Destiny (110 page)

"My heart . . ."he said at last as the color returned to his mouth. "It's my heart. I told you. I have angina. If I'm upset, I get an attack. I have to be careful—the doctor told me."

Helene watched him as he struggled to regain his breath. The confidence, and the anger, had left his face. Looking at his small dark eyes, she could see that he was afraid. She wondered then, coldly, whether his fear was of her, or of dying. Both perhaps. All she wanted then was for it to be over. She waited until the spasm passed, and he grew calmer, then she picked up the manila envelope.

"I came here today to give you this. It's the notice of foreclosure. It became operative as of noon, yesterday. That means—"

"I know what it goddamn well means." His voice rose again. "I know what it means—and I won't accept it. You can take it away. You can tear it up. You can do anything you like. I'm going to talk to my lawyer right now. I'm not beaten yet. I'll fight you on this. You can't come in here and try and walk all over me."

"There's no point in talking to your lawyer. You know that. And it makes no difference whether you accept this or not."

"I'll fight you, I tell you." He struggled forward in his seat. "I'll fight you every goddamn inch of the way. . . ."

"You can't. It's over."

She stopped, and waited for the surge of triumph. None came.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Comprehension suddenly came into his eyes. "You set me up. You want to tell me why? You want to tell me why any sane person would deliberately set out to do this? Destroy me. Destroy this place—everything I've ever worked for. Years of history. Years of tradition." He paused, and made an effort to control himself. "Don't tell me you did it because of your mother, because I'm telling you, Helene—I swear it to you, in God's name—if she said those things, it was a lie. Look, listen to me, will you. ..."

Helene stood up. His tone was half bullying, half pleading. She did not want to listen anymore.

"Yes. I planned it. I set out to do it, and it's finished. That's all. There's

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no point in lying, because it's done." There was a flat finality in her voice, and he obviously sensed it, because he changed tack.

"You're making one helluva mistake—you know that? Perhaps they didn't explain that to you too well—your advisors. Maybe you didn't stop to count the cost when you did all this. You serve that notice, and you know what you'll end up with? Land you can't sell. A house no one wants to buy. Maybe you ought to think a little about that."

"About money?" She turned her head. "Oh, I've thought about that. And, as it happens, you're wrong. I can sell this land. I'll get a very good price for it too."

"Oh, yes? You think I didn't go into all that? You don't have a hope in hell. So ..." He paused, and leaned forward.

"Why not try and be reasonable about this? It's a straightforward business matter, after all. If you'll just listen to me a moment, if we talk this through. Helene—"

"Next year ..." She interrupted him. She sat down again. "Next year a new factory will open up this side of Orangeburg. You don't know about it yet, but I do. It's a fertilizer plant, and the planning approval for it just went through. It will employ a lot of people—two hundred, maybe more. That will mean new housing, and this plantation is the perfect site for it. When local development companies hear about that—Merv Peters's company, for instance—I think I'll have a buyer for this land, at a good price." She leaned back in her chair. "You see, my advisors are very thorough. They made a number of discreet inquiries at state government level. I was able to help a little, of course. There's a man—his name is Dale Garrett— he used to be on Governor Wallace's staff, so you may know him. They found him particularly informative about rezoning plans. And then there's ..."

He had been listening intently. Something, quite suddenly, convinced him of what she said—the mention of Dale Garrett's name perhaps. His face flushed with anger, and his control went.

"Money. You goddamn bitch. You did this for money." He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. "I might have known it. You saw a chance to make a quick buck, that's why you did this. No other reason. Nothing to do with your dumb bitch of a mother. Money ..."

"I'm not keeping the money I make from the sale." Her voice was quiet, and that seemed to enrage him further.

"Oh, you're not? I'll believe that when I see it happen. You wouldn't give a goddamn thing away, I can see that just looking at you. You always wanted money, and you'll want more. Oh, you've dragged yourself up out of the dirt, you come in here with a fortune on your back—you probably

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earned it on your back. But I can still see what you are. What you always were ..."

"The bulk of the money will be given in the form of a bequest to the NAACP." She cut across his words. "For the furtherance of civil rights. Considering the history of this plantation, that seemed the right thing to do. The balance of the money, also in the form of a bequest—"

"A bequest? That sounds mighty grand, coming from a piece of white trash like you ..."

"The balance will be used to endow a private scholarship. It will provide the college tuition for a student from this county—black or white." She paused. "It will be a form of memorial to someone I very much admired. It will be called the William Tanner Memorial Scholarship. I think Billy would have liked that."

There; it was said. It was all said. Her hands were shaking a little, and she clasped them together in her lap. There was absolute silence, and for a moment the room blurred before her eyes. She saw only the slanting rays of light, and the motes of dust, dancing. She could go now, she thought with relief. Everything had been perfectly planned, and perfectly executed, and she felt no desire to gloat. All she wanted to do now was leave, while her mind was still clear and cool, and before she had a chance to feel either anger or, worse, pity. She reached for her gloves. Across the room from her, Ned Calvert leaned back in his chair.

"The William Tanner Memorial Scholarship, well, well, well . . ."He spoke into the silence, his voice full of amusement. Then he gave a low chuckle. He levered himself to his feet, and stood looking down at her. When Helene looked up at him, she saw he was smiling. "That has a mighty fine sound, Helene. A mighty fine sound." He turned away, crossed the room, picked up the bourbon bottle. "I'll drink to that. I surely will."

He poured a large measure into his glass, swallowed deeply, and took his time returning to his seat. Helene could sense his returning confidence, his new composure; she felt a tiny stabbing of unease.

"The William Tanner Memorial Scholarship." He rolled the words around his tongue, shaking his head. "In memory of someone you very much admired. That's neat. I have to say that. Real neat. You had it all worked out." He paused. "Of course—'very much admired'—that's kind of a weak way of putting it, don't you think? I'd have said it went a bit further than that, wouldn't you? I mean, sure, Billy Tanner was a dumb boy, none too bright. But you never could see that, could you? Not even that time I warned you about him. ..."

"I didn't come here to discuss Billy with you. ..." She reached quickly for her purse. "I came here to give you information. There's nothing to discuss."

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"Oh, now, hold on there, honey. I think there's plenty to discuss." He smiled lazily. "I'm beginning to get the picture now. You had me kind of confused back there, talking about your mother and all. But now it's starting to add up. I see now. It wasn't on account of your mother you did this. It was Billy Tanner. Good ol' dumb Billy Tanner. The high-school sweetheart. The boy you loved . . ."

"I'm going." Color flared in Helene's face. She stood up.

"Now, just you wait a minute, honey. I want to get this straight. I mean, you did love him—or am I wrong? The way I figured it, you must have loved him, going down to the pool with him the way you did, taking off all your clothes, lying down beside him, leading the poor boy on . . ."

Helene had started to turn away. Now she stopped. Slowly she turned around and looked at him. He was smiling broadly.

"Well, I watched you, honey—you didn't know that? I saw it all. It was kind of touching in a way. The two of you. Both so young, naked as the day you were bom, lying there under the cottonwood trees. It looked real pretty. I watched you, honey, and I said to myself, now, if that isn't the nearest thing to Adam and Eve in paradise, then I don't know what is. . . ."

"You're obscene—do you know that? I'm not going to listen to this. . . ."

"Oh, you should listen, honey." He leaned forward and fixed her with his gaze. The smile had disappeared, and his face was now hard and intent. "You listen now, and you listen well. I don't take too kindly to the way you come in here and tell me I'm lying, when all the time you're lying through your pretty little white teeth. Don't you try and pretend to me about Billy Tanner, make out you were just friends, and no more. Because I know that's not true. You're planning on funding that scholarship, then you're doing it out oi guilt. Let's get that straight. Don't tell me you didn't figure it out, honey, a real smart girl like you. You must have known. After all, Billy Tanner died because of you."

There was sudden quiet in the room. Helene stared at him, and for a moment, she thought she must have misheard, misunderstood. He was smiling again now, smiling broadly, and it was then, when she heard the new confidence in his voice, and when she saw him smile, that the past five years fell away; the scorn and the loathing of this man, and all he stood for, returned. She rounded on him, her voice cold with contempt.

"All right—you want to talk about it, we'll talk about it. And we won't lie. I know why Billy died, and so does everyone in Orangeburg. Billy was killed to stop him giving evidence about the riot. Evidence that would have incriminated a white man. I know that, and you know that. Things like that happen here. They happen all the time, they're still happening now.

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How long does it have to go on? How many more people have to die— because of people like you? Protecting yourselves—protecting your interests—protecting all this." She gestured angrily toward the window, and to the cottonfields beyond. Her breath caught, and she steadied herself. "I know who killed Billy, and why. It was either you, or one of the men with you in your car that day. And whoever it was who pulled the trigger, you were all responsible. Every one of you."

"Oh, I killed Tanner." The smile had gone, and his voice was very quiet. "I took my shotgun, and I blew him away. But not because of any evidence he might give. You think I gave a goddamn about that? You think anyone did? That evidence of his would have been thrown right out of court. Every white man in Orangeburg would've gone up on the stand and sworn bhnd it wasn't the way he said. Oh, no, honey. I killed Tanner, so I know. And I killed him on account of you."

"You're lying." Her voice choked in her throat. "You're filthy. How can you lie about something like that?"

"Well, now, honey, maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. I guess you'll never be able to know for sure. Either way." He leaned back in his chair; he crossed his legs easily; he began, once more, to smile.

"You see, honey, the trouble with you is, you want everything to be simple, right and wrong, black and white. That's not the way it is. You just think about what I'm telling you now, and you'll see. It makes sense. I was wild about you, Helene—you remember that? You just pause a while. You think now. You remember—not the way you want it to be, but the way it was. You liked me to touch you. You liked to see me get all worked up. I'm not blaming you, lots of women get a kick out of that—leading a man on, winding him up, so he's real jealous, so he's gotten so heated up he hardly knows what he's doing anymore. I tell you, when I went down through those trees, and I saw my lovely httle girl giving it away to that dumb boy, all the things she wouldn't give away to me—well, I guess something just snapped in me, honey. My control just went. Couldn't bear to see a decent white girl giving it away to a nigger-lover like that. ..."

He paused, watching her closely, and when she could not hide the doubt and the sudden fear in her face, his smile grew wider.

"Mind you, I stayed there a while. Stayed till you both left. Stayed long enough to see it didn't quite go the way you wanted it to go. Saw Billy-boy couldn't make it. Saw you find out for yourself that Billy wasn't quite the man you took him to be. Saw him storm the gates, so to speak—I don't want to be indelicate now, not with a fine lady like you—and then saw him weep when he didn't have the manpower to go on. Wept in your arms, like a httle baby. I saw that, honey—I'm not upsetting you now? Then he got

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himself dressed, and you got yourself dressed, and I came back here, and I found me my gun."

Helene stood very still. Her skin felt as cold as ice. He had stopped. That horrible suggestive voice had stopped, and the room was quiet. For a moment, she did not see Ned Calvert at all. She felt the coldness of the water on her skin, then the warmth of the air, drying it. She felt the smooth dry ground beneath her body, and Billy's weight as he held her in his arms. She saw the anxiousness in his blue gaze, and—high over his head—in the gaps between the branches of the cottonwoods, the blue of the sky. The right moment. The right thing.

"I dreamed of it too long, maybe," Billy said.

She touched his hair, which was still wet and spiky from the water.

"Don't cry, Billy," she said. "Please don't. It doesn't change anything. Next time ..."

A bird moved in the branches. No next time, ever.

She heard herself draw in her breath; her hands moved in a shocked incoherent movement, pressing themselves against her ears, as if she could block out his words, but she knew she could not. There the past was, and Ned Calvert was right: she had lied, though not in the way he thought.

"I wanted it to be different.'''' She swung around to him, her voice shaking with emotion. She heard it rise, so that it sounded higher, and childish suddenly, with the simphcity of a child, and the passion of a child. "You won't understand it, it won't matter to you—but that was what I wanted. I wanted one thing—just one thing—to be simple and good and right. That's why I went to the pool with Billy that day. Not because I loved him—I didn't love him, and he knew that. Because I cared for him, because he cared for me. Because I wanted to give him something—something that was pure and good, not all twisted up with lies and hatred like everything else in this place. And afterward—when he was dead—I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to think that the very last thing for him, the last thing before he died, that it went wrong ..."