or Eason County, or even Alabama itself, hands that he was proud of, as he was proud of anything that was his own.
Walter sat looking at his hands as his son, sitting at the far side of the desk in a leather-covered armchair, delivered news that Walter did not want to hear. He listened, until long after the younger man had finished talking, but still did not say a word. He heard the shifting of his son’s abundant weight in the other chair, the creak of the upholstery, the clearing of a throat, a waiting and then silence, then he lifted his gray eyes and considered the man opposite him.
His only grandson, Walt’s only son and Walter’s hope for the future of his family and of his county, was causing difficulties again—but Buddy had been causing difficulties almost from his birth. Only the family name had kept him out of trouble with the law on several occasions in his eighteen years, but even the Eason name could not go on protecting him forever. He had to grow up someday if he were ever to assume the responsibility that would one day come to him.
After a long moment, Walter spoke. “Will the other boy recover?”
“Dr. Thrasher said that he would, though Buddy would have killed him if someone hadn’t pulled him off of the boy first.”
Walter nodded his head, considering. “Over a girl, you say—one of Buddy’s girlfriends?”
“No, the other boy’s—Buddy was, well—”
“And the boy’s parents?” Walter asked. He knew very well what his grandson was like; he did not have to be told, and he wanted none of the sordid details.
“The boy’s father is keeping his mouth shut.”
“Donner’s a good worker,” Walter said, nodding. It was his highest praise.
“But, Donner’s wife—” He did not continue, and did not have to. Walter expected nothing less than complete loyalty out of a millhand, no matter the circumstances.
“When the shift’s over, give Donner and his wife both their notice. I want them out of their mill house by day-end tomorrow—and make sure his wife keeps her mouth shut.”
The last words were said with a feeling that Walter showed only on such occasions. He could not allow such talk in the mill or the village. Complaint bred nothing but discontent—the more people talked, the unhappier they were; the unhappier they were, the more they wanted, and there could be nothing more a mill villager could want than what Walter Eason provided for them. They were poor; they worked long hours in the mill, and lived out their lives in mill houses he owned. They married other mill villagers, and had children just like themselves, too ill-equipped to make more of themselves than what they came into life with, for it was not within Walter to believe that anyone would be poor in the first place if he had any drive or ambition within him. All they could do was complain and cause trouble if they were given the chance, gaining for themselves freedoms they were never equipped to handle. They should be content in their neat homes along their clean streets, content with their steady wages, and the food on their tables, content that their children would come into the mill just as they had—he guaranteed them work; he guaranteed them shelter; he guaranteed them existence. What more could any of them need?
A discreet tap came at the door, and Walter looked up to see the secretary enter. “Yes, Grace?” Walt asked, an annoyance evident in his voice that brought his father’s eyes to him. Walter had stressed to both his sons never to show emotion, anger or annoyance, before any other human being. To do so only made one appear weak, and Walter Eason would have no member of his family appear weak before anyone.
“I didn’t mean to bother you, Mr. Eason, but there’s a young man here, and I knew there was an opening in the card room—”
“Well, send him on to the overseer, and don’t bother me with hiring. What do you think I pay you for?”
Walter gritted his teeth, wanting in that moment to reach across the wide expanse of the desktop and grab his son by the shirt front. When he had reached the age of sixty-five, he had given Walt a form of authority over the cotton mill, but, in the more than five years since, he had not been able to bring himself to divest complete responsibility for the enterprise, still maintaining his office in the mill just as he always had. It was times such as this when Walter could see the wisdom in not having turned the complete control of the mill over to his son. Walt lacked the temperament to manage a business as vast and involved as the cotton mill, village, and the related enterprises.
“But, the young man, he asked to see you, Mr. Walter, personally, and I thought you would want to see him—it’s Henry Sanders’s boy, Janson.”
Walter brought his eyes back to Grace quickly. “Janson Sanders is here, looking for work?”
“Yes, sir.” There was relief evident on the woman’s face that it had been Walter who had addressed her this time.
“We had enough trouble out of that boy’s father,” Walt began. “We don’t need the son now bringing the roof down on our heads. Tell him—”
“Send him in,” Walter said, and the woman moved immediately to obey his words, even as Walt, with his paper title, blustered in opposition.
“You know what trouble Henry Sanders was, selling his cotton out of the county, thinking he could do whatever he damned well pleased, when every other farmer in this county stayed in line and sold their crop here. He was so damn proud, and so damn stubborn, that if he hadn’t died when he did he might have started others following him—and that boy of his was even worse. I tell you, I won’t have him in this—”
Walter stared him into silence, seeing the anger in his son’s face at having his orders countermanded. It had been a long time since Walter had struck his son, but at that moment he wanted to—he wanted to thrash him as he had done so many times when he had been a small boy showing his bluster in disrespect.
The door opened again and the secretary entered, followed by Janson Sanders. Walter turned his attention from the angry man who sat across the desk from him, to the angry one who stood now near the doorway. The boy looked older, much older, in fact, than the passage of a year should have allowed him, and, for having all the coloring and features of his dark, Cherokee mother, he reminded Walter in that moment of no one so much as the tall, reddish-brown-haired man who had made such a problem of himself those years before. Henry Sanders had concerned him as few other men ever had. There had been something in the man that could not be controlled, something that could not be broken—and that something showed in the eyes of the young man who stood before Walter now.
Janson Sanders held his head high. He looked at Walter, at Walt, then back to the older man, meeting his gaze with a pride in his eyes that showed a sense of self even beyond what had been in Henry Sanders. The boy nodded his head and addressed Walter directly, the green eyes, so odd in the dark face, never leaving his own.
“You told me once there was a place in th’ mill for me if I wanted it.” The boy met his gaze levelly, that indomitable pride in his eyes, as if demanding respect by his very bearing as few men ever could.
Walter looked at him, at the straight, black hair, the high cheekbones, the odd green eyes, at the worn coat and dungarees, and at the scuffed work shoes, remembering that day, more than a year before, when he had made the offer. He had gone to the Sanders farm after he had received word at last that the land was being foreclosed on. He had gone to offer the boy a job, and a decent house in the village. The boy had lost both his parents, and now he had lost his home as well; Walter had assumed that he was beaten, finished in life even as Henry Sanders had never been finished even
