Cruel Harvest (3 page)
I could tell Brenda needed to talk, though. I tried to sit still and not let her see how uneasy I was as she took me back to our childhood.
Smoke rose up
from the dying campfire; a single wisp hit the trestles above and disintegrated like fragile glass thrown against the rusting iron. We had just finished another long, exhausting day picking apples. I was hungry again. Even at five years old, I could not stop thinking about food. Whenever I was allowed to eat, I swallowed it up fast, every bite, but I never felt full. That night, dinner was a little bruised apple I had snuck back to the camp from the farmer's orchard. I had hidden it in the pocket of my dress, a treasure to eat once everyone went to bed.
Sitting on a gravel bank, I could hear the soft trickle of moving water; it was barely enough to be called a stream. I stayed as still as I could, trying to fade into the ground and the gravel and the bridge trestles above. I sat on the bank away from our campsite and would not move until Brenda came to tell me it was bedtime. I knew something ugly and wrong was happening between my Daddy and oldest sister. I saw the way he groped at her chest as she tried to rush past him. I knew there was something horribly wrong with the way he touched her, and when she cried it hurt me too.
We were the only pickers left now, and everything was quiet that night. At five years old, I still did not understand the abuse that happened when the family bedded down. But I already had an unvoiced uneasiness when my dad was near. It was something evil, hidden in shame.
I didn't know to what extent he abused Brenda at that time, but I was to learn from firsthand experience as I passed from childhood to adolescence. Often, my cries at night, wrenched from the depths of my soul, brought me back to those nights when Daddy made Brenda cry.
She was only thirteen then, but I cannot remember a time that she did not take care of me.
That evening, sitting on the gravel bank, I saw her face in the flickering light of the fire. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy from crying. She greeted me with loving words, but she did not smile. Instead, she led me in my bare feet across the gravel to where a frayed green woolen army quilt spread out across the ground. My little brother was already lying down. Susie and Nellie were there, too, and Susie was sitting up. Brenda told me to wait there so she could wash my face, patting my arm as she walked away.
Nobody spoke for fear of our dad hearing us. Susie touched my blond curls. My brother stirred but did not make a sound. Then Brenda was back with that awful washcloth in her hand. I squirmed.
“Hush now,” she whispered.
I saw the water from the spring dripping off the moldy gray cloth. Even before it got near my face, the smell made me want to run. I reeled, throwing my hands out to stop it from touching my face. I knew Brenda meant well, but that cloth smelled horrible. We didn't have soap, and everyone in the family washed with this same cloth. It made me sick to smell it, much less have it touch my face.
Brenda would have none of it. Not harshly, but firmly, she grasped my chin and cleaned the day's filth from my forehead. Even when she was done, the smell stuck to me as if it was lodged in my sinuses. After she got me tucked in beside the others she went back to the spring. I lay quietly watching as Brenda tried to wash what looked like a slip and her ragged underwear in the little stream below. She didn't have any soap, but she scrubbed at the tattered clothes, dunking them with restrained fury under the rocky streambed. This was much like any other night.
The morning came too fast. Before I even realized I had fallen asleep, a hand shook me awake. I grumbled and shook the hand off.
“Be quiet and get up,” Brenda whispered in my ear. “We're leaving.”
I sat up. It was still dark out, the sunlight just barely peeking above the tree line to the east. Our camp was in chaos. The soot-blackened pots and pans were lying on the rocks, strewn by the open fire. Our army blanket was in a heap, and my little brother, Robbie, was lying on the bare ground where he had rolled off in the middle of the night. Some of the few clothes we had to wear hung on trees drying; others had fallen to the ground. A few empty bean cans were tossed near the cold campfire that had gone out during the night.
Brenda moved away, joining my mother. Together, they gathered up what few belongings we had and prepared to tie them up inside the green army blanket. Mama hadn't combed her dark hair, and it fell across her face in tangles. Brenda was quiet as usual, but she moved quickly, picking up everything in the camp and stacking it on the blanket we used for our bed. My little brother's blond curls brushed his shoulders; he could have passed for a girl except for his ragged overalls and a white shirt that had turned grey from not being washed. His knees stuck through his frayed pants, and his brown brogan shoes were two sizes too large and had no laces, which made him fall down a lot. He snuggled up to me. I could see my own fear mirrored in his large blue eyes. It mixed with a nearly overwhelming wish to sit still and not leave this spot. If I stayed in this spot and let them leave me here, I would never have to run to catch another train or see my mama hurt or hear Brenda cry.
Daddy would have none of that. He barked out harsh words, and my mother and Brenda tried to pick up their already harried pace. The sun continued to rise and, as the daylight pushed back the night, Daddy got angrier. I sat completely still and refused to move. I hoped if I stayed still enough, nobody would notice and I wouldn't have to run with them to that dreaded, black monster.
It was not to be. My dad grabbed me by the collar of my dress and dragged me out of camp. The rest of the family followed as quickly as they could. That was when I heard the distant whistle of what, in my mind, seemed to be an approaching monster.
As I begged my little legs to hurry, I saw the trail of gray smoke coughing out of the coal-black locomotive. Its whistle sounded again, echoing over the Blue Ridge valley. Its mighty engine whined as it fought to pull its heavy load up the winding mountain.
“Get down,” Daddy growled.
By that time, my sisters had caught up to me. We crouched close to the ground beside the bushes running along the orchard we had worked the day before. The dawn light spread darker shadows across the gloom. We tried to disappear into them as the train slowly rolled past, so close that the engineer could have seen us if he was looking. The smell of burning coal made it nearly impossible to catch my breath.
This particular train passed our campsite every day. Daddy had watched it daily, and he learned that it moved slowly. Due to the steep slope of the mountain, the train was famously called the Virginia Creeper. He knew that, and he also knew that an empty boxcar followed the tender car.
“Now!” he yelled.
At the sound of his voice, we made a break for that boxcar. My eyes locked onto the metal ladder that hung down past the opening; I knew I would have to grab it to pull myself inside. I was small for age five, and undernourished, so I was more the size of a three-year-old. The icy morning air tugged at my stringy blond curls and pierced my tattered clothes. All I could think about, though, was that metal ladder rung. If I couldn't grab it, those giant iron wheels would suck me under and tear me up worse than any imaginary monster.
My sisters passed me as though I were standing still. Unlike me, they had shoes, and I could hear the stones crunching under their soles. They may have wanted to scoop me up and carry me with them, but nobody in my family would defy Daddy in that way. He expected everyone who could walk to be an adult. To try it without a direct order from Daddy would not even cross their minds. With all my attention focused on that bar, all I could do was watch as they grabbed it, one after another, and hauled themselves onto the wooden floor of the boxcar. I cried out for Mama, but she didn't answer. The crushing sound of the Virginia Creeper filled my world like a dark and dangerous cloud.
My legs betrayed me and I started losing ground. My breathing grew more and more frantic. All I could do was look for something lower to the ground, some part of the train I might grab hold of that could save me from being left behind. All the while, that train's engine thumped and roared in my ears, confusing my thoughts, and terror radiated out of the pit of my stomach.
Brenda's face poked out from the dark hull of the boxcar.
“Hurry, Frances!” she screamed, reaching her hand out to me.
Mama and Daddy were ahead of me. Daddy had my brother, who was only a toddler, stuck under his arm like a sack of potatoes. As the train inched ahead, slowing to maybe five miles per hour, he threw my brother into the car. I heard Robbie crying from inside.
Daddy cursed as Mama grabbed the handle and disappeared into the boxcar. My dad followed Mama aboard and hollered at my brother, who was still crying. A second later Daddy appeared, leaning out of the car and looking me in the eye.
“Grab my hand, now!” he yelled.
I kept trotting, but my eyes darted nervously from his hand to the tracks. Eventually, the train would pick up speed, and I would be left behind. My family was disappearing before my eyes.
I looked ahead at Daddy's hand. If I lunged and missed, I'd fall. The train would be gone, and I would be left alone. A worse thought struck me in that instant. What if I missed the train and my family had to jump off? If I caused us to miss a free ride, I knew how bad the beating would be. With that thought, I leapt forward, straining to reach Daddy's callused hand.
I missed. Splayed out, I landed on the rocks, scraping my elbows and knees. My momentum caused me to roll toward those giant iron wheels. Luckily, the train had slowed down again, and I was able to stop myself from rolling underneath.
When I looked up, terror swept over me. I saw Daddy leap from the boxcar. His boots landed in the rocks and sent a cloud of dust and pebbles flying back at the train's wheels as he stormed toward me. His face was dark with fury; his small blue eyes burned.
I bent my head down and shut my eyes as tightly as I could. I felt him yank me into the air. He swung me around and into the boxcar. I hit the floor and immediately crawled across to the other side, deeper into the shadows, to get away from his anger. When I reached the far wall, I leaned against the metal door along with my sisters. Daddy jumped back onboard, spouting curses and angry words directed at me.
Brenda was near me, and I found some comfort in her presence as we huddled there. My body hurt, especially the scrapes on my elbows and knees. The train jerked as it picked up speed and started down the mountain. I rubbed at my arms, swallowing back the tears.
Our new home
outside Stilwell, Oklahoma, was a small shackâtypical housing for migrant workers like us. Twenty of these shacks sat in a line on the farmer's land, each about forty feet apart. The farmer had thirty or so tents set up, too, and it was first come, first served. Everyone wanted a shack; though they had no running water and very little furniture, at least they had floors. The canvas tents had dirt floors and only flaps in the front to allow in a breeze, making them very hot inside.
The shacks were weathered grey, and some of the floors and doors, never having been painted, had rotted from the sun and rain. Even though floors were a luxury, you would have to sprinkle water from a bucket onto them before sweeping or you would just about choke to death from the dust clouds. Thick dust lay heavy on everything in the settlement. There were no locks for the doors, but at least there was a shutter on each side of the shack that you could prop up with a stick to let the air in. As for a toilet, there was one outbuilding at the far end of the line of shacks, about twenty feet from the last one. The farmer had dug a deep hole and built a box over it with a round seat cut out of the top. A small wooden building, about three feet by three feet, gave you privacy. Toddlers crawled around and played in the dirt, and there was one pumpâwhere all the families got their drinking waterâset up at the end of the camp opposite from the toilet. The desolate, lonely area sat in the middle of nowhere, miles from town.
We had arrived in time to get a shack. Although often these buildings had just one room, this one had two. Each room was about ten feet by ten feet. The back room had homemade bunk beds, nailed into the wall, with old bare wire springs instead of mattresses. In the forties and fifties, wire springs were used instead of box springs. The farmers usually provided a set of springs with cotton-packed mattresses covering them, but the migrant pickers took the mattresses because they could be rolled up and loaded onto the top of their automobiles when they moved. They left only the stiff, wire springs. When we got there, Mama found some cardboard to put over them because the springs were rusty, and if one of our hands fell down in between the wires while we slept, it would get cut up. Then she laid some of our dirty clothes on top of the cardboard to make up for the missing mattress. I would have preferred sleeping on the floor, but we followed my Daddy's instructions to the letter. He insisted everyone sleep together. He had to have total control over every aspect of our lives, and not even a simple decision to lie on the floor would go unnoticed by him.
The front room had a two-burner stove. On one end of the stove was a glass jar of kerosene. A line went from the jar to both burners. It looked a lot like the Coleman cookstoves that you take camping, but more old-fashioned, bigger and bulkier. Our shack also had a small table and one chair. Sometimes the previous residents of these shacks would leave a water bucket or broom behind. If we didn't have one, Mama would borrow one from one of the other migrant workers. Keeping our little area clean was important to Mama, and she tried hard, in spite of the overwhelming dust.