Cruel Harvest (9 page)

At first, everyone
was quiet. Daddy drove that old car as if the devil himself were chasing us. He did not stop when the sun set but kept driving into the night. We fell asleep leaning against each other as the car jostled and bumped on down the road. When I woke up the next morning, we were in another state.

As usual, Brenda did her best at keeping us silent and out of trouble. She played quiet games with us in the back, whispering fairy tales and reciting nursery rhymes. It was a long and boring drive, so the silence did not last.

“I miss little Katherine,” I said. I looked around at the others. “Don't y'all miss her too?”

All of a sudden, the car veered off the road. The breaks shrieked and we were all jerked forward. A second later I saw Daddy's angry red face whirl around. His arm was raised, and his shoe was in his hand before I realized what was about to happen.

“I told you not to mention that name!” he bellowed at me.

He lashed out, striking any place he could reach with the hard sole of that shoe. The others scattered like rats fleeing a sinking ship as the heel struck me on the top of my head. I tried to protect myself, my hands in front of my face as I screamed, but the blows rained down on me. He hit me again and again until my right temple split open and blood rolled down the side of my face. Finally, the beating stopped and he turned back around, starting the engine. The car lurched forward, and we continued west.

Slowly, silently, the children returned to their spots. I was dazed and sobbing. Brenda eased closer to me and inspected the cut. She was careful to make sure he could not see her. That was the last time I mentioned my baby sister in Daddy's presence.

In time, our
silent journey led to Phoenix, Arizona, and an unforgettable turning point for my family. There was no cotton or other crops to pick by the time we arrived. Instead, Daddy found a job at a large salvage yard called Johnson's Auto Wrecking.

Rusted and wrecked cars covered the yard like acres of dead bodies after a fierce battle. Piles of hubcaps and auto parts filled most of the space between and around the wrecks. We were met by a tall man with a beard, wearing dark coveralls. Daddy got out of our car and they talked. A minute later the man pointed to an old, rusting school bus parked in the corner of the lot. This bus would be our home.

Daddy went to work stripping the cars, and we moved into the old bus. All the seats had been removed, and a plywood shelf was installed along the side below one row of windows. Mama set up the kerosene cookstove on an orange crate by the front and placed our few belongings under the counter. In the back, she laid the old cardboard down and piled on our clothes and blankets, making two beds.

Although I did not know it then, the man my daddy spoke with was Mr. Johnson, the owner of the large salvage yard. He was a kind and, as I would soon learn, amazing man. He must have felt bad for us, allowing us as he did to live on the yard. Soon after we arrived, his wife came to visit, bringing food and friendship. She took an immediate liking to Mama and Brenda.

“I've spoken to your father,” she said to Brenda one day. “And he's given me permission to offer you a job at my house. You can help clean house and take care of my children, if you think you'd like to do that?”

Brenda looked at Mama, but Daddy must have given his orders to Mama because she nodded right away. Brenda happily agreed. Mrs. Johnson smiled at her.

“I will pick you up in the morning and have you back after dinner, if that's agreeable.” She looked from Brenda to Mama. “And I will pay her five dollars a day.”

“Thank you, ma'am. We sure do appreciate it,” Mama said.

“Okay, then. I'll be back in the morning early to pick her up.”

That night, Daddy set down the rules. He gave Brenda instructions on what she could and could not say while at the Johnsons'. Brenda had never been away from him in her life, and I believe she would have agreed to anything for a few hours of freedom.

“You will say nothing to that woman, you understand?” he said, his fist full of the front of her dress. “And you will give me every cent she pays you. If I find out you talked about anything that goes on here, I will kill you.”

Brenda assured him over and over again that she would do exactly as he ordered. Finally, he left for a night of drinking.

Brenda, it seemed
to me, found peace while she was with Mrs. Johnson. After the first few weeks of working there, I noticed a change come over her. At first, it was her appearance. She came home with new, clean clothes that Mrs. Johnson gave her. I remember staring at them, thinking how pretty she looked. None of us had ever owned a new dress with the tag still on. She started to brush her hair every morning with a new hairbrush Mrs. Johnson gave her. Brenda always made sure she was shiny clean before Mrs. Johnson arrived to pick her up. In the past, her long dark hair had hung in her eyes as though she were hiding from the world. Now she clipped it back and showed her freshly scrubbed face every morning. She had always looked beautiful to me, but suddenly, she glowed.

At the same time, she changed the way she carried herself. At fifteen, her figure was already well developed. Before Mrs. Johnson's visit, Brenda did everything she could to hide her figure. She slouched over, caving her chest in, and she always cast her eyes down. After only a couple of weeks, she started standing up straighter. She seemed to be gaining confidence and a sense of pride.

Daddy, however, did not change. If anything, he grew meaner, and his meanness seemed more and more focused on Brenda. He would violently lash out at her without any warning or reason. He did worse, too, and many nights I would pet my sister's hair as she silently sobbed in the back of that bus. She continued to work with Mrs. Johnson each day, though, and handed over her wages to Daddy every Saturday.

On many occasions, his beatings left their mark. She would go to work with angry purple bruises on her face and arms. It was only a matter of time before Mrs. Johnson figured out what was going on in my family.

One night, Brenda failed to come back to the bus after work. The hour when Mrs. Johnson would normally drop her off came and went. Mama grew more nervous, pacing up and down the bus like a trapped animal. I remember hoping desperately that Brenda would return before Daddy got home, but that was not to be. When Daddy arrived, it was not yet dark. He came stomping up the steps with a whiskey bottle in his hand. He had an uncanny sense for trouble. One look around the bus and he found the heart of the problem.

“Where's Brenda?” he growled.

Mama did not say anything. None of us did. He knew without us saying a word. He roared like a grizzly bear and slammed his fist against the top of the metal ceiling. The windows rattled. I thought the bus would explode with his rage.

“I'm gonna kill her!”

The other children cowered in the back of the bus with me, trying to stay out of his way and be as quiet as possible. Mama stood by helpless, not speaking, not knowing what to do. His hand rose up and struck her in the face. She staggered back.

“You,” he growled. “You set me up!”

Mama tried to regain composure, but she was dazed from the blow he'd given her.

“No, Broadus, I swear I don't know where she's at. Mrs. Johnson picked her up this morning like she always does.”

I believe his anger was checked, at least for a time, because of how much in debt he was to the Johnsons. They let us live on their land and gave him a job. At least once a week, Mrs. Johnson brought us food from her kitchen. Instead, he ranted and cursed Brenda, calling her horrible names, threatening to go find her and kill her, but he stayed at the bus. As the sun set behind the mountains with no sign of Brenda, he could not contain himself any longer. He ordered us all into the car, and we drove off to the Johnsons' house.

It was a short drive, but he worked himself into a frenzy on the way. I held my breath and waited for the storm that I knew was coming. Nobody ever dared to cross Daddy. I knew that even if he found Brenda, it would not go well. He would never let Brenda get away with what he considered an act of rebellion.

I shook and felt sick to my stomach. I do not believe a single one of us breathed as we rode to the Johnsons' home. When we pulled up into their driveway, Mr. Johnson was standing on the back stoop. Whatever small bit of composure Daddy had earlier was gone. Mr. Johnson was no longer his boss. Instead, he was a man that crossed him, and Daddy was ready for war.

Amazingly, at least to me, Mr. Johnson had the courage to come right up to the door of the car before Daddy could even get out.

“Hello there, Broadus,” he said, leaning against the driver's door. He put his hand over the open window. “You don't have to get out. What brings you here so late?”

Mr. Johnson's voice was calm, and he seemed completely at ease. I was able to breathe for the first time, and I thought maybe Brenda was not there after all.

“I am looking for my oldest daughter,” Daddy said through clenched teeth. “You know why I'm here!”

Mr. Johnson's calm expression changed. He looked alarmed that Brenda had not come home.

“She left a few hours ago, saying she wanted to walk instead of having a ride. I hope she didn't run off.”

Daddy's anger roared to life. He shoved open the door so hard that it pushed Mr. Johnson back. Daddy practically fell out of the car, he was so spitting mad.

“Brenda's here and I'm gonna find her! She ain't
run off
,” he said, mocking Mr. Johnson. “If you're hiding her, I'll kill you both.”

Daddy drove Mr. Johnson away from the car. Still cursing, he charged past the man toward his garage. He stormed through the Johnson's property like a bull, banging on the walls as if to scare Brenda out of hiding.

For his part, Mr. Johnson stayed calm. “I can understand your concern, Broadus, but she ain't here. I'll help you look for her in the morning, when it's light. She's probably just out being a teenager.”

“She ain't no teenager,” Daddy said.

He refused to give up. He opened Mr. Johnson's barn door and climbed up into the loft, kicking the walls and bellowing like a wild bull along the way. He cursed Brenda and ordered her out of hiding. He searched everyplace imaginable outside the Johnson home but could not find her. All the while, Mr. Johnson calmly followed him. This went on for what felt like an hour.

Finally, Daddy's anger ran its course and he stopped his search. He was left looking as if he did not know what to do next. He walked back toward our car.

“She had better be back by morning,” he said.

Mr. Johnson nodded. “Yessir. Come back in the morning and we'll look for her together. We'll find her. I'll bet a nickel on that.”

Later in life, I read a passage from the Bible: “A soft answer turneth away wrath” (Prov. 15:1
KJV
). I believe that if Mr. Johnson had acted any differently that night, there would have been bloodshed. His soft answers kept Daddy from exploding and causing a worse scene. Daddy simply drove us all back to the bus. Little did I know at the time, Brenda came out from hiding as soon as our car was out of view. She had been inside an empty oil drum that sat not a foot away from where Daddy stood just moments before.

When I visited her for Thanksgiving, she told me about it.

“My entire body was shaking with fear while Mr. Johnson followed Daddy around the yard and right past the oil drum several times. I felt he could see through the metal and would find me. I was sobbing and stuck my whole fist in my mouth to keep him from hearing me. I thought I'd have a heart attack when he was standing right beside me. I was sure he'd find me and kill me. Worse, I thought he'd kill Mr. Johnson.”

Chapter 7
Arrest

Wayne had already
packed the van with our suitcases and was sitting down in Brenda's family room watching a movie, giving my sister and I all the time we needed. We couldn't stop talking. Time had turned back, and we were kids again. We talked about our lives, both the ones we shared together and after I lost her. Hearing her speak about the Johnsons made me want to know more about what happened when she went to their house. “Do you think Mama told Mrs. Johnson about . . . what was going on?” I asked.

Brenda shook her head. “I don't. Mama was so timid by that time. I think all she could do was try to stay alive.” She paused. “
I
told Mrs. Johnson.”

I stared at her in awe. “How did you ever find the courage?”

We were all so afraid of Daddy back then. He threatened our lives on a regular basis and made it clear that he
would
kill us if we dared tell a stranger about our life. Regardless, that is exactly what Brenda did.

“I told Mrs. Johnson what he was doing,” Brenda said. It was still difficult for her to speak of Daddy, and I could see the pain on her face. I laid my hand over hers as she continued. “She then told her husband, who called the police. The sheriff and his deputies came out to the Johnsons' house and I had to tell the whole thing over again. It was so different back then.”

“It
was
different back then,” I agreed. “You didn't see these stories on TV like you do now.”