Cruel Harvest by Fran Elizabeth Grubb Page B

between us and wrapped my arms around him. He hugged me back as though we had never been apart. All the lost years vanished, and we were kids again as we had been at Uncle Mose’s house.
    Both of us were crying. His returning hug was a long-awaited dream coming true. When we finally parted, and I looked at Wayne, he was crying and laughing at the same time. That’s when I felt another piece of my heart snapping back into place. Another part of my family had returned.
    At that point, a heavily built very tall young man stepped out into the hallway. He looked like Hoss Cartwright on the old Bonanza television show.
    â€œThis is Danny, your nephew.”
    I tried to wrap my arms around him, but they only got about halfway across. He was smiling from ear to ear.
    â€œHi, Aunt Frances.” He had a rough, deep voice that sounded as though he was trying to keep from crying himself. He looked at his dad, then over at me. “I’m happy to meet you at last.”
    Those words were gold to me. I wrapped them around my heart, vowing never to let them go.
    â€œWe can’t talk here,” Jimmy said. “I’ll find us a place to sit.”
    Like the perfect gentleman, he led us to a waiting room on one of the floors below. He offered me a seat on a small loveseat. My heart filled even more when he chose to sit down right beside me. We talked, the words coming as easily as breathing. My brother’s mild manner told me he was more like Mama. Eventually, the conversation came around to Daddy.
    â€œAfter he got arrested,” I said, “we moved to Aunt Tessie’s house.”
    â€œI didn’t know her,” he said.
    I looked him in the eye. “You wouldn’t have wanted to know her, Jimmy.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” he asked.
    So I answered him.
    After Daddy was taken away to prison, we lived in the bus with Mama. In my eyes, the salvage yard became a huge playground filled with wonderful places for hide-and-seek and cars that drove all the way to England in our imaginations. Daddy was gone, and even though we were living in an old bus and had no money to speak of and very little food, I was with Mama and I was happy.
    Trouble was not far off, though. Soon a group of state workers arrived. Several men and women wearing suits and carrying clipboards came and looked around the bus, asking mama a lot of questions. After that, the newspaper reporters showed up. Flashbulbs burst all around me as they took pictures of the inside of the bus and our living conditions. They took pictures of the cardboard we slept on with the dirty clothes and the orange crate where Mama cooked. Every inch of our space filled with people I did not know. I flinched away as flashbulbs went off in my face. Whispered words carried on the air: wretched and deplorable . It struck me in that moment, watching strangers peering at our home, how truly different we were. I wished they would all just go away. I crawled up under the bus and hid in the dirt until they left. The pictures ended up plastered on the front page of the local newspaper.
    After a day or two, the news media left us alone and we were allowed to play again and live in peace. Nellie, Robbie, and I raced through the junkyard. Mama gave us the leeway to roam free. In the evenings Mrs. Johnson came by with food: home-cooked biscuits and a chicken, maybe a stew or casserole. She also brought information for Mama. She was Mama’s link to the outside world.
    â€œHe’s being held until the trial, so don’t worry. I did hear the state is close to finishing up their investigation. I think they may be coming soon,” I heard her say.
    I guess I did not understand what Mrs. Johnson meant. I sensed Mama was worried, but our nights were not filled with Daddy’s bellowing rage and violence. In time, even Mama seemed to relax. I imagined this would be my life, and I did not mind the thought.
    Everything changed early one morning. Police