only increased the danger they might both be in.
He knew there were tears on her cheeks now, though he could not see them in the dim light that fell through the narrow front windows behind her, and he wondered again how he could be doing this to her, taking her from so much, to offer her so little. They were leaving here with nothing, with only each other, and with the money Elise had in her purse, money he had given her that day in the graveyard, as well as what she had been saving for months now without telling him, and money her mother had given her from the household allowance—it was not much, but at least it was something to start their life on. He could give her nothing else now, nothing except himself, and yet he was taking so much away from her that she deserved to have—but it was what she wanted. She had told him that time and again in the past weeks. He had done everything he could to make her understand, to make her see the kind of life he would be taking her to, the hardships they might have, the years of work and doing without—but none of that had seemed to matter to her. She wanted to be his wife, to live with him, no matter the life he might be taking her to—he would do whatever he had to do now, struggle for as many years as he had to struggle, to give her all she deserved to have, and to make sure she would never regret the choice she was making in him today.
Mattie Ruth and Titus came out of the house and down off the narrow porch to him. He watched them, knowing how very much he and Elise owed them already—if it had not been for their kindness and help, this day might never have been; he might have lost Elise forever, or died in trying to make her his, and that was a debt he knew he could never repay.
Mattie Ruth smiled as she reached his side, and then stretched up to hug him one last time. “I feel like I’m sendin’ my own off,” she said, holding him at arm’s length away to stare up at him. “You jus’ be careful an’ keep a eye out for Mist’ Whitley ’til you’re good away from here.”
“I will,” he said. He kept telling himself that he and Elise would be safe once they were gone from here, that not even William Whitley could touch them once they were out of Georgia and in Eason County—but he knew how wrong he might be. He knew Whitley could still reach them, in Buntain before they could be married today, on the train to Alabama, even once they were in Eason County. He knew his very life, and Elise’s future, could very well rest now in the hands of Mattie Ruth and Titus Coates, as well as in the hands of Stan and her mother, in how well they could all keep a secret in the following days, and in the years to come.
“You take good care ’a yourself, an’ Miss Elise, too. You remember th’ kind a’ man I think you was raised t’ be, an’ you’ll be a good husban’ an’ a good provider.”
“I will—” Suddenly she seemed to remind him so very much of his mother and his gran’ma, though she looked little like Nell or Deborah Sanders either one. She was the same kind of woman, however, good and strong and caring. He bent and kissed her cheek. “You take care ’a yourself, too, Mattie Ruth. I won’t never forget all you an’ Titus ’a done for us. I cain’t never tell you how grateful we are, how much we owe you—”
“You don’t owe us nothin’. We ain’t done nothin’ more for you than we’d ’a hoped somebody’d ‘a done for ours if he’d been away from home an’ needin’ help.”
“You did a lot. If it wasn’t for you, me an’ Elise wouldn’t be leavin’ t’day, an’ we might never been able t’ leave. I might not even be alive right now—”
“You an’ Miss Elise would ’a worked it out,” she said with assurance, reaching up to pat his arm. “You’d ’a been t’gether, an’ you’d ’a got married, jus’ th’ same—God made you an’ her t’ be t’gether. No matter what anybody else ever says, you two was born fer each other, an’ you’ve lived
fer each other; nobody here on this earth could ’a stopped that, not nobody.”
Janson nodded his head, then lifted his eyes to watch Elise and her mother walking toward them from the far side of the porch, arm-in-arm, looking more as if they were sisters than mother and daughter in the dim light. “She’s been through s’ much in th’ past months. I just wish I could be takin’ her t’ somethin’ more now.”
“There ain’t too much in life that’s important but what you got,” Mattie Ruth said from beside him. “You got each other, an’ that’s somethin’ cain’t never be took away from neither one ’a you, not ever,” she said as Elise reached his side and put her arms around him, Elise pressing her wet cheek to his shoulder for a moment to hold him.
She was trembling slightly against him, and it struck him again that this had to be the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, to leave behind everything she had ever known in the world and go into a complete unknown with him. He squeezed her tightly to him and pressed his cheek to her hair, then lifted his eyes to the woman beside her, the woman who would today become his mother-in-law, a woman who would not even see her daughter wed this day. She had done so much to help them in the past weeks, even knowing that in that helping she would take her daughter from herself forever, and possibly damage her own marriage beyond repair.
Martha Whitley looked at him for a long moment without speaking. When her words finally came, her voice showed the strain within her, but also the resolve. “You’ve gone through so much to be with Elise. I know you’ll take care of her and be good to her. Please—” She visibly struggled for a moment against the tears, turning wet eyes back to her daughter as Elise released him to move into her arms, her voice a bare, choked whisper as she continued. “Just make her happy—”
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