Cruel Harvest (23 page)

But it was Daddy. He walked back in as if nothing had happened. He sat down in his chair and tipped back a quart jug of white lightning. It was all like something from a film moving in slow motion in front of my eyes. But we knew this was real, and the blood, the murderous grappling, and the sounds of fists smashing flesh were just more examples of the chaos and madness that made up our lives.

Several weeks after
that night, we were on the move again. Daddy was uneasy since the night in the hospital and wanted to get away from the local authorities. So he drove us out of Texas. After we settled at a farm in Stilwell, Oklahoma, he decided we were healed enough to get back to work. I knew we had lived in Stilwell when Mama was with us, but I could not remember if it was the same farm. I asked Nellie, but she never wanted to discuss the past.

It was here that I first met the Willoughbys. Their family was working the same farm we were, and their two daughters, Faye and Judy, were about our ages. We found each other in the fields and became instant friends. Although they were free to come and go as they liked after work, they understood the migrant life and felt a kinship with me and Nellie. Our new friends did not attend school either and worked in the fields to help make a living for their large family. They didn't seem to mind though. The big difference between us was that their parents showed them much care and love.

After we lived at this new camp for a week or two, Daddy loosened his iron grip to a degree. He met Mr. Willoughby in the field, and I believe this was the first man I had ever seen Daddy sit and talk to without getting into a fight. To my surprise, Mr. Willoughby and my dad became good friends. Saturday rolled around, and Faye and Judy told Nellie and me about the big camp dance that was to be held after dark. All the farmworkers attended it every Saturday night. All that day, Nellie and I whispered about it, trying to figure out how we could get Daddy to let us attend.

That afternoon, Mr. Willoughby stopped by our cabin. I heard him tell Daddy that he would be playing the guitar and singing that night.

“There will be banjos, mandolins, and other strings,” he said. “Even a set of tin-tub drums. A bunch of the men bring along whiskey.”

That was the magic word. Once Daddy knew there would be free alcohol, he would not be able to stay away, and he'd want us along so he could keep an eye on us. We were going to the party!

It was scorching
hot that workday in the dusty cotton fields, without a hint of shade. The rows were so long you couldn't see the ends of them. The sun blazed down without mercy, and many women wore bonnets as protection from the sun. As was common, the workers took off from the fields early on Saturdays. Nellie and I ran back to the cabin and grabbed the cleanest dresses we had and left before Daddy could change his mind. I ran along behind Nellie toward Caney Creek, a babbling brook around the bend from the camp that was hidden by an outcrop of underbrush and trees. Faye, Judy, and the other girls from the camp waited there. The oldest of the bunch assigned one of the young girls to keep a lookout for any boys while the rest of us bathed in the creek. We stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the water, letting the cooling current wash away the dirt and grime of the fields.

We laughed and talked in the creek far longer than it took us to get clean. Once done, we dressed and helped each other fix our hair. We all wanted to look pretty for the evening's entertainment. I brushed my hair over and over, trying to get the unruly tangles out so it would feel as thick and silky as it had when I was at Connie Maxwell. In that moment, I could almost forget our secret life of lies and feel some bit of normalcy returning.

“I like to bathe,” Faye said. She had a wistfulness about her and she looked up at the sky while she spoke. “I hear some folk bathe every day of the week, not just on Saturdays.”

“We took a bath every night when I was in the orphanage,” I said. “In a real tub.”

Faye's eyes widened. I realized it was not the idea of a tub that caused her reaction.

“You was in an orphanage?”

Nellie glared at me. I wished I could take back those words. I looked around, half expecting Daddy to be there listening.

“Course not, silly. Hey, you forgot to wash your face.”

I splashed water at Faye and she dunked me back in the creek.

“You need help brushing your hair?” I asked, trying to keep everyone distracted from what I had accidently let slip. I climbed out of the water again, onto the bank, letting the sun dry my clothes. It was so hot and dry that it did not take long. “Come on up!” I yelled to Faye. “I'll brush your hair.”

“Sure,” she said.

Before she could say anything else, I asked her about what would happen that night. She loved explaining everything to me, and soon my words were forgotten—at least I hoped they were.

Not long after, the sun neared the horizon, and rays of light cut through the trees, splashing on the gnarled old trunks that surrounded the creek. The older girls led the way back to camp. As we neared, I could already hear music floating through the air.

The cabins in camp ran along an old dust road. The Willoughbys' cabin was near the center. They had a big truck to which Mr. Willoughby had added high wooden sideboards. Tattered canvas covered the top, and Mr. Willoughby sat on the open tailgate. He was a tall man with rough dark skin from working so many years in the sun-baked fields. He was as gentle as he was thin. Most of the times I saw him, he was quiet, but on Saturday night he transformed. Mr. Willoughby never drank anything stronger than a coke, but he strummed on the beautiful homemade guitar resting on his lap and sang out from his soul.

When Mr. Willoughby sang and played, the entire camp went quiet. I stood on the fringe of the crowd watching the respect and admiration in everyone's eyes as they watched his expert fingers move up and down the neck of his guitar, transfixed by his soft baritone voice. I watched Daddy make his way over to where the crowd of musicians had started to gather. He found a group of men sharing a bottle of something and sat on the ground beside them, making quick friends. Even he seemed in a festive mood, although he never showed his true self in front of outsiders.

The song Mr. Willoughby sang was a love song he'd written for his wife, Mable. She stood beside him, her tiny smiling face overlooking the crowd like a queen. Mable Willoughby did not work the fields with us. Instead, she stayed back and cooked her family's dinner and cleaned up their camp area.

“Lookie here,” a boy said from behind me. “A bunch of hens all dolled up for the party. How about a little peck for me?”

Even without turning, I knew the voice. It was Dallas Willoughby, the second oldest boy in the family. I cringed. At fifteen, Dallas was wild and mean. He loved taunting the girls, and he had an ugly habit of grabbing our chests if we weren't on guard. He was loud and rough.

“Go off and don't bother us,” Faye said.

“Shut your mouth, girl,” Dallas said. “Before I shut it for you.”

“Make me,” Faye said.

I took a step away, frightened. I never knew what Dallas might do. When he took a step toward Faye, I got nervous.

“You back off, Dallas,” another boy's voice called out.

I turned to see Bobby, Dallas's older brother, approaching. He was tall like his dad and had the same mannerisms. Everyone liked him except Dallas, who was scared of his older brother.

“This ain't your business,” Dallas muttered.

Bobby stood in front of Faye. “Go find something to do and leave these girls alone.”

Dallas pointed threateningly at Faye but backed off. Soon he was lost in the crowd. Nellie and I gathered around, thanking Bobby for his help. His dark brown eyes did not leave my face.

“If he ever bothers you, Frances, you just call me,” he said softly.

I nodded my head and left to join the other girls. Together, we raced off to the dance. I glanced back once, and Bobby was standing in the same spot, watching me as I walked away.

The dance was starting to kick up. Several men picked up their instruments and struck an upbeat melody after Mr. Willoughby's touching song. They did not match his talent, but they played with so much energy that many of the folks around the circle got up on their feet and started to dance. An old man played the banjo and stomped his feet to the music as everyone clapped or danced. A few of the older boys stood close by, admiring the scene. Another man played an old empty moonshine jug, providing the base. The man we all knew only as Duck played the fiddle and jumped from one foot to the other along with the beat. The women clogged, and many children danced around the campfire.

Faye, Judy, Nellie, and I sat on the sidelines, listening and watching the boys watch us. I was finally able to release some of the stress that wore me down the rest of the week. I lifted my face up to the sky and gazed at the millions of brilliant stars scattered across the heavens. They seemed to shine so much brighter in the country with no streetlights. Stars always made me think of my sister Susie. She used to recite a verse every night there was even one single star in the sky: “Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

She never told me her wish. She was certain that if she told, it would not come true. I missed her terribly that night. I knew she would have loved the dance, and my wish would have been to share the time with her. I wondered where she and Brenda were. I felt their absence deeply.

By the end
of the night, as the fireflies hung high up in the branches and a small campfire gave off the only light, I sat as still and silently as possible on a patch of grass so I would not be sent off to bed. I listened to the hauntingly beautiful music and memorized every song I could. Nellie, Faye, and Judy had already gone to bed, and I was alone. I just could not pull myself away from the music. I watched as a young couple slipped into the woods while old men hung their heads, heavy from too much drink.

Daddy stood across the way, chatting with a woman I'd never seen before. She took a step toward him. He kept on talking. Then an older man, probably the woman's father, called her away. Daddy watched her go, and I saw the darkness come over his face. He saw me and beckoned. I knew I had to follow, but I wished more than anything I could just stay close to the music and watch the stars. As I headed out of camp, I caught snatches of muffled conversation, tales from folks remembering better days and times long past.

Chapter 19
Choices

We left the
farm in Stilwell one rainy day, piling in the car and following a caravan of other rickety old vehicles to the next farm that had posted a Pickers Wanted sign. Nellie and I were excited to see the Willoughbys' truck up ahead. We all arrived at the new place at the same time. This farm didn't offer cabins to live in, so we made a campsite near our vehicles and slept in the car. The others did the same. The campsite was filled with the noise of the men chopping wood, women making fires to cook dinner, babies crying, and couples squabbling. A spring ran nearby where the children filled jugs and buckets with water for cooking and washing.

In the morning, before the sun came up, we went to work like locusts, picking the field clean. Every day we spent with the Willoughbys, we grew closer and got to know them better. Mable Willoughby insisted that we eat our meals with them, which was a welcome treat.

It usually took several weeks to pick a farmer's field clean, and then we moved on to the next one. The farmer paid the workers every day at quitting time, so they could have money for a little food and gas for their old cars.

Days turned to weeks, and eventually we broke off from the others. Nellie and I hugged our only friends good-bye, and Mable gave us some fried cornbread to eat on the road. Bobby came up to me just before I got into the car while Daddy shook hands with Mr. Willoughby.

“I'll miss you, Frances.” He seemed shy and looked at his feet, which was not usual for Bobby.

Daddy drove us northeast. Each mile was torture to me. I had constant flashbacks of the wreck. Something strange had happened in my mind after that horrible accident; whenever we were driving, I saw things that were not there. From out of nowhere, I would see a car coming straight at us. I would hear the sounds of the wreck and feel the damp earth around my body. Involuntarily, I would scream, “Watch out!”

More often than not, I earned myself a curse or a slap for opening my mouth. Sometimes Daddy would shoot his big fist out behind him, hitting anything that moved.

I was thankful when our journey finally came to an end. We arrived at an apple orchard in Michigan. It was fall, and the leaves were blowing across the dirt trail as Daddy stopped the car and we unloaded our few belongings into another drafty old one-room cabin.

The next day, we went out picking apples. It was a large orchard, so I figured we'd be around for a while. I missed Faye, Judy, and especially Mrs. Willoughby, who had treated me as one of her own daughters. Mrs. Willoughby had talked to me when we were alone, often seeking me out and inviting me into her cabin.

“Tell me about your Daddy,” she would say.

It made me uncomfortable, as if she could see right through me to the secrets I kept. But when we were separated, I missed them all very much, as though they were a part of my family. I often found myself singing the songs I'd heard Mr. Willoughby play. If Daddy caught me, he would give me a smack in the head. That would quiet me down, but the tunes never left my heart and mind.