Behold, this Dreamer. Charlotte Miller

thought, too brief for commitment; the years all too soon gone, but the love grown only stronger still—surely death could not end that, and life could not begin it. It had to be there, forever, for always. That was what they had taught Janson, and she had to believe it herself now—suddenly, she had to believe it so very strongly herself.

      She watched Henry, thinking of how he often spoke now of having grandchildren in the house, of Janson finding the right girl, bringing a bride to the land, giving them grandsons and granddaughters for the years ahead—but, as hard as she tried, Nell could not see that, could not see Henry with babies on his knee, babies with his green eyes and his caring, and that frightened her. There was an ache growing inside of her that would not go away, an ache even though she knew Janson would be all right and that his wound would heal—life seemed too short. So very short. And the sadness would not leave, no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to cry but would not let herself, for there was no reason. No—

      Henry’s hand tightened over hers and he looked up at her, and she realized with a start that he had been thinking the same things, feeling the same things, she had been feeling. She tightened her hand on his and smiled, nodding her head to tell him she was all right, and, after a moment, he looked away, back toward the bed, and to their son sleeping quietly there.

      Nell turned her eyes toward Janson as well, the tears finally coming, spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks. She knew that, as long as she lived, she would never forget the look she had seen on her husband’s face in that moment. Henry Sanders had been crying.

2

      Janson’s shoulder was fully healed by the time fall came and the cotton bolls burst open, paining him only on occasion now, when the weather was bad, or on days when he worked it too hard in the fields. He had not once seen Lecia Mae or Buddy Eason, or their father or grandfather, since the day of the stabbing, and he found that he was glad—not because he was afraid, for he held no real fear of any man, but simply because there were more important things on his mind, more important things that had to do with holding onto the land, and with selling their crop again where it could bring them the most money.

      There was a surplus in the cotton market in that fall of 1925, more cotton coming in than buyers had a need for, and the going price per pound of lint had already dropped lower than it had been in either of the past two years—and the Easons were paying even less than that. There would be no more choice this year than there had been the last; they would have to sell out of the County if they were to hold onto the land, have to sell, and quickly, before there could be any further drop in price, a drop that could so very easily cost them the few cents per pound difference between being able to hold onto the land, and losing it.

      Janson found that he was glad to be out in the fields again in that first week of picking the cotton, glad to be doing something, and not just sitting and waiting for his shoulder to heal, as he had been doing for so long—but it was tiring work, long days of dragging a pick sack behind him, picking until his hands bled from the dry hulls and his back ached from bending among the cotton plants, until his shoulder hurt and his feet were tired and he wanted only to go home and rest. There was trouble coming and he knew it, could sense it as he worked in the cotton fields, could see it in his father’s eyes—Walter Eason could not let them sell their cotton out of Eason County this year.

      But there was no choice. There was so little choice left for any of them now.

      There were long hours in the fields that first week of picking the cotton, days that went from before sunup in the mornings until long after sunset at night, each of them dragging a long pick sack behind them down the never ending rows, Janson, his father, and his mother as well, for there was no money to hire pickers, and, even if there had been the money, there would also have been better uses for it as well. It seemed to Janson that those first days went on forever, days of emptying pick sacks into the cotton baskets he and his father had woven years before, tamping the cotton down, only to return to the rows again—after a few hours backs would be aching from the constant bending and stooping, fingers would be bleeding from contact with the dry hulls, and any neck not protected by hat or bonnet would already be painfully burned from exposure to the sun.

      By the end of that first week, Janson was sore and exhausted. He was glad now that he had turned down an offer to supper that night at the home of one of the girls from church; she was a nice girl, very pretty, with long blond hair down her back to her waist—but at the end of that first week of picking cotton, Janson was too tired to even really care. His shoulders ached from the weight of the cotton sack he had dragged behind him all day, its wide strap slung across his chest and oftentimes pressing the healed wound in his right shoulder. His fingers were sore, a deep scratch in his left thumb from one of the cotton hulls, and his back ached—all he wanted tonight was rest and sleep. Tomorrow there would be church and kin and dinner with the girl’s family after services—but tonight there was that old straw tick, and a rest he knew he so badly needed.

      As darkness began to settle in that night over red fields now thickly starred over with white cotton, Janson and his father dumped the cotton baskets one last time into the overloaded wagon and started for home. The night was quiet around them, the sound of a motor car miles away in the distance the only thing that broke the stillness. There was a full moon, lighting the cotton fields and the bare-swept yard that led to the house; the smoke coming from the chimney of the separate kitchen, and the kerosene light showing through its windows, the only signs of life in the darkness.

      Janson was exhausted as he sat beside his father on the seat of the old wagon. His mother had left the fields hours before to prepare supper for the family, but he wondered now if he would not be too tired to eat, stifling a yawn again as he stared toward the house and the old barn beyond. His pa was silent as he sat beside him, seeming to Janson somehow almost old for the first time in his life, his shoulders bent as he drove the team of mules—Janson knew he was thinking again of the work ahead, of the days of picking the cotton, and of the struggle that still might lie ahead to sell it as they knew they would have to. Things had been quiet around the place for the past several weeks; there had been no more broken windows, no slaughtered animals, but Janson knew it was not over yet. Walter Eason would know they had not been beaten so easily. Walter Eason would know, just as Janson knew. Walter Eason would know.

      Janson’s appetite returned as they entered the separate kitchen of the old house a short time later, the scent of baking biscuits and frying ham coming to him. There was good, strong coffee, potatoes fried in bacon grease, and turnip greens swimming in pot liquor, as well as fried apple pies for dessert—and Janson realized suddenly how very hungry he was, a hunger he had rightly earned from hours of hard work in the fields that day.

      When supper was finished, he sat tired and contented in the flickering light of the kerosene lamps in the front room they used as a parlor. He rocked slowly in an old split-bottomed rocker, his head leaned back, his eyes closed, his mind thinking, dreaming. His father sat nearby, reading silently from the old family Bible, its worn and cracked leather cover open in his calloused hands. His mother was across the room, bent over the foot-treadle sewing machine that had sat here in the parlor for as long as Janson could remember, her voice, sweet and clear above the sound of the machine, singing the words of a song he had heard both her and his grandmother sing time and again.

      On the floor beside her chair sat a specially sized and painted bow basket Janson had made and given to her on her last birthday, a basket now filled with assorted bits of cloth of odd shapes and sizes, quilt scraps she would soon be turning into warm cover against the cold Alabama winter nights. Her hands were busy at the sewing machine now, unable to be still even after the day she had spent picking cotton in the fields, her mind occupied with the remaking of an old shirt someone had given her—Gran’ma or Aunt Rachel, or maybe even Aunt Olive—remaking it into a shirt he or his father could use, and that the former owner would hardly recognize again once she was finished with it.

      Janson listened to a dog barking a half-mile or so away in the darkness; listened to the sound of a train whistle off in the distance, a train going almost anywhere—such a lonely sound. He listened to the night outside, feeling the heat of the