Cruel Harvest

by Fran Elizabeth Grubb

  “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.

  Early one morning, while the dew was still on the grass, I was picking under a large tree so full of apples the branches touched the ground. I had been humming softly, and suddenly realized Daddy had not yelled at me for singing. I looked around but he was not in sight.

  “Where is Daddy?” I asked Nellie

  She had an apple-picking bucket strapped around her neck and shoulders. Daddy felt picking apples was the quickest way to make money. Of all the farm jobs, this was my favorite. It was cool under the large trees, and it was clean work. The smell was delicious, and we could eat apples when Daddy wasn’t watching.

  Nellie shrugged in response to my question. “I saw him off talking to some woman.”

  This was not odd or unexpected, but for some reason I felt curious to see who it was. I crossed the lines of apple trees, looking down each row until I found him. He was indeed talking to a woman. He was all smiles, and he had changed his voice to a soft purr.

  The first thing I noticed was her face. She was very pretty with long, flowing blond hair and big blue eyes. Her features were strong but feminine, and she smiled as she spoke with Daddy. She was a little taller than him and built much heavier. As I watched, a little girl about four years old, as dark as her mother was light, appeared from behind her, playing under the fruit-laden branches.

  I was shocked when I saw Daddy pick the small child up in his arms. He patted her long, shiny black hair and did a little magic trick, making a quarter appear behind her ear. I heard the little girl laugh. It was a bubbly and infectious sound, and despite myself, I smiled.

  I thought little of that scene until the next night, when Daddy brought us home from working the orchard. He was excited and agitated. Daddy told me and Nellie to clean up the cabin, and he left in the car. There was not much to clean, considering we had so little of our own, but I worked at getting a layer of the ever-present dirt off the floor and the cobwebs from the ceiling. Daddy came rushing back in with a sack full of fried chicken and some fixings.

  My mouth watered at the smell of it, but I was wary. Daddy didn’t bring home food like that for us. I figured it was some kind of trap, and that if I ate it, he’d hurt me. So I hovered around, my stomach rumbling and my mind fighting the almost uncontrollable urge to snatch up a chicken leg and race out of the cabin.

  Things became clearer when a soft knock sounded at the cabin door. I started. Visitors were usually unwelcome, but Daddy hurried to the door and opened it. There stood the tall, heavyset blond woman and her young, dark-haired daughter. I would come to know them too well: Millie and Mary Anne. Unbeknownst to them, they were walking right into my nightmare.

  I saw Daddy flirting with Millie in the fields many times over the next few days. She and Mary Anne came by the cabin every night. Mary Anne played with me and Nellie. She was an adorable little girl and I loved her. In spite of my mind warning me not to get too close, my heart melted inside my chest when she called me “Fances.” Millie told me that Mary Anne’s father, who was not around any longer, was a full-blooded Native American.

  Mary Anne loved to play, and I would sit for hours tearing out paper dolls for her. She was a happy child, filled with curiosity and a desire to learn anything. I read comic books to her, and if we had nothing else, I recited stories that Mama had taught me.

  We started picking apples alongside Millie. Mary Anne, however, was too little to work. She just played in the apple orchard beside her mother, sometimes trying to get me and Nellie to join in.

  “Why’d you gotta wuk so hard?” she asked, her little brow wrinkled.

  Any other child saying that to me would have made me laugh. Her big, dark eyes were so serious that I could tell she just didn’t understand why I couldn’t play with her. So I answered her with gentleness.

  “I’m older than you, honey,” I said. “I need to work to get money.”

  She stared up at me with wide, dark eyes that made me think of a baby deer.

  “I’m four years old.”

  “You are? You’re getting so big.”

  “I am a big girl. Pappa says so.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “You got a daddy?”

  “Pappa’s my granddaddy. My daddy is gone off. I think he’s building a bridge someplace far-off.” She looked out over the tops of the apple trees. “Far, far-off.”

  “What makes you think he’s building a bridge?”

  She shrugged. “Mommy says he’ll be gone for a long time.”

  I nodded, but I was not sure what she was talking about. She just stared at me as if waiting.

  “Frances!” Daddy called out.

  I jumped and quickly started filling my sack. Mary Anne
danced around me.

  “Here, I’ll help,” she said.

  She’d pick an apple off the ground and shove it into my sack. Her little hand could barely grip the ripe fruit. It made me smile to watch her try to help so earnestly, but then I caught sight of Daddy giving a warning look.

  “I gotta get back to work, baby,” I said, taking a step away from Mary Anne.

  “I’m helping.”

  “You are a big help.” I put my hand up as if to stop her following me. “But I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “Can we play hide-and-seek?”

  “We sure will, Mary Anne. Tonight, after work.”

  “Okay,” she said with a big grin.

  I watched Mary Anne skip off, and even with Daddy’s threats, I could not help but smile after her.

  One day while working in the field, I stopped to get a cup of water from the large tank the farmer had left out. I had found a shady spot under one of the tall apple trees and sat down for a short break. I heard rustling down the row and thought it might be Mary Anne. She always seemed to know what area I was at in the apple orchard. When she’d find me we would wrestle in the soft grass for a minute or two, or I would give her a piggyback ride. She climbed all over me like a monkey whenever she caught me sitting down.

  I braced myself, only to find it was Millie instead. She saw me, and her broad-featured face broke into a smile.

  “I was looking for you, Frances,” she said.

  “Here I am.”

  I was not being sassy. I liked Millie well enough, but I felt reserved. A thought had crept into my mind one day while I was babysitting Mary Anne. Mama had no choice in the matter, but Millie seemed to be seeking out Daddy’s attention. Couldn’t she see him for what he was? It gave me the creeps to watch her hand Mary Anne over to Daddy. He would play and cut up with the little girl, but I knew it was an act. I thought poorly of Millie when she brought Mary Anne around.

  Millie did not seem to notice any of my reservations. She sat down next to me as if she were a girlfriend come to talk about boys. In a way, that is exactly what she was doing.