Bales & Bolls

I WOKE WITH A START. Then terror gripped me when I realized Daddy had been kissing me while I slept. I started trembling, horrified at what he had done and what he might have done. I had fallen asleep on my bed because of painful menstrual cramps. And the unspeakable had happened while being alone in the house with him. I usually avoided being alone with him. I sat up abruptly, slightly disoriented, and got off the bed. Somehow being on the bed signaled greater danger—the danger of him raping me. Ma must not be at home, I thought. She probably went to the Hardestys’ to clean their house. So Daddy seized the opportunity when he saw me sleeping. I felt paralyzed, unsure whether to run or to stay. He continued to sit on the bed, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. His look made me even more afraid—that strange yet familiar look that made me nervous and uncomfortable. I hated that look. He remained silent. He always remained silent. Then he did something unusual. He gave me a blue sweater. Considering we neither celebrated birthdays nor received Christmas presents every year, being given a gift outside of the holiday raised suspicion. On some intuitive level, I knew he had attached strings to that gift. I glanced at it but refused to accept it, thinking it would make me a willing participant in his lustful scheme. I continued to stand still without saying anything, then I gathered up the courage to leave and hurried outside, seeking safety in the company of my sister and brothers. Unsure what to say to them, I said nothing, but with effort, I tried to act casual.

Feeling soiled, I walked over to the pump in the backyard and pumped cool water into the dipper and rinsed out my mouth. A few minutes later I heard Daddy firing up his old Chevy. After a few attempts, the engine turned over, and I watched the clay-tinged billows as the car sputtered down the sandy path leading to the main road. Relieved that he had left and that I probably wouldn’t see him until morning, I tried to relax, but my heart continued to race, beating so loudly I thought the others heard it. He had escalated his attacks, getting bolder, and it terrified me. I trembled thinking about that close call—too close for comfort. Finally I calmed down, although still shaken by the incident. Fear had become a constant companion over the years. Hardly a day passed without it drawing me into its suffocating embrace, reveling in its impact on me. I wanted to rid myself of that menace, but it had taken root, consuming me and keeping me on edge. I felt trapped, unable to stop Daddy and his attempts to rape me. But I refused to give in to fear.

At thirteen that fall of 1957, I had a vague understanding of sexual purity, yet I knew I had to safeguard it. And based on information Aunt Ginny, Daddy’s youngest sister, had shared the previous year, Daddy had crossed lines of acceptable behavior. He had intensified his efforts to violate me, creating opportunities to isolate me. Although Ginny had explained the finer points of the facts of life, I remained unclear about some aspects. Why did Daddy behave in this manner? Should fathers act this way? Not having a context for it, I had no idea how to respond. How do you fight against your father’s less-than-honorable actions? I fought this battle alone, but I needed help.

The next morning, I pretended nothing unusual had happened. I went to the barn with the others to grade and tie tobacco, the last phase of the season before the tobacco went to market. Unnerved by Daddy’s blatant assault the day before, I remained on edge, trying to anticipate his next move. I have no memory of discussing this with Ma or Buddy, who was two years older, or Sissy, two years younger. My two younger brothers, Toby and Junior, were ten and six and unable to understand these things, not that I planned to say anything to them. I carried heavy burdens, shouldering sordid things hard to understand. And living in the same house with Daddy, I had no place of refuge, never knowing what to expect—what schemes he might be plotting. Avoiding direct contact that morning, I concentrated on the tobacco. Then I breathed a sigh of relief when he left. But I remained in a state of anxiety as I continued working that morning.

After those vile episodes, Daddy acted as if nothing had happened when the effects of the alcohol wore off. In the aftermath of those incidents, I used to cast furtive glances at him, trying to see if indeed he had no memory of his lewd behavior, or to detect some knowing glint in his eyes. I never saw any indication of guilt, and he seemed incapable of feigning ignorance, pretending nothing happened. Since he showed no remorse or shame, I wondered if he remembered. Did he use drunkenness as a shield? Since he started drinking as an eight-year-old, I wondered what alcohol had done to his brain. For my safety, I assumed that he posed a threat whether drunk or sober, and that I needed to keep alert. Perhaps he continued to devise his plans while sober and thinking more clearly. Pondering these things made me uneasy, but I thought of nothing else. Indeed, maintaining my safety consumed me.