There Is a River

by Charlotte Miller

  Elise had thought she would feel better once she knew someone was looking for her granddaughter, but she did not. She wished there was something she and Olivia could do, though she could think of nothing. Olivia sat in the white rocker near the front door to wait, and Elise joined her in the other rocker there on the front porch.

  More than an hour later Henry and Janson returned. The two waiting women rose as one while Henry’s car came to a rolling stop in the drive. Olivia descended the front steps as the car doors opened and Henry and Janson got out. Henry came toward the front steps, and then past Olivia and up onto the porch, talking back over his shoulder to his wife.

  “We found Joanna’s car,” he said, snatching open the front door and starting inside. “It was locked and we could tell from looking in the windows that her keys weren’t in it. We didn’t find—” but the remainder of his words were lost as Olivia followed him inside and the storm door closed behind them. Elise stood at the top of the steps waiting for Janson as he made his slow climb to the front porch. He reached out and took her hand with his free one when he reached the porch, his other hand gripping the crook of his cane as he leaned on it for its support.

  “We didn’t see nothin’ of Joanna,” he said, staring at her, the whiteness of his hair vivid in the darkness. “There was a loaf ’a bread on th’ passenger side in th’ front seat, an’ a can ’a Co’Cola beside it. Joanna’s pocketbook wasn’t there, an’ neither was her keys.” They started in the front door now, following Henry and Olivia. “There wasn’t no flat tire, an’ nothin’ wrong with th’ car that we could see. Henry woke folks up in two houses near where we foun’ th’ car, but they said they didn’t see—”

  But Elise was no longer listening to him. Henry was at one side of the hallway, unlocking the gun cabinet with keys he kept in his pocket. Olivia was in the living room, talking to the police on the phone.

  “Nothing on a young woman?” Elise could hear through the doorway. There was a pause, and then, “Twenty-three; she has reddish-blonde . . .”

  Henry took ammunition from a locked drawer in the cabinet, and then started checking and loading a rifle.

  “So help me, if someone’s hurt her, I’ll—” he began, but never had the opportunity to finish.

  There was the sound of a car pulling in the drive before the house, and headlights hit the open front doorway. They all moved to the front door to see Joanna getting out of her car, obviously unharmed. She walked across the yard and up onto the porch, smiling as they stepped back and she came in the front door.

  “Why are you all at the door?” she laughed, then stopped to hug her mother. “Is it that late?” she asked, then looked at her watch. “I had no idea. I’m sorry—”

  “Where were you?” Henry demanded, furious. He had the rifle still in his hands, which Joanna seemed to notice for the first time. She laughed.

  “What were you intending to do?” she asked, hugging her father now and trying to take the rifle.

  “We found your car—where were you?” he demanded again, pushing her hands away.

  “I went for a ride with someone; I forgot the time. Katie’s asleep? Did she ask where I was?” She was looking down the hallway now toward her daughter’s room.

  “Who were you with?” Henry demanded. It seemed to be the only tone of voice he could use now, though Elise could not blame him. Joanna had scared them all.

  “His name’s Stephen; I just forgot the time—”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “I know. I know. I won’t do it again.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Why don’t we all go to bed. It’s late—”

  Henry was muttering under his breath, unloading the rifle as she walked past him and down the hall. Elise heard Janson mutter something as well, just before he shook his head and flipped a switch by the front door and shut off the porch light.

  22

  Stephen Dawes, or Stephen Eason, as his grandfather preferred that he be called, though he had never gone through the legalities of a name change—sat in the living room of the huge old Eason house on Pine’s Main Street the next afternoon, listening as his grandfather argued on the phone with one of his liquor suppliers. Eason County was supposed to be a dry county; Stephen knew that, just as he also knew that people were going to drink, and they were going to buy liquor, no matter where it was they lived. There was no reason why his grandfather should not supply those demands, or any other, at a profit if he so chose, and the law had little choice but to bend to Buddy Eason’s will if and when he chose to break it in matters such as this.

  “I told you what I pay per case. Either you take it, or you won’t be selling liquor here or anywhere else ever again,” Buddy Eason said, then fell silent for a moment, listening to the voice at the other end of the telephone. His voice was only harder when he spoke again. “You know who I am—do you think I can’t see to it that you’ll never do any business of any kind on this earth again?”

  Buddy sat in a massive electric wheelchair pulled up behind an antique cherry wood desk that appeared to be little more than a table supported on long, spindly legs. He was a huge man now, with thick lips in the middle of a jowly face, and a bulbous red nose below dark glasses worn even in the house. His suit was expensively cut in a dark blue material, but one lapel, as well as the white shirt that had been so exquisitely laundered and pressed that morning, and the dark blue tie, were liberally spotted with both food and drink. Buddy was an imposing presence in the room, from the stark white hair still full and thick above a face red from both liquor and disposition, to the wheelchair that creaked as he shifted his weight, though Stephen could not keep himself from staring at the stains on Buddy’s clothing. Buddy listened for a moment to the voice at the other end of the phone, and then he nodded, as if satisfied.

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Buddy said, into the receiver.

  People usually saw it his grandfather’s way, Stephen thought, himself included.

  He could still remember how frightened he was of Buddy Eason the first time he saw him. Stephen had been no more than five years old, and small for his age, brought here to Eason County from some place he could dimly remember living for a short time with his paternal grandparents after his parents died. Buddy Eason had seemed so huge to him then, such a massive presence, towering over the small boy Stephen had been—and he still seemed that way to Stephen. Buddy was just as dominant, wheelchair notwithstanding, just as much in control—and he seemed still to wear that same slightly disappointed look concerning his grandson that he had worn the day Stephen met him.

  “He doesn’t look five years old,” Buddy Eason had said, staring down at the small boy. “Is there something wrong with him?”

  Stephen felt he had been doing nothing since that first day so much as trying to please his grandfather, as fascinated by the powerful man as he was fearful of him. Stephen had gone to the schools his grandfather chose for him, had studied the subjects his grandfather wanted him to study, had graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Alabama. But still he had never gotten the one thing he wanted most—his grandfather’s approval, Buddy Eason’s congratulations for a job well done. Sometimes Stephen thought that he would do almost anything to garner that approval from the old man.

  As a child he had felt his grandfather hated him. He could remember lying awake night after night, wondering what he had done to make Buddy Eason feel toward him as he obviously did. Stephen had grown up in a series of boarding schools, and had concocted elaborate lies to explain to other children why he was never asked home for Christmas or on summer vacation. He had spent most holidays and school breaks with the families of a few close friends. He knew now that the parents of those boys had probably realized the truth. His grandfather just did not want him around.

  But Buddy Eason had done good by his only grandson. Stephen had attended the best schools. He wore the most expensive clothes. He h
ad had his choice of new car on the day he turned sixteen, and for every birth date since—but still Stephen did not have the one thing he was almost certain Buddy Eason would never give him.

  He had been fascinated by the respect people had shown his grandfather in the few times he had been in Eason County in his years of growing up, as well as by the power he had seen Buddy Eason wield. Stephen had never realized the full extent of that power until he was called here by his grandfather a few months ago, and he still did not know the full extent of who Buddy Eason was. Stephen had not been made privy to all the business dealings, the private telephone conversations, the meetings, but he knew he would learn everything he needed to know when the time came. His grandfather had told him he intended for Stephen to take on more responsibility in the coming months, which pleased Stephen immensely. If he proved himself capable in his grandfather’s eyes, he might at last gain the old man’s respect. That was what Stephen wanted—and to be just like Buddy Eason.

  He watched Buddy disconnect one call, only to immediately place another. The old man held the phone with one hand, the fingertips of the other resting against the wooden surface before him. Buddy alternately tented his fingers, lifting his palm from the desktop, holding it there for a moment, then slowly lowering it against the surface, over and over.

  The habitual gesture reminded Stephen of a spider poised, ready to strike.

  His grandfather was speaking into the phone now, checking up on another supplier, making certain of the control he held regarding so many things. That was the one thing that Stephen did not like, for that control was also exercised over him. He had hoped things would improve once he moved out into a place of his own, but if anything it had increased. Sometimes Stephen felt as if the old man considered him nothing more than a possession, little more than this massive house, or Buddy’s three wheelchair lift-equipped vans, but in those times Stephen would remind himself that he owed the old man too much to complain. If not for Buddy Eason, there might have been no one willing to see to his welfare after his parents died. His paternal grandparents had given him up easily enough when Buddy sent for him and he had not heard from them since.

  Stephen rarely allowed himself to think of the short while he had lived in their home, or before that when his parents were alive. He never spoke of those times—but he had spoken of them last night, to Joanna Lee, and for reasons he could not quite comprehend.

  He had been on his way between his grandfather’s house and the place his grandfather had rented for him when he came upon her car. He had assumed the vehicle was broken down again, considering its age, and that the girl was just sitting in it—but he had been surprised, when he tapped on her window and she lifted her head, to see that she was crying. Her face was tear-streaked and her eyes red, but she wiped at her cheeks with the back of one hand and rolled down the window.

  “Are you okay? Is your daughter all right?” Stephen had asked, concerns passing through his mind, as well as the thought of the last time he had seen her. She had been on the way home then because her ex-husband was coming to see their daughter. “If your ex is trying to take her away from you—”

  But she shook her head, clearing her throat lightly before she spoke. “No. No—it’s nothing like that. It’s—” She made a slight gesture with one hand and shook her head again, as if she could not put the problem into words. “It’s everything, I guess—I don’t know.” She shook her head once more.

  That time of the month, Stephen thought, though he did not put the thought into words. “So, your car’s in working order?” he asked. “That’s why I stopped, since it was broken down the last time—”

  “It’s working fine.” She looked to one side of the steering wheel, to the ignition switch and the key there in the off position. “Funny, I don’t remember shutting it off—” she said quietly, almost if she were speaking to herself. She reached to take hold of the key and the engine turned over several times before it at last caught and started.

  “You know, you really should think about buying a new car.” He looked around the interior through the open window. The seats were worn badly and the headliner was beginning to sag near the rear window. When he looked back at her, she was smiling, the tears gone.

  “I do good to buy gas for this one,” She laughed. He thought that he could more easily understand her crying than the lightness in her tone—lightness but seriousness, too; he didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I could more easily buy new tennis shoes and walk instead, but there’s not even money enough for those.” Stephen looked down at her feet on the floorboard of the old car, one on the brake pedal even though the car was in park, the other turned slightly to its side. Her tennis shoes were worn, their strings broken off, one frayed below where it was knotted into a short bow. She self-consciously tucked them back as far as possible against the bottom edge of the car seat, almost out of his sight, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers again. She smiled, a slight color raising to her cheeks, and wiped at her face one last time with the back of one hand. A bit of gray smoke rose from the tailpipe of her car, along with the smell of its exhaust, and Stephen felt suddenly uncomfortable standing here beside her car.

  “It’s not catching, you know,” she said, still smiling.

  “What’s not?”

  “Not having money.”

  It was said so simply that he caught himself about to ask if she was poor. He shut his mouth so quickly that his teeth snapped together. He could not think of anything to say; he had the uncomfortable feeling that she had known exactly what he had almost given voice to. He remembered her having accused him, in their second meeting, of being insulting, and she was right. He realized that he did not consider how something he said might sound to someone else.

  “I guess I had better be going,” she said, reaching to put the car into gear.

  He stepped back and she started to roll up the window. He realized suddenly that he did not want her to leave. “Is your daughter waiting for you?” he asked, putting one hand atop the partially rolled-up glass and leaning down to look in at her again.

  “No, she went with my parents to visit my brother.”

  “Why do you have to go, then? I mean—why not do something else? We could go for a ride in my truck. You could show me the county; my grandfather’s lived here all his life, and my mother grew up here, but I came here only a few times as a child.”

  She was looking back at him, obviously uncertain.

  “I promise I’m not a crazed maniac prowling the county looking for my next victim.”

  She smiled, though he could see she was still unsure. He wondered if she might not think he was exactly what he claimed that he was not.

  “Come on,” Stephen said, giving her his most winning smile. “Take a chance.”

  He was almost certain she would not agree, and then she did, rolling her window up and shutting off the engine, and stepping out onto the cracked pavement beside him. They drove for a long time and she did show him the county, directing him to places he had never seen in Eason County: Blackskillet Ridge, which she said was the highest elevation in the county, then a place called Lightning Stump, where Blackskillet Road met up with the road to Rock Fill. Every place had a story, from the abandoned sharecropper shacks scattered about the countryside, to the downtown movie theater in Pine that she said had burned at least three times. She had him stop at Shoop’s Dairy Stop outside of Wells, where they bought the best burgers and fries Stephen ever tasted, and then they sat for hours talking with the truck parked in the deserted lot before the high school in Wells. At some point their conversation moved from this county where she had grown up to their own lives, and Stephen found himself telling her things he had never told anyone, the few memories he had of his parents, and of his life before he had come into his grandfather’s care. Somehow, he would realize later, he never mentioned Buddy Eason’s name. He didn’t know why.

/>   “Since then, I grew up mainly in boarding schools. Holidays and summers I spent with friends.” Stephen said, finishing the subject as far as his life was concerned. He had not expected the look he saw come onto her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sympathy evident in her expression. She reached out and placed a hand briefly on his arm.

  He shrugged, for what had happened in the past did not matter to him, and never had. “Tell me about your daughter,” he said, smiling now. “How old is she? Is she a lot like you?”

  Her face brightened immediately at the thought of the child. She told him of her brief marriage, and of the husband she was happy to be living without, as well as stories about the little girl she had been raising alone for more than three years.

  “We’re home now, living with my parents and my father’s parents since I finished at Auburn,” she said. “We have a farm.” She shot him a look as if she thought he would say something of which she might not approve. “It’s what I’ve wanted to do all my life,” she said, as if she were explaining. She shrugged slightly and looked away. “My father farmed the place, and my grandfather, and even my great-grandfather.” Then she smiled. “I guess you could say it’s in our blood.”

  Stephen smiled as well at the look in her eyes, the absolute assurance that she was doing in her life just exactly what she had been meant to do.

  “You love it, don’t you?” he asked, leaning forward so he could see her face better.

  “Yes, I do.” She looked up at him. Her smile broadened.

  “I wish I felt like that about something,” Stephen said.

  “You don’t? At least about something?”

  He looked away, toward the growing darkness beyond the ram’s head on the truck’s hood. “No. I don’t.”

  Her hand came to rest on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said, but Stephen shook the sentiment away.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, dismissing the thought as she moved her hand back to her lap. “Do you plan to stay on the farm?” he asked, wanting to change the subject. “You’ll probably marry again and leave your parents’ house. You may even leave the county.”