“Please don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Shh,” he said, “I’m right here, Becca. I’m not going anywhere.” He held her close, rocking her gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
August 13, 1951
Taffy chased John and Becca around the old oak and pecan trees in the expansive barnyard, toward the chicken coop and then into the red barn. Most days his father’s pickup truck would be parked by the old milking barn. But this evening it was gone, usually signifying an early departure to work or to the local tavern, which always meant that they could play unhindered, without fear of being accosted randomly—at least until he returned. His father had become more violent in the past few years, having even broken John’s arm once by twisting it too hard when he didn’t close the door to the chicken coop.
Becca’s mom bore weekly evidence of his drunken tirades. He would make excuses for his behavior, usually saying work was so hard to find that he was frustrated. John didn’t know how his dad held a job as often as he drank, but what did he know? He was only eleven. Last night the screams were louder, the hitting more violent. They had not been the victims of his anger that night. They had only escaped it because Becca’s mom was the first person he saw when he arrived home, the first person to question where he had been. The first person to call him a liar.
Becca stopped, out of breath just inside the door to the old milking area. The barn that used to house dozens of cattle at one time and bring income to Becca’s grandparents now sat empty, except for a few bales of hay and the nests of their laying hens. It used to be a working farm with milking cows, egg-laying chickens and hogs raised for slaughter. After Becca’s grandfather died, her mother (with the help of her older brother), sold off some of the land and most of the milk cows to pay off the mortgage on the property. Becca’s Uncle Ben made sure they had enough cows and chickens to bring their mother a reasonable income. It helped that Becca’s grandmother and her mother were seamstresses and regularly sewed for a few of the wealthy German townsfolk of Fredericksburg.
Becca’s father had worked in one of the many local orchards since arriving in the area in 1936. He was in charge of planting and maintaining the peach trees, since he was knowledgeable, having worked in other orchards prior to that. Becca’s father was a handsome man, six-foot-one with dark hair and dark eyes. She didn’t remember him, but her mother kept a picture of him in her jewelry box. He wasn’t of German descent like her mother’s family, but having been around the culture all his life, his parents made sure he learned the language. His father, Becca’s grandfather, had moved there from San Antonio when the town was chartered to work on the railroad joining Fredericksburg to San Antonio. Becca’s father never admitted to Mexican blood, but he had a darker complexion and spoke with just a hint of an accent. Although the Mexicans had settled here once, it was German country now.
Becca’s mother used to tell her the story of how they met, of falling in love with her father. Louis Martin was his name, though there were rumors that his real name was Luis Martinez. Since no one ever saw a birth certificate, they called him Louis, nevertheless. It was a romantic tale, or at least it was to Becca. Her mother had been delivering three new dresses to the boutique in town when her car broke down next to the orchard. Louis had been checking the fruit on the trees by the road when he saw her and offered assistance. Her mother told Becca it was love at first sight. He drove her to town in his truck, then brought back one of his friends who was a mechanic to help get hers started again.
Louis made sure he was at that same place every day so that he would see her when she passed by with deliveries. He wooed her for months, until her parents conceded and allowed them to be married. Becca would learn much later from her mother’s sister, her Aunt Betty, that the tale was far less romantic. Sometimes it’s better to leave children with their dreams of reality, even if they weren’t true, versus spoiling their fantasy of it. She would never know her father because he died within a year of her birth from acute respiratory failure caused by pesticide poisoning, though no one would admit that was the reason until years later.
Becca climbed through the stanchions separating the feeding troughs and through the tall narrow windows above and hung out of them as though she were going to fly. John caught up with her, grabbing her from behind.
“Careful!” he yelled.
“You worry too much,” she said, allowing him to pull her back in. Taffy yelped and whined because he couldn’t reach them. “I’m not a baby,” she whined.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed. “But if anything happens to you, I’ll get in trouble,” he explained.
Becca climbed back into the trough, ran to the end and leaned into the cattle stalls. “Last one to the house is a rotten egg!” she challenged, climbing the rungs that held the cows’ necks in place and jumping onto the concrete barn floor.
John dropped into the trough from the windowsill, swung across the wood stall beams and raced after her, Taffy on his heels. He caught her at the barn door and tugged her back so as to pull ahead of her. They raced together, laughing as they turned the corner to the house. Then they stopped.
The noise was a clap or more like a slap. Even Taffy stopped at the suddenness of it. They looked at each other, then slowly walked toward the house. The sun was setting in their eyes, so there was nothing but glare before them. The glare and the mist of the dirt they had kicked up floated in the air, shimmering in the setting light. They walked slowly at first, and then faster when they saw the body crumpled in the doorway. At the porch steps, Becca screamed out loud, “No!”
John grabbed her, trying to hold her back, but he couldn’t. She kicked and screamed and cried until he finally released her, and she fell at her mother’s side. He stared at the gun on the porch by her body and for a moment contemplated taking it. For a moment he contemplated using it. His father had killed her, as sure as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. He turned Becca around and hugged her tight.
“Who’s going to take care of me now?” she sobbed. “Who’s going to take care of me now?”
“I’ll take care of you, Becca,” he promised. “I will.”
September 7, 1951
Betty looked around the house, one last time. For the past three weeks, she had gone through her sister’s belongings in their childhood home. She had to sort what she wanted, what she would save for Becca, and determine the ultimate destination of the rest. Her sister had lived at home since before their parents had both died, having been their caretaker when they both became ill. None of her family had ever indulged in fine trinkets, so most of her possessions had been pictures and a few pieces of fine jewelry that had been their grandmother’s. That and a few random pieces of second-hand furniture was all that they had acquired through the years.
John’s father hadn’t shown up that first night of her death. Or the next. Or the next. He had run his truck off the road after overindulging at the tavern that evening, having driven straight into the woods at the curve instead of turning. One of the local farmers found him three days later, disoriented and bleeding, wandering down a country road. The Good Samaritan took him into Fredericksburg to the doctor—the same doctor who had declared Becca’s mother dead. When they told him what had happened, he broke down and cried. Then he was arrested.
Those summoned to the scene were all witness to the brutality of his abuse just the night before her death. Her face and body were swollen and bruised, obviously not a result of her gunshot wound to the chest. But without a witness or anyone to press charges, he was released a few days later. John’s father insisted that the property and all the belongings were rightfully his because he and Becca’s mother had eloped. But his protest fell on deaf ears, since he failed to produce a marriage certificate. He and John were asked to leave the premises within thirty days of her death. And for the next thirty days, Becca’s Uncle Jimmy was waiting with a rifle to intimidate John’s father every time he came to collect his belongings.
Betty and her husband Jimmy were childless, but not by choice. They were in good health, mid-thirties, and Becca’s only living relatives, so they willingly took her in. They didn’t even question whether to take responsibility for their niece. They couldn’t bear to see her go into the foster care system. Betty looked out the window for Becca and spied her in the distance, sitting by the river. Becca had hardly spoken since her aunt and uncle’s arrival. They stayed with her to help her sort through her mother’s possessions and to take her to their home. Betty knew her niece would be forever scarred with the memories of what she had endured at her childhood home.
Becca sat on the short, wooden fishing pier over the river, stirring the water with her toes, her hands full of daisies from her mother’s garden. One by one she pulled the petals from the flowers and dropped them into the moving water. She didn’t hear her name being called. She could hear nothing except the rhythm of the water running over the ledge just a few feet away. She stared numbly into it, feeling too tired for a ten-year-old.
Three weeks has passed since her mother’s death, but it felt like yesterday. Becca would never be able to erase that memory. Ever. Her Aunt Betty told her she should forgive John’s father. “God wills it,” she had said. But how could she? Becca swore she’d never forgive him for what he did to her mother—for beating her, for berating her, for driving her to suicide. She looked down into the clear waters. She could see the rich green moss dancing on the pebbles at the bottom of the shallow river that flowed beneath the pier. Becca didn’t hear or feel John walking up on the dock behind her. He sat by her, hanging his legs off the pier, his feet dipping into the cool water next to hers.
“We’re about to leave.” John glanced over at her, wincing with the sun in his eyes. He looked down at the petals she was dropping, watching them float away. “I hate leaving you,” he said softly. “It’s always been us, taking care of each other.”
Becca didn’t move, didn’t speak, or even acknowledge his presence.
He drew in a deep breath then exhaled. “I guess I’ll see you later, Becca.” But before he could stand up, she reached over and took his hand. He looked in her direction and saw a tear sliding down her face. She leaned on his shoulder without speaking. He smiled in understanding. They sat there together in silence.
The silence was broken only by the gruff voice of his father. “Johnny, get in the truck.” The man who had seemed so threatening before suddenly didn’t seem as threatening now.
John didn’t move.
“Boy, did you hear me? I said, get in the truck! Now!” he repeated, his voice raised.
Becca turned to him and gave him a sad smile. “You have to go,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
John nodded sadly. He released her hand and stood up. “It’s gonna be okay, Becca. I promise.”
Becca nodded, trying to maintain her smile.
Slowly John turned and walked the short distance to the old pickup truck with the newly dented hood, which was filled with the few things they rightfully owned. Betty gave them John’s furniture but refused to give him the other pieces she didn’t want. He deserved nothing from her family that he hadn’t already taken. John’s father grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the truck. John nodded a silent goodbye to Betty and Jimmy before crawling into the cab. His father climbed into the driver’s side and slammed his door, hoping that the action would emphasize his disdain for the family. John looked out the window and watched Becca disappear in the dust from the road as his father drove them away, taking him from the only people he truly loved.
Letters from Becca
Chapter 1: September 22, 2000
John picked up his pace. Thanks to his age and a few old football and war injuries, that pace wasn’t what it used to be. His doctor had firmly instructed him to get more exercise. “Envision yourself working toward a purpose, or a goal,” the doctor had encouraged him. That motivation didn’t work at first. There was no place in particular he wanted to go. Then it happened. The Schultze sisters, Moira and Gerta, had just moved into the house on the corner. Since meeting him the day they arrived, the sisters had seemingly rescheduled their daily walks around his. The first time—and perhaps the second—might have seemed a coincidence. But for the better part of a month he ran into them daily. Now he moved with a purpose. Running away.
He envisioned them at the windows; one with spyglasses, alerting the other that he was coming. He even tried changing his route, but somehow they always appeared. In their former lives, they must have been spies and somehow figured out how to implant tracking devices on his person. It’s not that they were overly annoying. They were very nice, even cordial. It’s just that John liked his privacy. He kept to himself. His twin daughters urged him constantly to get out more. If it weren’t for his kids’ insistence and the doctor’s orders, he’d never leave the house.
John was the only “single” man of his age within three blocks, except for Old Man Humphrey, as the kids in the neighborhood called him. Old Man Humphrey, who had lived at the other corner of his street all of his seventy-six years, was rarely seen. His grass would sometimes go un-mowed for months at a time. And just when the neighborhood would start speculating as to whether he was decomposing inside, he would emerge to put out the trash (once a month) or to drive to the store (less often). Most of the other residents in the older community were either families or older couples that had been married forty plus years. It was a quiet neighborhood. Everyone left everyone else alone. John liked it like that.
He rounded the corner on his block, having gone a long way in a different direction to avoid the sisters. He smiled to himself, having outwitted the Schultze sisters today, but knowing that by tomorrow, they would have somehow figured out his new route. He arrived at his mailbox at the exact time as Van, his mail carrier. He smiled and nodded cordially, thanking him as Van handed him the mail. Then he made one vital mistake. He stopped to talk. Van asked him about his girls and grandkids, so he, in turn, asked about Van’s. They chatted for a few minutes, then before he stepped away, Van tipped his hat and smiled.
“Good morning, ladies.”
John cringed at the words. Darn it! So close.
Van smiled and winked at John, and for a moment, he wondered if Van was in on it and was deliberately sent to distract him until they arrived. Then Van, thanks to his excuse of work, said goodbye.
John turned and forced a smile over his frustrated face.
“Good morning, John,” Gerta giggled.
John nodded. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Oh, John,” Moira beamed. “No sense in being so formal with us.”
John stepped backward, toward his house.
“Did you have a nice walk?” Moira asked, keeping up with him.
Gerta smiled. “I’m so surprised we ran into you here this morning.”
“But we’re glad we did,” Moira added quickly.
“Me, too,” he lied through his smile.
“We were just on our way to the market. I was going to do some baking this afternoon and thought I’d make you something special,” Moira said.
“Because you’re always just so nice to us,” Gerta added.
“That’s really not necessary,” John replied.
“Oh, but we want to,” said Gerta, stepping closer.
“What’s your favorite dessert?” Moira asked.
“Um, er,” he stammered. “I’m a borderline diabetic. My doctor says I have to watch my sugar and carb intake.”
Both their faces fell at once.
“But thank you for your kind offer,” he added, cornered against his front door.
“Well,” Moira said with a sigh, “we’ll just have to find some other way to show you how much we appreciate you.”
“Really,” John insisted, “you ladies do way too much for me already.” He was on a roll now. “Why, just seeing you every day gives me such pleasure.”
They both smiled simultaneously. “You�
�re just too kind, John,” Moira added.
John slowly opened his door and stepped inside, feeling safer with just the screen between them. “I hate to go, ladies, but I have to finish something I was working on,” he said, struggling for something better to say, but falling short.
“Goodbye, John,” Gerta giggled.
“See you tomorrow, then,” Moira said with a confident smile.
John tried not to cringe, but maintained his smile until they turned and walked away. He closed the door and shook his head. Slowly, he smiled. He had to give them an “A” for effort. He walked to his desk in the hallway and set down the mail to look for his reading glasses. He turned with a start when Patches, his ten-year-old golden tabby cat jumped onto the desk beside him, sending his mail flying in every direction.
John reached down and began gathering the pieces of mail and putting them back onto the desk, then smiled and petted his only friend as she purred and rubbed against him, vying for his attention. He picked up his cat, reading glasses, and mail, and headed for the kitchen where the light was much better. He could care less about reading any of it. It was mostly bills or the annoying junk mail he never opened.
The only piece he would have cared about was still on the floor, under his desk, amidst the dust and cobwebs to be forgotten. For now.
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