a place. He could hear a radio playing from one of the rooms at the front of the house, jazz music from an orchestra, finally interrupted by an announcer’s voice, and, as he listened, he marveled again that he was hearing something from someplace far off, maybe even something from as far off as cities or even states away. After a moment, a young man of about his own age walked out the doorway to the right of the hall, stopped and stared at them for a moment, then walked toward where they stood near the center of the hallway.
Alfred Whitley looked at them for a long moment, his blue eyes moving from Titus, to Janson, and then back again, and Janson knew without having to be told who he was—the red hair and the fancy clothes left little doubt in his mind. “Titus, what are you doing here?” Alfred Whitley asked, his eyes settling on the older man.
“I come t’ see ’bout findin’ work for this young man here with Mist’ William—Mist’ Alfred, this’s Janson Sanders: Janson, boy, this here’s Mist’ Alfred Whitley—”
Janson nodded his head, but the young man only stared at him in response. “Well, you’ve chosen a bad time. You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” the boy said, his voice taking on an authoritative tone as his eyes moved back to Titus. “My father is busy, and I just don’t—”
“Turn that confounded radio down like I told you to an hour ago!” A tall, stoutly-built man in his sixties stood now in the open doorway to the library, Mattie Ruth just behind him. His mouth was set in an aggravated line, a disapproving look on his face—a look Janson sensed was often there. Mr. William Whitley looked from his son, to Janson, and then to Titus, making a point of taking his watch from his vest pocket and checking the time, as if to tell them all there were much more important things he should be doing. Alfred stared at his father for a moment, then, with a clear look of anger on his face, he retreated to the parlor without another word. After a moment the music from the radio died away.
“Titus, man, what in the name of God do you want at this time of night?” William Whitley demanded, clear annoyance in his voice and manner as he replaced the watch in his vest pocket and stared at the two men before him, an unlit cigar held securely between the index and middle fingers of one hand. “Well, speak up man!”
“Mist’ Whitley, this here’s Janson Sanders. He’s needin’ work, an’ I was wonderin’ if you might be needin’ a extra hand ’bout now?”
Whitley stared at him for a moment longer, then turned his gaze on Janson, placing the unlit cigar in his mouth and clenching it firmly between his teeth. Janson felt as if he were being summed up with that look, assessed, and he did not like it—damn rich folks, he told himself, returning the stare.
After a moment, Whitley turned and walked through the door and back into the library, speaking back over his shoulder. “Make it quick, boy. I’ve got work to do—”
Janson waited for a moment, and then followed Titus into the library. He only hoped to hell he was not making the worst mistake of his life.
William Whitley sat down at the cluttered rolltop desk in one corner of the library, shifting papers and a ledger that sat on the desktop before him, then turning back to the two men who stood near by—they would not be seated unless he told them to, and he would not tell them. He looked instead at the tall young man who stood at Titus Coates’ side, impressed somewhat by what he saw. The boy was lean, but seemed powerfully built, without even a spare ounce of flesh on him. He looked as if he were accustomed to hard work, from the calloused hands, to the faded and patched overalls, to the thin but muscular frame that showed from beneath the old and tattered coat—but he met William’s eyes with a directness that was unsettling.
William stared at him, his stare being met in return from pale green eyes that seemed oddly out of place in the dark face. He chewed down on his cigar, sensing a spirit of pride and dignity in the boy that he did not like—proud, independent men had a tendency to be trouble, and trouble was something that William would have none of.
He looked at Titus, deliberately speaking to him as if the younger man were not even in the room. “He sure is dark,” he remarked, glancing again at the boy. “Looks like a Gypsy. I don’t hire Gypsies—”
“I’m half Cherokee,” the boy responded, just as if he had been addressed. “My ma was Indian, my pa white—I ain’t no Gypsy.” Then he fell silent again, continuing to meet William’s gaze through the strange green eyes.
The boy doesn’t know his place—William thought, staring at him. “Are you trying to get smart with me, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“And you better not, boy.” William continued to stare at him, unsure as to how to deal with someone such as this. Pride had no place in such a person. There was no reason for pride in faded overalls, sunburned skin, and calloused hands, no reason for pride in poverty—only in money and power and family name was there any reason for pride. This man had none of that, and yet there was as much pride in him as in the wealthiest men in Endicott County, of which William knew himself to be one—he owned more land, more property, worked more sharecroppers, produced more cotton; the Whitleys had been in Endicott County for generations, had carved this place out of the virgin forests, had held onto it through war and Yankees and carpetbaggers. The Whitley name meant something in this and the surrounding counties, and few men possessed such power, such prestige, as did William Whitley—Hiram Cooper did, perhaps Ethan Bennett, but few others.
William stared at the young man before him. “You’re not from anywhere around here. I know everybody in this County.”
“I’m from Alabama, Eason County—”
“That’s a long way off—you in some kind of trouble, boy? Running from the law or something?” He peered closely at the boy; it paid to be careful.
“I ain’t in no trouble. I just moved on.”
“You’re just passing through, then?”
“I aim t’ stay, if I can find work.”
“Do you have a family? A wife to help you crop, children you can put to work in the next couple of years—I expect my sharecroppers to have their children in the fields soon as they’re old enough, boy, and I expect a good return for my half of the crop every year.”
“I ain’t married, but I been farmin’ all my life. I can do most any kind ’a work around here that needs doin’.”
William leaned back in his chair, considering. He could make use of the boy. It seemed as if he were strong and healthy and accustomed to hard work, and, as William questioned him further, he found him to be knowledgeable about cotton farming and the chores that had to be done about a place—but that air of pride bothered him.
William stared at him, making a decision. He had run a man off only a few days before, having caught him stealing, and had also had to deal rather strongly with several others. He needed a good man right now, a dependable farmhand; there were two new fields to clear, land to break up for cotton planting in a few months—and this boy could be handled, William told himself. There was not a man alive that could not be handled.
“Boy, I don’t take no back talk and no trouble out of nobody—you get that through your head right now. I pay my hands good wages, and I expect good work out of them in return. You do what you’re told to do, and you do it with no sass; and you remember your place and show respect where it’s due—you got that, boy?” he asked, watching the man closely.
“Yes, sir, I got it—”
“All
