she would see murder done before her, but then the office door swung all the way in and a heavy-set man in his forties with great jowls for cheeks stepped out to stare down at the group before him.
“Buddy, what’s going on out here?” he demanded, looking at the boy who had shaken her.
Buddy looked quickly from the black man to Elise and back again, and that look had held clear warning. “Nothing,” he said, staring up at his father.
The man looked at Elise, and then to the one person who had helped her. “Nathan, what’re you doing out here? You’re supposed to be inside working on the lavatory.”
“I came out t’ get Mr. Buddy t’ come look at it, t’ make sure everythin’ was okay before I left,” he answered, then turned his eyes to the three boys who had accosted her. “But Mr. Buddy an’ his friends were helpin’ this lady pick up her groceries she dropped so she could go on home when I came out.” His eyes met hers for a moment and she understood—for some reason he would not accuse this boy of what he had done, not even with her there to confirm his words. She remained silent and returned his stare, not understanding, but also not willing to contradict him when he had helped her when no one else had even tried.
“Yeah, that’s what we were doing,” Buddy said, looking at the black man, then slowly bending to gather up the few cans and parcels on the sidewalk. The other two boys moved to retrieve those that had rolled into the street. He refilled the sack and handed it to her. “There you go, lady,” he said, holding onto the sack for a moment too long after she had taken it, his gray eyes boring into hers, causing a chill to move up her spine.
“Buddy, you go on in and look at the lavatory for Nathan. Make sure everything’s okay before he leaves,” the older man said, then waited on the top step until Buddy and his friends had gone through the door before he followed them inside.
Once the door had closed behind them, Elise brought her eyes to those of the man who had saved her. “Thank you,” she said, feeling the words horribly inadequate.
“You’re Janson Sanders’s wife, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
He smiled and nodded. “You tell him that Nathan Betts returned a kindness.”
Elise found herself smiling. “I will.”
“Now, you better go on, Miz Sanders, an’ you best be careful walkin’ past here again. Ladies got t’ watch when Buddy Eason an’ them two friends of his are about; most everybody else does, too.”
“I will, and, thank you again.”
It wasn’t until she had walked a street away that she got the shakes and had to stop for a moment and calm herself. Eason—Buddy Eason. The boy who had attacked her had been the same one who had stabbed Janson, leaving the scar that still marked his right shoulder—but there was even more she knew of Buddy Eason from her months of living in the mill village. The mill workers and their families rarely spoke of anyone in the Eason family, but, when they did, it was almost always about Buddy Eason. She had heard gossip, rumors, about his having beaten a boy almost to death, about another boy, not even a teenager yet, whose arm he had broken. She had been told about a daughter of a mill village family, a girl engaged to be married, whom he had raped, and another he had severely beaten when she would not give into his demands. There were whispers about a teacher he had struck when he had been no more than eight years old, and fires he had started both behind the Methodist church in the village and the school building up town, as well as in a trash barrel just outside the rear entrance to the police station.
She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing—Janson would not care about any of that. He would not care about anything but putting an end to Buddy Eason’s life once she told him what the man had done and suggested to her today. She could still remember the look on his face when he had at last reluctantly told her about the fight all those years before that had ended in his stabbing, and she knew there was a hatred already within Janson for Buddy Eason that went far beyond anything she had known him to feel toward anyone else. He would kill Buddy Eason for what he had done; there was no doubt. He would kill him, or at least try to, and would either end up in jail, or dead himself, before this day was over—and it would all be her fault. If only she had not gone into town today. If only she had crossed the street when she had seen the three boys. If only—
But there was nothing she could do about that now. If she did not tell him, then certainly Nathan Betts would, and Janson would go after Buddy Eason anyway.
She trudged the remainder of the way home, feeling wearier than ever before. Fear would not leave her, not only of what Janson would do, but of Buddy Eason himself. A man like that could be capable of doing anything, to anyone, here in Eason County. He was above the law, above justice, and he knew it. He would never have to pay for whatever it was he did—and Janson would not care about any of that. Not any of it.
She could not make herself enter the house when she reached it. She stood on the rear porch, one hand on the doorknob, having gone to the back of the house to keep from waking Janson where he slept in the front room that overlooked the street. He would be up within a few hours, and she would have to tell him then—and her mind raced, trying to think of words she could say, or anything she could do, that might lessen the impact of what Buddy Eason had done today. She knew that he would go after Buddy Eason the minute she told him. And then—
She turned and walked down off the porch and back along the side of the house toward the street, realizing a moment later that the sack was still in her hands, but not turning back to take the groceries into the house to put them away. She reached the street and turned in the direction of Dorrie’s house.
Dorrie Keith’s smile changed to a look of concern the moment she opened her front door and saw Elise standing there. “Elise, honey, are you okay, has somethin’—”
Elise shook her head, realizing how she must look with her hair disheveled from the shaking Buddy had given her. “I’m okay, just a little jittery—”
“You’re pale as a sheet, come on in an’ sit down,” Dorrie said, taking the sack from her hands and leading her into the house, then through and to the kitchen where Dorrie did most of her visiting. She made Elise sit down at the kitchen table, then went to chip ice from the block that cooled the icebox in the corner, bringing Elise a glass of ice water and not asking her what had happened until Elise had finished half of it.
Dorrie’s husband, Clarence, came in the rear door from his gardening long before Elise finished her story. He stood listening as he dried his hands on a towel, and then continued to stand leaning against the wall near the rear door, his arms crossed across his chest long after Elise had finished speaking. His eyes at last went to Dorrie and the two of them exchanged a look before he voiced what was already Elise’s worse fear. “Janson’s gonna try t’ kill him when you tell him,” he said quietly as she felt Dorrie’s hand come to rest on her own with a concerned pat.
“I can’t let him do that. It was all my fault. I should have crossed to the other side of the street when I saw them, or—”
“No,” Dorrie said with a shake of her head. “It weren’t your fault; it was Buddy Eason’s. Him an’ them friends of his are a bad sort, an’ Buddy’s th’ worse of th’ lot. Th’ world’d be better off without any ’a them three, though I’d ’a never thought Carl Miles would’a turned out like he has, ’cause his folks’re good people, but I guess runnin’ around with Buddy Eason’d do that t’ anybody—”
“But, I can’t let Janson—he’ll
