The Color of Deception: An Ironic Black and White Tale of Love, Tragedy, and Triumph

by Frank Perdue

  “Hi,” he managed eloquently.

  “Are those for me?” She asked impishly, a smile returning to her face for the first time since he left.

  “No. I bought them for the landlady, but she’s not home.”

  Her smile disappeared.

  “Of course they’re for you.” he said.

  Her smile returned, and broadened. “What’s the occasion?” She really didn’t know.

  Suddenly he sprang into action. He dropped to his knees in front of her, holding the roses upright in the process. “God I love you!” he said, with more emotion than she knew he possessed. “This has got to stop. You are not a kept woman. You are a Goddess” he pronounced. “And I am an infidel not worthy of you.”

  “Oh sure” she stammered, not daring to hope where this was leading. “You got that right.”

  “I love you, Joanna. You know that. But maybe you don’t know that I worship you, too. You fill my thoughts in all my waking hours.” He paused to catch his breath, hoping that his eloquence didn’t sound too phony. He really wanted to make this perfect for her. “My dreams are all of you. So the only thing left is to ask-no, beg you to marry me.” Then dramatically, he produced the ring in its little box. When he opened it, her eyes became even more bright.

  “Of course I’ll marry you, fool, I love you, too.” She chided. “Oh Jake. What took you so long?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the same time frame that Jake Gentry and Joanna Thomas were making their wedding plans, a scheme was being formulated in the mind of a rice farmer named Lawrence Deacon Hostetler. ‘Rence’, as he was known to friend and foe alike, had to do something.

  In the winter months there are long periods of time in the great California valley the sun doesn’t shine. Cold moist air from the Pacific floods into San Francisco Bay and then makes its way through the Sacramento Delta into the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys, spreading out to form a sea of fog for hundreds of miles north and south. To complicate matters, high pressure over the Great Basin of Utah and Wyoming creates an airflow outward toward the Pacific Ocean. When the air begins to sink on the west side of the Sierra mountains it warms greatly. Because it is so much warmer than the fog laden air in the Valley, it can’t penetrate the colder moist air and passes over the top of it on its way to the ocean, creating a temperature inversion that traps the fog at the surface. The condition lasts for days and sometime weeks at a time. It is usually ended when a strong Pacific storm passes through Oregon or Northern California. The colder air behind the front penetrates the fog from the north, causing it to lift and dissipate.

  ‘Rence Hostetler’s farm was near the center of the two valleys just east of the Sacramento Delta. The fog had already lasted for two weeks that winter of sixty-nine and seventy. He couldn’t burn his field to make way for the next planting because the County Government had executed a burn ban until the fog lifted.

  He diligently listened to the radio weather forecasts, hoping for a break that would allow him to burn, and get back on schedule. If he had to wait much longer, he might lose a whole season’s crop. He couldn’t afford that.

  ‘Rence Hostetler did not like government. It seemed as if all those people in Sacramento had to do was cost him money. He hadn’t come out from Missouri, and invested all his cash in this farm only to lose out because of government interference. He was tired of people telling him what he could or couldn’t do.

  Born in Macon, Missouri in 1927, ‘Rence was the only son in a farm family. He had three older sisters. Their spread was large, encompassing five hundred plus acres. They couldn’t work it all themselves, even though there were six of them. They had Negro sharecroppers working about half of the acreage.

  ‘Rence’s daddy was named Harvey. Harve was born and raised there on the farm. He took over its operation when his daddy was left paralyzed from a tractor accident. In 1970 Grandpa Hostetler was still on the farm, alive and kicking, telling everybody who’d listen how to run things. Trouble was, nobody listened any more. Grandma Rose had passed away in ‘52 from pneumonia. The girls had married other farmers from nearby and left the family farm, probably to procure their own kids to terrorize.

  All this ‘Rence knew only from occasional letters he received. For he had run away from his family, the farm, and Missouri at the tender age of fifteen. In 1943 he couldn’t take it any more. Being the youngest and the only boy he was the brunt of constant taunting from all his sisters. Rose, the oldest, and named after her grandmother was the meanest of the three. She resorted to psychological abuse, referring to him as “runt” and “white trash”. He was small. Even now it was stretching things to say he was five feet five. But the farm had made him strong. He could have taken physical revenge on all his sisters, but he knew his mother and father would not stand for it. So he took the abuse, and became bitter toward his whole family. When he ran away, it was without a word to any of them. He also stole his mother’s jewelry.

  He went to a neighboring state, and joined the Army. Perhaps the anger that was already etched in his face made him look older. Or maybe the Army was just desperate for fighting men. He told them he was eighteen. The recruiters didn’t question him.

  When he found out what he had let himself in for, it was too late. The Drill Sergeants were a brutish bunch, and they showed no mercy to the little man who never smiled. He was constantly in disfavor. He did many extra drills when the others in his company were relaxing in the barracks. When he complained, he was given Kitchen Patrol, or KP. He thought of running away again, but he had no illusions about desertion in wartime. He would be shot.

  He went to Guadalcanal as a replacement for the Marines who had initiated the battle and were now weary. He was moved to the Philippines with MacArthur’s forces, when the Solomons were finally secured. He never fired a shot, or was fired upon.

  After the war he was discharged in California where he had disembarked. He was still a private. He stayed on the West Coast. He liked the weather.

  He used his GI Loan privileges and the proceeds from his Mother’s jewelry to start a business in Sacramento. He sold feed and equipment to local farmers. He became a very shrewd businessman. He always intended to run his own farm. When he found out from a Lion’s Club acquaintance, who was a banker, about a piece of property that was almost in default, he did some homework.

  The owner had tried to run the place on a shoestring. He had too little capital to make it profitable. He tried to pay decent wages at harvest time, rather than hiring lower-class farm-workers who didn’t expect much more than eating money. One bad harvest was all it took to drive the man into ruin. When the bank foreclosed, ‘Rence pounced, picking up the entire property for little more than the Bank’s expenses, which ‘Rence knew to the penny, thanks to his acquaintance’s loose tongue.

  But ‘Rence too would be in trouble if the burn ban was not lifted soon in that January of nineteen seventy.

  Then something occurred to him. The fog was so dense that, if he went ahead and ignited the rubble of his old crop, who would know? The fog, which was his enemy, would instead become his ally by hiding the deed. He was used to getting away with his actions.

  His mother’s letters all those years ago related the theft of her jewelry, which was uninsured. She reasoned that a farmhand down on his luck had been the culprit. Never did she opine that her beloved Rence had been the thief.

  During the war, he had feigned sickness on the island of Leyte, so that he would be in the barracks alone during the day. He was able to ransack duffle bags and foot lockers for valuables. There was suspicion but he was never caught. He outsmarted the authorities by hiding his loot with a philippino accomplice. Since he took the most chances, his part of the split was eighty percent.

  ‘Rence Hostetler was forty-five years old. He was about to lose everything if he didn’t act, and act decisively. In his mind, being poor was not an option.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The man crouched low near the ground and peered under t
he huge white truck. Nothing there. Nothing apparent, that is. He knew he had heard something. It sounded like a tree was caught under the vehicle, or a sack. Whatever had made that whooshing noise was gone now.

  He straightened up, rubbed his short black hair, and looked up to the skies as if to say “I don’t know what’s going on. Do You?” He shook his head, then climbed up onto the truck’s running board. He reached up, grabbed the steering wheel, and pulled himself toward the driver’s seat. He had wasted valuable time by stopping, but he would make up for it on the new freeway.

  Tomas Acuna was a pleasant little man. He may have been short in stature, but he made up for it in heart. He liked everybody. He knew that many small Anglos carried a chip on their shoulders, and had to continually prove that they were just as good or better than their larger counterparts. He did not understand that kind of thinking. He was proud of his body, all five feet two inches of it. At least his one hundred and fifty pounds was planted in the Estados Unidos, and he was making a good living for his family. Some of those bitter little people should be sent to his poor village in Mexico to try to make their way. Maybe then if they were allowed back into their own country, they would appreciate what they had.

  Tomas decided to leave his coat on for a little while, until the cab of the truck once again warmed. It was cold outside on this January day. The damp fog seemed to seep into the body. He was tired of fog. Driving every day the way he did made fog the enemy. He wondered why there was fog in the valley. He understood nothing of weather. In his village it was cold but dry through most of the winter. except for the occasional rain that swept in from the sea. It wasn’t something that happened often.

  He turned the lights of the big truck on, and activated the left turn blinker. He reached up to the window, and with his coat-covered elbow and forearm, rubbed the glass to clear away the condensation. He still couldn’t see very well so he rolled down the big window. It didn’t go easy. The truck was old. The equipment did not always work the way it was intended. Tomas was strong however, and he was eventually able to lower the window enough to allow him an unrestricted view of the highway. Unrestricted, that is, except for the fog. Luckily there was little wind. In the wind it always felt colder.

  He was on a section of the freeway with which he was unfamiliar. Usually his route took him to Stockton and Tracy, but on this day he was asked to head north through the valley all the way to Marysville, then west to Williams. He would return by way of Interstate Five to his home base in Sacramento.

  One of the other drivers was sick. The more experienced men doubled up on the shorter southern routes. That freed Tomas to take the long tedious circuitous route he had chosen. He was happy to do it. Mister Gallardo had been very good to him.

  He would never forget the day he met the man who was to become his benefactor. It was the end of a long, perilous journey; a pilgrimage that had begun in the hills southeast of Tijuana, Baja, California.

  Tomas had heard of the dangers to be found when attempting to cross the border. It was whispered in the cantina by survivors who, upon encountering the perils, had turned back. There was a good chance that he would be caught by the border guards of the Estados Unidos, but the biggest threat was said to be the border robbers on his own side. They were merciless, and often killed their prey before relieving them of their valuables, which usually consisted of only the clothes on their backs. The saddest fact, other than the end of a life, was that the abject poverty that caused those poor souls to search northward for a better life, also drove their killers.

  Because Tomas knew about the border bandits, he had a better chance of success. He would avoid disaster. He would plan carefully.

  His beautiful Esperanza tried to talk him out of going. She offered to go to Tijuana and find work. He would not hear of it. He did not marry her at sixteen to send her out to hustle for him. He knew there was only one kind of work for pretty young girls. He was very wise for his nineteen years. Besides, in the last year his wonderful son had been born. Miguel was going to grow up in a better world with a mother at his side. Tomas mind was made.

  The first thing he did was go to the border late at night. He stayed back just to observe. Soon he found a dark place covered with dense brush that was almost impassable. The Border Patrol from the other side did travel through there, but only once an hour. There was no activity from the Mexican side. This then would be his escape route.

  He hitched a ride to Tijuana. He had no vehicle himself. He was able to purchase a map of California, from his meager earnings on a dairy farm near his village. That farm was the only source of income for the peasants who lived nearby. The hombre who ran the local store didn’t even live there.

  Tomas marked the spot on the map where he guessed he would make his crossing. He then plotted his course northward. He would take care to avoid the known Immigration check points. He had only heard rumors that the traps existed, but he would take no unnecessary chances. He decided to go deep into the San Joaquin Valley to avoid any suspicion. Surely no one would suspect a peasant would travel so far from his roots.

  Soon he was ready. He packed a knapsack full with clothes, pulled the drawstring tight, then tied it. He kissed a crying Esperanza goodbye, promising to send money regularly, and to return for her and his child as soon as he could. He lifted Miguel from his rattan crib, and held the infant tightly. He then handed the tiny boy to his mother and disappeared into the night. There was no moon.

  Before long he was crawling through the brush near the imaginary line separating the two countries. When the Border Patrol Jeep passed, missing his inert body by less than forty yards, it seemed as though his heart skipped a beat. Once the vehicle was out of sight, he could probably have run for it. But his cautious nature made him continue crawling for another hundred yards. Then he rose and began his trot toward Jamul, a Yankee town whose lights he could see in the distance over the hills.

  Even though he was thirsty, he skirted Jamul and avoided contact with anyone. His clothes were torn in spots, and he had bled some from the rough branches of the scrub brush he’d had to crawl through. The blood had congealed and dried by the time he passed by the small old town. When the sky became orange on the east horizon, he decided to rest.

  He did not have a blanket. There was no room in his small canvas bag for what he considered non-essentials. He found a spot where rocks would shield him from the blistering Sun, laid down on the ground and was soon fast asleep.

  He had walked nearly fifty miles into California before he dared to make contact with anyone. He was very hungry. It had been three days since he had anything solid to eat. He was able to find some water at times, but he was very fearful of being caught and sent back.

  On a farm north of Escondido, near Temecula, he was able to exchange work for food. He was fortunate. The first people he approached understood his plight. They fed him well, and in return, he helped dig an irrigation ditch for them. They provided him with some old clothes without holes. He was very grateful. Then it was time to move on.

  He began to feel that this new country was not hostile after all. With all his preparations, he had taken the attitude that he must avoid nearly all contact to be safe. Now that he had distanced himself from the border, he was feeling less threatened.

  He soon allowed himself the luxury of hitchhiking. He found that the Americanos sped by in their big cars with nary a look. Luckily there were also Mexicanos on the highway. Unfortunately they were never going very far. He was able to make small advances toward his eventual goal, which was Lodi.

  On the sixth day of his journey, Tomas reached his destination. He searched for permanent work all afternoon, but was only able to find a migrant job picking walnuts. He was hired near the end of the harvest so he only received two days pay. One of the workers told him of a place that hired Mexicans full time. It was thirty miles north, near Sacramento.

  He arrived at what was a dairy farm at meal time. It was a tactical mistake. When he found the main ho
use and rang the bell, he was greeted by a huge hairy man with a loud gruff voice.

  “What the hell are you doing here interrupting our dinner?” The man’s shirt was open at the top two buttons revealing a large mat of curly dark hair. It was so thick that it hid the skin. He opened the screen door, almost knocking Tomas down.

  For the first time in his life, Tomas found himself stuttering/ “I’ I’m s’sorry Senor. Please fo’forgive m’me. I’ll come back another time. He turned to retreat swiftly. Suddenly he felt the big man’s hand on his shoulder. He was frightened now. He tried to pull away from the giant’s grasp. His feet went out from under him and he landed on the wooden porch like a sack of flour. He groaned. Not because he was hurt, but for what he was sure would happen next.

  “Wait a minute, Gumba. Let’s start again. Why are you here?”

  Tomas stared up at the big man’s black eyes. “I was told there was work here. I just arrived in this town. I have no money. But I will work hard if given the chance.” He was afraid that if he stopped talking the man would become angry again. “Once again I apologize for disturbing you at this late hour. If you will let me I will be on my way.”

  ‘Yes, I do have a job. Have you ever milked cows?”

  “Si, Senor. I am the fastest milker in my village.” Tomas purposely left out how small his village was.

  “Okay. Then you’re hired. You go over to that white house there,” he pointed to a nearby structure “and my manager will show you where you can bunk. You don’t have a place to stay do you?”

  “No, Senor.”

  “My name is Hank Gallardo. Who are you?”

  “Me llamo Tomas Acuna.” He slipped into Spanish. He didn’t mean to. It just came out that way.

  “It’s okay; Tomas. I’m sorry if I frightened you before. I’ll bet you are a good worker. By the way the manager’s name is Ed Lewis. Good night.” He went back into the house, and Tomas was alone to ponder what had just happened.