Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  A little way beyond it, he saw the group of pine-barren, poor-white girls who had attracted his attention before. They were already occupied, all of them except one, with several men much older than they. The one exception, a thin, colourless girl, whose pale blonde hair looked white in the glow of the risen moon, looked up at his approach, something like hope showing in her eyes. But Tom plunged on past, swearing under his breath, because the one he sought, the object of his pursuit, for whose sake he had planned and carried out this elaborate deception, was no longer there. He wanted to ask about her; but in the presence of these men, newly confessed and shriven sinners like himself, he did not dare. His mood was almost savage, driving him along towards home, the last place on earth he wanted to go. What it was that caused him to turn, to look back, he did not know; his trained ear, perhaps, which after years of existence as a fugitive had become so attuned that it registered the crackle of a twig broken by a footstep, the rustle of a leaf brushed aside in passing, the faintest whispered ghost of sound. But, regardless of what impulse moved him, the fact was that he did turn, and saw a little way behind him the pale girl coming like a wraith in the moonlight, going home by the same path he was walking, or perhaps even following him.

  He stopped, waited. She came on more slowly now; but she did not stop. When she was close, she looked at him a little fearfully, and whispered:

  “Howdy, Mister Benton.”

  “Howdy, honeybunch,” Tom grinned. “How come you know my name?”

  “Reckon everybody does, mostly,” she said; “leas’ways hereabouts. Mine’s Rachel—Rachel Radley.”

  “Mighty proud to make your acquaintance, Miss Radley,” Tom said. “ ‘Pears like we’re going the same way. Reckon I’ll walk along with you for a spell.”

  “Be glad if you do,” Rachel said. “I don’t like the dark much. Gives me a sort of creepy feeling.”

  Tom walked beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t hard to look at; but she didn’t interest him—she was too pale, too colourless—even the blue of her eyes a mere shade darker than the whites, her hair white blonde, her lashes and brows almost invisible against her skin. Freeze a man to death in bed, Tom thought. Then suddenly his original idea came to him.

  “ ‘Scuse me, Miss Radley,” he said politely; “but I want to ask you something. You remember, afore the meeting, there was another girl with you-all—a kind of a little black-haired girl—a mighty heap different from the rest of you.”

  “You mean Lolette Dupré?” Rachel said.

  “Could be—I don’t know her name. Just noticed her ‘cause she was so different, sort of . . .”

  “That would be Lolette, all right,” Rachel said. “She’s a friend of mine. She just come down out of curiosity, ‘cause she’s Catholic, like all them Cajun folk. Don’t tell me you’re stuck on her, Mister Benton!”

  “I’m a married man, remember,” Tom said sternly. “I ain’t stuck on no young girls. But she got me kind of curious. And now you’re getting me more curious. What would be wrong with being stuck on her, allowing, for argument’s sake, I was free?”

  “A right smart,” Rachel said. “In the first place, she’s educated. Her paw sent her down to N’Orleans to study. She talks so fine—like a book, sort of. She talks French and English the same proper way. What I mean is, even her French is mighty different from Cajun talk—even I can tell that. So it would take a real gentleman to please her. That’s one thing. Then she always stays home taking care of her paw and her baby sister, Babs—that’s short for Babette, ‘cause her maw is dead. And then there’s her paw . . .”

  “What about her paw?” Tom said.

  “That there Louis Dupré is a wild man,” Rachel said. “Everybody down on the bayou scairt of him. One time a boy name Pierre Tanquier got smart with Lolette—tried to drag her off into the woods. Louis heard her screaming and came a-flying. They fought with knives—you know how them Cajun folks love to cut. Took Pierre six months to git out of bed after that, and he’s twice Louis’ size. Only reason Louis didn’t kill him was because he didn’t really want to. If Pierre had of got away with what he was trying to do, Louis would have cut his liver out and ate it raw. But as it was, he shore messed him up proper.”

  “Sounds like a man to steer clear of, all right,” Tom said. “Where they live?”

  “Down near us. I turn off at the next fork, and after that if you follow the path almost to the bayou, you come to our house. A little farther on, you can see theirs. It’s out in the bayou, standing up on stilts over the water.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss Radley,” Tom said. “I got a kind of hankering to meet this Louis Dupré.”

  “Well, now you know where he lives,” Rachel said. “This is where I turn off. And, Mister Benton . . .”

  “Yes, Rachel?”

  “Maybe you got a chance after all. ‘Cause Lolette been coming down to that meeting for a week now—every single night. And every time she sure Lord looked at you mighty hard.”

  “Thank you,” Tom laughed. “If I can ever do you a favour, honeybunch, just you let me know.”

  She stood there a moment. Then she grinned impishly.

  “Ain’t but one thing you could do for me, Mister Benton,” she said; “and that ain’t very likely—now.”

  “And what might that be, Miss Rachel?”

  “If Lolette turns you down,” she laughed, “you can rally round my way—now that you know where I live!” Then she was gone in a rustle of petticoats, down the little path.

  Well, I’ll be damned, Tom thought happily; I’ll be double damned!

  Being what he was, a man little given to contemplation when action was necessary, Tom Benton went the very next evening out to the Dupré place. And once more the thing that he depended upon far more than most men, luck, chance, the fickle goddess, to him at least so constant that it had never occurred to him to question her fidelity, was with him. On the trail leading down to the bayou he passed a small man, so wiry and panther-like, wraith-thin, that he guessed at once who it was. And when he greeted the man, and saw his eyes, light brown with a light behind them like live coals burning, he was sure. Her paw, he mused; I’m in luck again.

  He stood on the edge of the bayou and gazed out at the house. But the problem of getting out to it had already been solved for him. Louis Dupré, in coming ashore, had tied his pirogue up at the bayou’s edge, so all Tom had to do was to appropriate it, a thing any man who knew Louis would have thought about twice before doing. But Tom did not know Louis Dupré, and with his bland and overwhelming self-confidence he would not have cared if he had. He poled awkwardly out to the house, perched on its pilings above the bayou, and tied the boat up next to the ladder.

  He climbed up, knocked at the door. It flew open, and the girl stood there, holding her tiny sister by the hand.

  “Oh!” she said; “it’s you.”

  “Yep,” Tom said. “Didn’t you expect me?”

  “No,” she said quietly, “I didn’t. Any reason why I should have?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said; “but the other night, at the meeting, I saw you. And I got a mighty powerful hankering to see some more of you. When I get a hankering, I don’t just let it lie—I do something about it.”

  “I see,” Lolette said.

  “Ain’t you gonna ask me in?”

  “No,” Lolette said.

  “Why not?” Tom demanded.

  “For one thing, Papa wouldn’t like it. For another, I’m not sure I would either.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom said helplessly. “Would you mind telling me why?”

  “I’d rather not. I’m afraid you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “Why don’t you try and see?” Tom said.

  “All right. But remember, you asked me. You’ve got an awful bad reputation hereabouts, Mister Benton—”

  “So you do know my name.”

  “Of course; everybody does. I went down to that silly circus you folks cal
l a religious meeting—out of curiosity. It was amusing—it’s always funny to see people making fools of themselves—and rather pitiful, too. Then you came with—with your wife. She’s sweet. I felt so sorry for her.”

  “Well, I’ll be—“

  “I’d heard a lot about you,” the girl said quickly, “so I was curious. I thought that you’d be different, handsomer, maybe. The first time I saw you, I thought you were downright ugly.”

  “But now you don’t?”

  “Now—I—I don’t know. You’re interesting. I guess you’re just about the most interesting man I ever did see.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Tom grinned.

  “You’d better hear me out. You’re interesting all right, but in all the wrong ways. First oh, I couldn’t see what that poor, sweet girl saw in you. You’re big and strapping and fine, but so are a lot of other men. Then I saw. If a woman has an ounce of wickedness in her, you’d appeal to that. You’d bring it out, build it up until you made her all wicked—or finished her. First human face I’ve ever seen with no goodness in it—no goodness at all.”

  “But I’m converted now, remember,” Tom said.

  “Don’t know why you did that,” Lolette said quietly; “but I knew sure as I’m standing here that that was faked. You had an axe to grind. All right, you asked me, and I told you. So now you’d better go.”

  Tom stared at her shrewdly.

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said. “You came back seven nights in a row, and each night you watched me—now, didn’t you?”

  Lolette stared down at her feet. Then she raised her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said, “I did.”

  “Why?” Tom said.

  “That, Mister Benton, is one thing you aren’t ever going to find out. Good-bye.”

  “Reckon I am a-gonna find out,” Tom said slowly. “Could be you got a mite of that wickedness you been talking about, yourself. You’re a proud little filly and no mistake; but even the proudest can be gentled.”

  “I said good-bye,” Lolette whispered.

  “I know,” Tom said, “I heard you.” Then he bent down and kissed her—a long, slow, searching kiss, until, in the end, in spite of all her efforts, he had his answer.

  When he released her finally, her eyes were the eyes of a trapped animal, a small and gentle wild creature gazing up at its captor, not asking anything, neither mercy nor death, just waiting, like that, in the purest agony of terror. Then that lessened, changed, became something else, a thing that another, a more sensitive, man would have found insupportable: a shame absolutely naked and pitiful and complete.

  But Tom Benton, seeing it, threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  “Dang-blast my wicked soul!” he roared. “I was right! Now I know!”

  At the bass-boom of his laughter, the child started to cry—a high, thin, wailing sound. Lolette tightened her grip on her sister’s hand.

  “Please go,” she whispered; “you’re scaring Babs.”

  “Sorry,” Tom chuckled; “but I am right, ain’t I?”

  The slow tears gathered behind the girl’s lashes, hung there, spilled over.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. But it’s not a thing I’m proud of, Mister Benton. And it’s not going to do you any good.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Tom said, and started forward again.

  She put her free hand up against his chest.

  “Wait,” she said. “If you do that again, I’ll tell Papa. And he’ll kill you. There isn’t a man alive he couldn’t kill. You’ve got your wife to think about—and your child’s coming.”

  “I got you to think about now,” Tom growled.

  “No,” she said, “you’d better forget about me. I can never be anything to you.”

  “Don’t you,” Tom said gravely, “want to be?”

  She studied his face.

  “Yes,” she said honestly, “I suppose I do. It’s like my mother told me before she died. She said I was like her—that there’d be only one man in all the world for me—that when I saw him, I’d know. She was right—as far as she went. I saw you—and I knew. Only she didn’t tell me all of it—I don’t suppose she could. How was she to know that the one man in the world for me would be a bad, wicked scoundrel, already married, and his wife great with child?”

  “When am I going to see you?” Tom said.

  “You aren’t. Not ever.”

  “You’re wrong. Tell me one thing, Lolette. You love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The word was so low he had to bend forward to hear it.

  “Then you don’t want me dead. And if you don’t meet me somewheres, I’ll come here—paw or no paw. You want that?”

  Lolette shuddered. The child went on whimpering.

  “No,” she whispered, “I don’t want that.”

  “Then when—and where?”

  “I’ll send you word. You know anybody I know?”

  “Rachel,” Tom said. “Can you trust her?”

  “Oh yes. Only trouble is she’s crazy about you herself. That’s how I found out about you. She’d seen you down in town and—”

  “Sure you can trust her?” Tom growled.

  “Yes. She’d do anything for me.”

  “Then send me word tomorrow. Not at my place. I’ll be in town about four o’clock. Tell her to kind of bump into me in the street.” He grinned at her. “Don’t look so scairt,” he said quietly, “I ain’t a-going to hurt you. I ain’t nothing to be scairt of. You know why, baby-doll? Because I’m too blamed proud to be troublesome the way you’re thinking. I ain’t never forced a woman—never in my life. Never had to. And I don’t aim to begin now.”

  He kissed her again with the expertness of long practice.

  “ ‘Bye now,” he said.

  She didn’t move. She stood there watching him as he went down the ladder into the pirogue. When he reached the bank and went ashore, she was watching him still, her eyes great and dark and troubled.

  Sarah caught a cold from the baptism and had to stay abed for two weeks. The women came in droves and took care of her. But Tom’s barn-raising was delayed by the fact that he did not dare ask for help so soon after his conversion, as well as by his twice-weekly meetings with Lolette Dupré, in a remote spot on the river. She had come to accept these meetings, in fact to look forward to them, especially since Tom scrupulously kept his word about not making her do anything she did not want to. That he did so, that the promise given so lightly had somehow become binding, surprised him much more than it did her. He had had no intention of abiding by his pledge, but now he found it impossible to break.

  The reason, had he been capable of self-exploration, would have astonished him—it was, actually, that Lolette was wrong: Tom Benton had, like all men living, a streak of decency about him, suppressed since his childhood, a tiny, almost extinguished spark of tenderness. And this, Lolette, with her shy, gentle ways, could reach. With all his cruelty, the timid Acadian girl could manage him; she moved him, touched long-unused chords of feeling he had forgotten he had; weaker than Sarah, she controlled him better, her yielding, her softness, were barriers against which no weapons of his spirit availed him.

  So he worked hard, aided by Jonas, driven by a balked, savage misery of mood, upon the walls of his barn, building them flat on the ground, hoping by the time they had them done the men would help them raise them into place.

  But time was running out on him. He had to get his barn up. He was so baffled by the problem that he was driven to do a thing almost unthinkable for him: he discussed the problem with his wife. And Sarah, with her instinctive practicality of mind, came up almost at once with a solution.

  “Why don’t you kind of pull them up with ropes?” she said calmly. “You got Jonas and the animals to help you. My paw used to raise heavy things that way. You know: you peel the bark off a log, and wrap the rope around it and—”

  “Dang-blast my stupid hide!” Tom said. “Knowed there was some reason I married
you, Sary-gal! Damned if you ain’t got brains in that head of yourn.” Then he kissed her, hard, and ran out of the house, roaring for Jonas. They spent the rest of the day making the winch, and working it into place.

  But the next day, when he tried the experiment of raising his barn with the use of beasts instead of men, it proved to be harder than he had thought. Part of the trouble was the weather: the day was overcast, too still, and hot with a humid, sticky heat. Tom looked over to where old Jonas sat on the mule, and frowned. He pushed back his hat and mopped his forehead with a bandanna; then he mopped his chest and belly too, sweat-soaked from the sickening, oppressive heat. The clouds hung low, so that the tops of the oaks were shrouded in mist; but it was hot just the same—that bad, wet heat that didn’t dry off a man’s sweat, and left him feeling poison-mean and miserable.

  He gazed at his crude winch, made of peeled log, with stout rope wound around it, and hitched from there to his horse and the mule that Jonas rode. Behind them, on the ground, lay the four huge walls of timber, with window openings framed, and a place for the doors. It was the only way he knew how to build a barn. In the back country people often built them that way, the walls lying on the ground, waiting for the willing hands of friends and neighbours to push them into place. A barn-raising was something folks looked forward to—what with good liquor flowing, and the womenfolks on hand with corn pone hot enough to burn a man’s fingers, and sweet potato pies and candied yams and collard greens and any kind of game the men had been able to bring down. Back-country folks didn’t mind helping. Out here a man needed help, and a body never knew when he’d have to call for it in his turn. So a man went and worked all day and half the night helping a neighbour get his barn up, and drank his home-made mash, and danced to the fiddler’s tune afterwards, and sparked all the girls.

  But Tom didn’t dare risk calling on them—not yet.

  “All right, Jonas,” he said, “let’s git started.”

  The two animals moved forward, straining. The ropes tightened, creaked. The lower ends of the wall jammed hard against the stakes he had driven into the earth. The wall began to tilt, slanting up into the ominous grey of the sky.