Behold, this Dreamer. Charlotte Miller

boy, you be out at the barn at sunup tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a chance. I pay wages every other Saturday at quitting time—you got a place to live yet?”

      The man shook his head.

      “Well, there’s a good room off the barn where you can sleep. It’s got a cot and a wood stove and some furniture in it—the rent’ll come out of your wages before you get them, so will the money for the store charge. I run accounts at the store for my people—I don’t cotton to people who work for me doing their buying in town—” He stared at the man for a moment, seeing that he understood. “I’m good to my people, boy, and I expect them to show their appreciation in return—”

      The man only stared, increasing William’s irritation.

      “I’m going to give you a chance, boy, but you give me one reason and you’ll be sorry you ever showed your face around here, you got that?”

      “Yes, sir, I got it—” the man answered. “I got it—”

      William stared as the door closed behind the two men a few minutes later, satisfied that the boy understood what was expected from him. He turned and looked at the open ledger on the rolltop before him, then reached to shut it, needing a smoke very badly. He got up and crossed the room, going past the deep shelves of books that lined the walls, out into the hallway, and then through and out onto the front veranda of his home.

      He lit his cigar and drew in on it heavily in the chill night air, watching the shadowy forms of the two men as they made their way down the long drive and toward the dark clay road that led away from the house. He was pleased with the decision he had made to hire the boy, though still disquieted by the look of pride and dignity that had been so apparent on the dark face. Proud men so often proved to be trouble—but William Whitley knew how to deal with trouble. He made sure it could never bother anyone again.

      Titus was quiet as they left the big house, Mattie Ruth having quickly told them goodbye at the back door, saying she would be home as soon as her work was finished. Now there was nothing but silence as they walked along, broken only by the occasional sound of their feet shifting in loose dirt and rocks alongside the hard-packed clay road, or the night sounds from the dead cotton fields, and then the woods, as they drew near, and Janson found that he was glad for the quiet.

      He did not like William Whitley, of that much he was already certain. He did not like the man, or anything there was about him—but Whitley was a rich man, and all rich folks were alike, Janson told himself. Eason or Whitley, it did not much matter. They were all the same.

      There was a sound from the large house behind them, a door opening and closing, and Janson paused for a moment and looked back just before the curve of the road could cut off sight of the house. Whitley stood on the front veranda of his home now, a bulky shape framed by the light of one of the parlor windows. There was a brief flame lighting his features for a moment as he lit his cigar, then he walked to the edge of the veranda, folding his hands behind his large buttocks for a moment and drawing in heavily on the cigar, the red glow of its ash dimly visible for a moment even over the distance.

      Janson stood for a moment and watched him, thinking of the reasons he had to stay here, to work, to earn and save money—thinking of that white house on those red acres back home; of a tall, brown-haired man and a small, gentle woman he could never fail—and thinking of people like the Easons and the Whitleys, and somehow damning them all to hell somewhere in the back of his mind.

      He knelt in the red dirt of the road and unlaced and removed his shoes, gathering them into one hand, and then straightening to meet Titus Coates’s eyes. Neither man spoke. They just turned and started down the red clay road again, away from the brightly lighted house behind them, and into the chilly darkness of the January night.

4

      Elise Whitley was in trouble. Again. Not that she was in trouble alone, for she rarely if ever was. Phyllis Ann Bennett, sitting at her side, seeming to try to appear mature and aloof and above the current situation, was in trouble just as deeply as she.

      Eva Perry sat behind the wide expanse of her desk in the principal’s office of the girl’s school, considering the two girls over the tops of her eyeglasses. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm the pounding inside her head. She was in a horrid mood, having been awakened in the middle of the night only to be told these two were in trouble again. It had to be at least 11:30 p.m., if not even later, and she knew that she looked a fright. The heavy cotton nightgown she wore had to be her oldest, buttoned to the throat and wrists and covered by her most shapeless wrap; her long hair was twisted up in rag rollers, and there was not a touch of powder or rouge on her face—but at the moment she did not care. Her head hurt—but, then again, her head always seemed to hurt where these two were concerned. They were constantly in trouble: this time they had been brought back to the school by the police long after school curfew had passed, having been involved in a minor automobile accident while out driving with a number of boys from town; the previous week there had been a food fight in the dining hall, started by these two; less than a month before, a nighttime raid on the instructors’ rooms, stealing undergarments and other unmentionables, only to later strew them out over the campus grounds; a few days before that an improper novel had been found in their possession, a novel so shocking the principal herself had seen to its destruction after severely lecturing both girls—always these two.

      They were both sixteen now and ought to know better, both from good, old-Georgia families, families that had money and social standing—and both were spoiled, pampered, and petted, and a burden that had been gladly placed on Miss Perry’s narrow shoulders by their long-exasperated families.

      She stared at the two girls over the tops of her eyeglasses for a moment before pushing them up to the proper position on the bridge of her nose, then laced her fingers together and placed them on the desktop before her, leaning forward to look first at one girl, and then at the other, her eyes finally coming to rest on the girl to the right.

      “Well, Miss Whitley, do you have something to say for yourself this time?” she asked, and watched as the girl glanced quickly over at her friend.

      Elise Whitley was dressed in a straight, rather shapelessly-cut coat of the current fashion, over a low-waisted dress of a pale blue shade that was almost the same color as her eyes. Her hair was cut short, curling in at her cheeks below the dark cloche hat she wore, and was a rich, red-gold color that Eva had rarely seen before in her life. Her hands were quiet, folded tightly over the small purse in her lap; her rouge and lipstick a bit too obvious for a girl her age—but, then again, all the girls at the school were wearing it that way these days. She was not really a bad girl, Eva thought as she considered her across the desktop—if she could only manage to keep herself out of trouble for even a few days. If only—

      “Well?” Eva prompted again, waiting for a response.

      Elise Whitley looked quickly at her friend again, then back to the principal. “Well, we just—”

      “Now, Miss Perry—” Phyllis Ann interrupted, a deliberate tone in her voice as if she were addressing a particularly slow child—a device Phyllis Ann employed quite often, and one which Eva heartily detested. “We were only—”

      “Be quiet, Miss Bennett!” the principal snapped, feeling a muscle clench tightly in her jaw. She did not like Phyllis Ann Bennett, in fact, could find nothing even remotely likeable within the girl. Phyllis Ann was spoiled, self-serving, selfish, and vain, with a temper that was often unpredictable, and a manner of speech and behavior that constantly grated on Eva’s nerves—“fast,” Eva thought, not for the first time, for there was no other word she could find to describe the girl.

      Phyllis Ann sat back in her chair, a look of anger in her dark eyes as they met those of the principal. Her legs were crossed before her at the knees, her kneecaps visible below the hem of her skirt, as well as the tops of the flesh-pink, rolled stockings she wore. She loudly popped the gum in her mouth and bobbed one foot up and down impatiently, but did not speak again—fast, the principal thought again.