Cruel Harvest (18 page)

I grew in the safe and loving arms of the Connie Maxwell Children's Home for about half a year. I loved school as I always did, and I also embraced every part of life at the home. Mrs. McDonald taught me with patience and care. I found a new family in my many sisters, and we were treated as equals.

Each morning my housemates and I walked to the school building a few blocks from Eason House, the home we lived in. We filed into the classroom along with both girls and boys our age. Everyone, including the teacher, stood up and we all held our hands over our hearts and faced the American flag. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance and then the Lord's Prayer. We were taught to pray before we ate lunch at school. I thrived during the short time I lived at this home. If I had not spent time at Connie Maxwell, I would never have learned the simple things in life that people take for granted, such as making a bed, sweeping a floor, or brushing my hair and teeth properly. I didn't realize it at the time, but my time spent with Mrs. McDonald would be my only opportunity to learn them. I certainly wouldn't have learned had I not been there.

The school on the grounds was in perfect order. Our teacher, who was kind with a colorful sense of humor, taught us from behind her large desk or at the huge chalkboard behind it. We sat in our little desks, and occasionally I would look out the window at the lightly swaying branches of the surrounding oaks.

As the weather got warmer, school let out and the swimming pool opened. We had structured visits there twice a week. The girls and boys of my age would go at the same time. The pool was large, surrounded by cement decking. There were two small buildings: one a changing room for the girls and the other for the boys. A play area sat in the grass beside the decking. One day I was sitting there with some girls from my house when a small boy came over to us. He handed me a note and a stubby, chewed-up pencil.

“This is from Mark.”

Mark
, I thought. I looked across the pool and saw him on the other side. He was tall and skinny with dark hair, and he sat in a group with his friends. He looked away, and his friends laughed. I unfolded the paper. The message inside was short and to the point: “I like you. Do you like me?” Under that were two boxes, one labeled yes and the other no. I checked the yes box and sent it back with the messenger.

From that day on, Mark and I sat at the pool together and talked about school and the other kids. He was my first little boyfriend. It was innocent puppy love. Sometimes his friends and mine would play chase. We'd scream, and the boys would have no idea what to do if they caught us. I imagine this is what childhood was supposed to be. For me, it was perfectly wonderful!

One morning in the spring, the teacher came into class and announced that it was a special day. A local ladies' group, called the Goldenrod Garden Club, had brought hundreds of flowers for a flower-arranging contest at the school. We were led out onto the grounds, and there I saw more fresh cut flowers than I ever thought existed. There were roses, lilies, tulips, and gardenias, along with gladiolus and Queen Anne's lace.

Beside the flowers, vases of all shapes and sizes were aligned on a long table. The teacher told me I was allowed to pick any vase I wanted and that I should try and make the prettiest arrangement I could. I did not have to be asked twice. I enjoyed anything artistic, so I relished the opportunity.

I found a quiet spot at the end of one of the long tables that were set up for us. I mixed colors and shapes to make the most vibrant arrangement I could imagine. The local newspaper was there, and the judges had ribbons for each first, second, third, and fourth place winner. When all the entries were laid out and judged, I never even considered that mine might win. I had never been in any sort of contest, and making that arrangement was just pure pleasure.

After looking over all of the entries, the judges announced the ones that they felt were the most artistic.

“Second place in the flower arrangement contest goes to . . . Frances Horton.”

I couldn't believe it. All the Garden Club members and the other children applauded. I was called up to the platform. As I walked up, I felt a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. I was amazed that someone felt I deserved a ribbon. There was a photographer there who took my picture as I accepted my prize. I noticed later that Mark won an award for making the best birdhouse. I ended the day with a huge smile on my face, holding tight to my ribbon. It was a burning ray of sunshine in my life, and I wanted to hold on to it forever.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. It was summer and we had lots of time to play as school was out. We still had our chores to do, but that morning Nellie and I were assigned our favorite one. All the children loved taking a turn to walk to the community store and bring the groceries back to the house. It got us out in the fresh air where we could run and push the cart for several blocks.

Nellie and I pushed the cart to the community grocery store on the grounds—we called it the commissary—to pick up supplies. We set off together, arguing as children do over who got to push it. While it was Nellie's turn, I shoved her.

“Can't catch me,” I yelled.

Laughing, I raced ahead. We reached the commissary and settled down somewhat. Together we wheeled the cart up to the long counter. Behind it, rows and rows of supplies were neatly organized. An older girl was in front of us, so we got in line behind her. Once her cart was full, she left. Nellie stepped forward and gave the man behind the counter our list.

Nellie and I argued quietly over the cart again as the man filled our order. It took no time at all to fill our cart with sugar, flour, lard, syrup, and other necessities. When he told us we were ready, we both pushed the cart out the door, laughing and bumping each other with our shoulders.

We did not get far. My attention was on the cart, making sure nothing spilled out, when we eased it onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, Nellie stopped. Confused, I looked up and saw a stout, dark-haired man with steel blue eyes barring our way.

At first, I did not know what was happening. I glanced up at the man and thought he was a stranger. A woman appeared beside him; I did not recognize her either. I did notice a car parked very close, right up against the curb. That was the first thing that lifted my suspicions. Then I saw Nellie's face.

Pure terror reflected from her eyes as she stared at the man. I knew then that something was not right, but I did not know what it was or how to fix it. I looked at the man again, and a glimmer of recognition crossed my mind. I knew him.

At the same instant, I was nearly yanked out of my shoes. At first, I thought the man had grabbed me, but as I stumbled past him, I realized Nellie was dragging me down the sidewalk. She broke into a full sprint and had my hand in an iron grip.

“What are you doing!?” I screamed.

Nellie could barely talk. Her face was rigid with fear. Her mouth cracked open but she only shouted one word.

“Run!”

Nellie kept running, dragging me behind her.

“What's wrong?” I shouted.

“That was
Gracie
!”

Nellie's voice was frantic, so I ran along with her. I had no idea who she meant or why we were running. All I knew was that she was terrified.

Nellie could be dramatic. I knew that, but there was something more real about that moment. I let her yank me along until we burst into the front door of Eason House.

I expected we'd go to Mrs. McDonald's room but was surprised when Nellie pulled me into the kitchen. She threw open the door of the pantry and pushed me inside. She followed and slammed the door shut. I watched as she scurried under the bottom shelf, pushing aside a bag of potatoes to make room. She waved at me to sit beside her and I did.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Shh,” she hissed. “Don't you know who that was?”

“No.”

“You didn't recognize Gracie?”

I shook my head. “Who's Gracie?”

“Our aunt! Uncle Mose's wife!”

When Nellie said that, an icy feeling dripped into my stomach. That was the first time I had an idea of who that man was. I had no idea how I could have forgotten him. I must have blocked him deep into my mind, a nightmare never to visit again. Suddenly, I realized the nightmare had returned.

“Is it him?” I whispered.

Nellie held my face in her hands. She looked into my eyes and nodded.

“How did he find us here?” I whispered, my body starting to tremble.

Nellie didn't answer.

“Why did he come here?”

Nellie looked at the tiles on the floor. She said in a chillingly low voice, void of emotion, “Daddy's come to take us away.”

Chapter 14
A Changed Man

My grown brother
and I sat in the hospital waiting room and talked. Jimmy listened to every word of my story. Afterward, he gave me a hug. “I wish I could have been there for you. Well, you are here now, and I don't ever want to lose contact with you again.” I cried when I had to leave him that day, having just found him, but somehow I already knew that we would be fast friends. A piece of my heart had returned, and I thanked God for that on the drive home with Wayne.

From that day on, Wayne and I visited Jimmy and his family almost every week. We would have dinner at each other's houses, and I would sing gospel songs with him and play the guitar. When his voice mixed with mine, I could see how much he looked like Mama and hear how much he sounded just like her. In those moments I felt as though she was back with us—back to being a part of my life.

I loved his wife and two teenage grandchildren with all my heart. Jimmy and Wayne got along very well and teased each other like brothers. Wayne loved Jimmy. One night, after dinner, Jimmy turned to Wayne.

“You know, you better watch out when you're passing by Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

Wayne lifted an eyebrow. He knew a joke was coming, but he played right along.

“Why's that?”

“It's sheer, blind, lottery-winning luck that you can pass by a fried-chicken restaurant alive with those skinny chicken legs of yours.”

Wayne laughed with everyone. I looked at Jimmy, seeing the physical similarities to Mama in his smile. He also had her humor. When the laughter faded, Jimmy reached into his pocket.

“I brought something to show you,” he said.

He pulled out a legal-looking piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a notarized bill of sale showing that he had been sold to Daddy's brother for five dollars. I examined it and looked back up at my brother. He seemed so hurt by it. He tried to joke, but I could feel the pain behind his words.

“You'd think they would have sold me for more than
five dollars
,” he joked.

Jimmy is a wonderful husband and father. He works hard and provides for his family well. At the same time, I learned that he was an alcoholic and he had little control over his addiction. He told me that he drank himself to sleep every night. He also said that he wanted more than anything to quit, but he had no control over his addiction.

When we were not together, Jimmy and I spoke on the phone often. Most of the time we talked about the time we missed, the years we were apart.

One warm summer evening, with the rain lightly misting outside, I sat on the covered front porch talking with him on the phone.

“I don't want to drink, Frances. I
want
to be free,” he said.

I thought about my own journey. Not just surviving my childhood, but about fighting to be free of Daddy's ghost and overcoming alcoholism and an eating disorder. I understood Jimmy so well in that moment that it felt as if we were the same person. I answered him. “Jimmy, do you want to be saved and give the alcohol to God?”

“I do want to, Frances,” he said. “But I've drank for so long, I know I can't quit.”

“With God, all things are possible,” I said, quoting my favorite scripture.

I asked my brother if he was in a place where nobody could overhear our conversation. I sensed that he was bashful about revealing his inner turmoil in front of his grandchildren. Jimmy walked out of his house, phone in hand, and sat at a picnic table on their back patio in the misting rain. Over the line, I spoke to him about trusting Jesus. He listened quietly, the rain soaking through his clothing and touching his skin.

Jimmy was a new man after that night. God made an amazing change in his life. He never touched alcohol again, and he started going to church. I wrote a poem about that night.

M
Y
B
ROTHER

Only the Lord and Jimmy know

what happened that Saturday night.

When God reached out and touched his heart

and the devil lost the fight.

My brother said, “Frances I can't!

But Jesus said, “You can!

“Because I died and made a way,

reach out and take My hand.”

I held my breath as I waited,