Wendy

Wendy's story

Wendy's story

Part one



I will try to let her tell it just as she told me this morning.



With a worried look on her face, Wendy pushes her now silver hair out of her eyes. As she speaks, I feel the pain she is experiencing.



"Daveed, it is long past time for me to tell you what I should have told you before you went to Vietnam. I was so afraid you would misunderstand and think that I was using you as a scapegoat, to be the father of the child in my belly. You couldn't possibly really love me without knowing all the facts. Yet I was terrified of what you thought, knowing that I had spent years living at Madam Angelique's."



She is right, it would have been shaky ground to build a life upon, but no one else in the entire world has ever come close to making me feel the way I always have since I first laid eyes on her. And here I stand, wondering, "how can I tell her that I would have tried to accept her and the baby no matter who his father was. I would rather not have known his name if I am honest."



I decide to make coffee while Wendy collects her thoughts, giving me time to prepare emotionally to hear her story.



"Daveed, I'm going to start at the beginning. Some of the choices I made could have been different, but I don't know in the long run how much better they would have been.

I couldn't stand being tongue-tied and watching you kill yourself with Jim Beam." A massive tear rolls down from her eye, across her cheek, and drips from her jaw. There is so much I never could bring myself to tell you."



Wendy searched her memory carefully for the words to describe her last day on the farm. She hesitantly began, almost as if she were exposing something very painful to a surgeon’s knife without an anesthetic.



I hand her a cup of fresh steaming coffee. She sips it slowly, after a long pause, she clears her throat and begins.



"In the late 50s, our place was a farmed-out piece of stone-hard black dirt; if you disturbed its surface, y u got dust. It wouldn't grow weeds, much less cotton. Rural Mississippi, about 65 miles NE of New Orleans, La., was a wasteland. All the precious nutrients necessary for the growth of cotton had leached from the soil as a result of attempts to grow cotton on the same patch of land year after year. People gradually lost hope. Sharecroppers with no crop became desperate when it became readily evident that sweat alone could not replenish the depleted soil, or make anything except dust, no matter how hard they tried."



"In all my life, I only remember two good years. Beginning with a load of smelly shit piled high on a squeaky, weathered wagon pulled by a lop-eared, temperamental grey mule."



"Back before Ma left, Pa wasn't the monster that he later became. We came together as a family for the first time in years because we had hope. If it would make cotton grow again, it made sense to spread manure six inches deep over our entire one-half section. We worked hard, all of us. Ma was out front, pitchfork in hand, spreading manure. “If it will make the cotton grow,” she laughed, saying,” I will spread shit all day and all night.”



"That old mule brought load after load from the slaughterhouse in which Mr. Edson, our landlord, had acquired an interest. Behind the main building was a several-year accumulation of composted manure and waste from the process. It took many trips to fertilize all the Edson land. The eldest son of our landlord urged the poor old mule to pull a plow and replenish each exhausted share farm. Ours was the second one this week."



"Mr. Edson fertilized all four sections of his land before the pile behind the slaughterhouse was exhausted. He told us that every year there would be enough new offal to replenish several farms, doing the others the following year. The home place, of course, would be fertilized every year, which seemed like a plan to my Dad."



"That mule brought new life to our farm and hope into our hearts. I even saw my Ma smile; it was a look of sheer hope. After the planting, a sea of green reached skyward. It was the best crop I had ever seen. At harvest, Mr. Edson gave a big party at the home place and invited all his sharecroppers to bring their families. He barbecued a whole calf. Moonshine and homebrew flowed freely, and my Pa played his fiddle so people could dance. My mother looked happy, and she even did the two steps a few times with various neighbors. I know she had fun, and a few drinks of “Sweet tea laced with moonshine.” "



"I didn’t understand the nature of the argument that ensued when we got to our house. My oldest two brothers had dates and would come home as late as their dates’ dads would allow. The younger boys went right to bed. I heard unidentifiable words rumbling like black clouds low on the horizon, followed by lightning strikes intended to hurt. Ma’s face was bruised the next day from “a fall in the barn.” I knew everything that happened in my parents' room, as there was only one layer of poorly-fitted lumber between us. I slept in the space above my parents’ room under the roof. So it was no mystery to me what happened. Things took a while to come unraveled.



"The following year, Ma stayed home and caught up on her sewing when the harvest festival came. The second year, the yield was only half what it had been the year before. A lot of people were beginning to get nervous. They were assured that next year, we would get the fertilizer and cotton would grow again."



"A fly appeared in the ointment. Suddenly, many cows died, and the disease spread from one fattening yard to another. The slaughterhouse went bankrupt, and Mr. Edson lost a lot of his money. That season, nothing grew except a few scraggly weeds. We hoed, sweated, and toiled, and Ma finally dried up like the earth. An ill wind caught her and whisked her off to St Louis."



"Pa drank more moon than ever before, and he began to use me for sex. The worse things got, the more often he would force me to my knees or across a kitchen chair to service his carnal desires. Of course, all of us received at least one beating with his wide leather belt every day “to keep our minds right.”"



"Toward the end of the summer, he began sharing me with the boys, as they had been grumbling about running off to a city to find work. I guess he figured that screwing me would lessen their desire to roam. I turned fourteen the year Ma left. I followed as soon as I could."

"We worked so hard to make the cotton grow through our suffering. The only moisture the cotton got after June first was the drops of sweat that dripped from our bodies. It was blistering hot and dusty in the field. Sweat seeped from under my bandanna, leaving mud tracks down my face. The worn hoe in my callused hand was the only weapon I had to fight the never-ending battle to grow any salable crop."



"I was exhausted, and the 'days of hell' seemed endless. Just now, Pa turned his back on me, so I took advantage of the opportunity to sneak a tiny break. I looked down at my hard, leathery hands. A crack had formed on my left palm that would probably bleed before the sun buried itself into the horizon."



"Today began before dawn. I prepared our breakfast of side pork and grits, we ate, and I did the dishes as fast as I could. I had 10 rows to hoe to keep the weeds down.



Funny thing, though, even the weeds were shriveling to nothing in the blistering hot sun



"That last day, we had spent fourteen hot, back-breaking hours in the sun. It had been such a long time since we ate breakfast before dawn. After eating, I quickly washed the dishes and joined Pa and my brothers in the hot, dirty task of hoeing weeds. There is no time to waste on a sharecropper's farm. I remember wishing there were a way I could escape my brutal existence."



"The heat kept me from really getting hungry. My breakfast stayed in a hard lump in the pit of my stomach. We shared a water bucket, all working members of our family. Being the youngest, it was my job to carry water a quarter mile from the cast-iron well pump. You know the kind, where you raised the handle and strained to pull it down quickly with forceful enough strokes to lift the water from the shallow well into a waiting bucket."



"I still have 10 rows to hoe today, no matter how many trips I have to make with water. Empty buckets are easy. The walk back full is the hardest part. A heavy bucket causes a pain that originates between my shoulder blades and runs down my arms. At times, it feels like the weight will pull my arms out of the sockets in my shoulders. If I spill any, Pa will take off his belt and beat me right there in front of everyone."



"Pa always had a ready remark to show that he was the undisputed boss. Pa’s voice revealed the cruel, unrelenting taskmaster he was. “Move it, Wendy, people could die of thirst waiting for your slow ass!” Tending the fields has left him with sunburned, deep-red skin, tightly stretched across his mule-like muscles. He was hard inside and outside, tough like leather. By that time, he had sweated out every last trace of love or mercy left in his soul. Now he lives to inflict pain and make everyone else as miserable as he is."



"I know better than to ever say anything back to him. I struggled to take longer, faster steps as I crossed the dusty field."



His rough, leering voice urges me to hurry. “Git over here, girl, and give a thirsty man a drink.”



"When I reached the location where Pa was kneeling on the ground, digging out a large dead weed, I set the bucket down, filled the dipper, and held it for my Pa. He laughed a cruel, leering, filthy laugh as he lifted the bottom of my flour-sack dress. He copped a feel of my bare bottom underneath. The rough callouses of his hand were as rough as sandpaper on my private parts. I knew that if even a drop of water spilled, he would beat me until I could barely stand, and then send me back to work. Somehow, I managed to keep a steady hand. When he finished his water and his filthy groping, I took the bucket to the far side of the field where my brothers were hard at work. The bucket was soon empty, and I had another trip to the pump."



Six people drink a lot of water to keep going in the heat. I am still expected to hoe ten rows of cotton, even though I fetched water for the whole family. The sun sank into the horizon before I finished my ten half-mile rows, even though I worked so hard that I ached all over. No matter how hard I worked, I had only completed nine and one-half rows.



In the afterglow of the day, I could see Pa's temples pulsing with anger. "Go to the house, you have supper to fix, you lazy bitch!"



"I went to the well, filled the heavy tub, to heat water for washing dishes. I washed my hands, lugged it into the kitchen, and struggled to lift the very heavy tub high enough to put it on the stove."



"My brother, 2 years older than me, has the job of keeping a fire in the stove. Pa will test the water's temperature and whack us both if it is too cold."



"I cringe thinking about the punishment Pa will inflict on me when I finish my chores, making supper of cornbread, steaming some greens that grow by the well, and frying the last of our side pork."



"When everyone finished supper, I gathered the dishes and washed them in the dishpan. It takes three kettles of hot water to fill the dishpan with water from the tub. I dumped the wash water outside and poured more boiling water from the tub over the clean dishes. The dishes air-dried quickly. Then, as I put them back on the shelf, Pa said, “Fetch my drink.”



It never mattered to him if there was enough money for food; there was always enough for a bottle of rot-gut whiskey.



"I grab his special whiskey glass and a jug of foul-smelling moonshine whiskey from the shelf and set them on the table in front of him. “Pour it, you lazy bitch!”



I poured a huge drink for him, hoping that maybe he would drink enough to make him so sleepy that he'd forget my punishment."



"The boys left the room immediately. They had seen Pa do this before and crawled into their bunks in the room they shared, taking every opportunity to rest their weary bones and to avoid doing anything to incur the wrath of Pa."



"I opened my mouth to catch my breath. A big mistake."



“You got something you want to say, Girl?”



I hung my head, knowing the worst was yet to come. Pa, I am sorry I didn’t finish hoeing my last row.”



"I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when Pa loosened his belt, but I realized he was not going to beat me again. He had something else in mind. He dropped his pants to the floor along with the saggy flour-sack drawers that I had stitched by hand for him."



“On your knees, you lazy little bitch; show me how very sorry that you are.”



I tried to 'get him off' as quickly as possible, but the large drink of whiskey slowed him down. My jaw ached, and he was nowhere close to a climax. “Lay your scrawny ass over the chair, and give me some of that tight little ass."



"I bent over a kitchen chair, assuming the position. Pa grabbed the bottom edge of my dress and jerked it up over my butt. He spat on his fingers, and I could feel them probing my butt-hole. The lube was for him, not me."



Wendy shuddered in my arms, crying softly as the memory overpowered her in the darkness.



“I had no idea, Honey, if I had only known.” I had a massive lump in my throat, which made it hard to speak.



“You never asked; if you had known all those years ago, would it have made a difference? I still lived in a Whore house.



"Wendy, if you could see yourself in the mirror of my eyes, perhaps you would understand how much I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”



"I, Daveed, I see your tears. If it is too much for you to hear, I will be silent, but I thought it was time to get all this off my chest before I exploded! It is long past time that you know enough to understand how I wound up there, and why things happened the way they did.”



Without a doubt, she thought that I wanted to avoid the unpleasant story that she was laboring so hard to tell me. “God, Wendy, I want to know anything that you want to tell me. Anything that will help you have peace of mind is something I need to know. I love you more now than ever before; I need you to understand that. Forgive me." I held her tightly, feeling her tears dripping on my arm. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and started again right where she had stopped.



"I knew better than to resist Pa, if I did; he would make every effort to hurt me as much as he possibly could. Pa enjoys hurting others now. I guess he is spreading the pain that he carries around inside. He shouldn't be doing this; it just isn't right, I thought."



"I had had only a little schooling, but I've made up for it. Madam Angelique made sure of that from the first.

"During the best year, Ma took me with her to church to thank God for the crop. I listened carefully to the preacher, so I knew that this was not the way things were supposed to be. I thought I knew why Ma left."



"When Pa finished, finally, I lay across the chair too weak and in too much pain to hop right up. I felt like he had turned me wrong side out down there. I could feel blood seeping from the tears."



"Pa poured himself another drink. “You smell like shit! Go clean yourself up, and go to bed.” His sour breath was nauseating."



"I slept on a pallet on the floor above Pa’s room. It was always hot in summer and cold and drafty in the winter. The rough boards formed a ceiling for Pa and a floor for my loft. The roof is too close to stand up, except right in the middle, where the apex leaves just enough room to stand with my hair just brushing the tin roof. I walked in the dark to the cardboard box where I kept the few things that were mine. And I got a fresh rag I used to clean up during my period."



"I strolled out to the water well pump and used the fresh, wet cloth to wipe away the blood and smears that Pa left on my behind. I washed as best I could under the pump spout. Silently, I cried as tears streamed down my face. I choked back my sobs and looked at the moon, wondering if this hell would ever end. I dressed in a fl ur sack dress I had sewn by hand. I wore no panties, never have even owned a pair."



"I looked up at the bright spot where the moon was behind a cloud. It grew very dim as the heavier part of the cloud passed over."



"On my way back to the house, I realized a pickup truck was stopped in the road. Two men seemed to be watching me!"



"I lied to myself, saying, they probably didn't see much."



"The moon was bright enough now so that I was sure that the two men who got out of the truck were not locals." “Probably someone who is lost and needs directions." "



“Sheeit, lookie here,” said the taller of the two."



“What do you want?” I asked.



“Some of that Pushy you were just washing,” said the shorter of the two, his speech slurred like someone with much more to drink than they could handle gracefully."



I probably could have screamed; my brothers might have come to my rescue. But for a second, I was speechless. When I found a voice, it was a stranger who replaced the barefoot girl standing in the shell. It asked, “Where are you going?" thinking that perhaps this might be turned into a way to escape from Pa."



“Louisiana,” slurred the drunker of the two. “We got jobs there working in the oil fields close to New Orleans. You gonna give us some pushy, or are you gonna stand there hopping from one foot to the other?"



"I couldn’t have hurt much worse; my jaw ached, my butt-hole burned like fire, and my feet hurt from the sharp shells underfoot. But maybe these two men could provide me with an escape. I decided in a heartbeat. “You take me with you, and I’ll give you some pussy for the ride to New Orleans." What the hell, I thought, I'm going to be fucked no matter what I do. I looked into the forboding blackness of the sky, no longer seeing the moon, which was suddenly hidden by a passing cloud. "Have I just taken the first step into another Hell, or is this a way out of the Hell, back there on this miserable, worn-out, black-bottom Mississippi cotton farm? "



“Up here,” said the drunker of the two men. He patted the bed of the truck, coaxing me in. I did not look back as I scrambled up, tentatively like a severely abused pup, into the truckbed. The drunken boy pulled his pants down to take his thing out and lay down. He wasn’t in any shape for sex, and after a few seconds, he was fast asleep with his limp organ still in his hand."



The driver looked back at me, stopped the truck, and opened the door to the cab. I climbed down from the back and up into the cab. “You want to stop for a while?” I asked. It might be easier, maybe safer, if we stopped."



"We are supposed to be at Uncle Bob’s rig at sunup, we gotta keep moving. Can you do me while we are driving?”



“Just don’t go in the ditch when you get your rocks.” I put my head into his lap and went to work. He didn't go into the ditch. I spat out the cab window and curled up against the door. Pa was never that easy.



Even though it was close as the crow flies, the meandering two-lane shell roads made for a long ride to reach the rig. Finally, the truck's tires roared as they adjusted to the metal grid of the Pearl River Bridge.



“We are in Louisiana now,” announced the driver, waking me up.



“Ummm, how much farther is it?”I said.



“Thirty to forty minutes to the rig.”He said.



“Where do I get out?”I worried aloud, wondering what I would have to do to survive.



“Stay with us; we’ll get you to civilization as soon as we can," the driver said.



Just before sunrise, the truck pulled up to an Airstream trailer with “Acme Drillers” painted on the door of the office of the drilling company.



The driver spoke very loudly, intending to wake the sleeper in the back of the truck; “I’m gonna check in and see if I can get some coffee.” He stepped out of the pickup and mounted the three steps leading to the office. He opened the door and stepped inside.



The young man sleeping in the truck bed struggled into an upright position. “Ere the fuck am I,” he groaned.



I knew that bouncing his head off the truck bed for hours must have made his hangover into something that defied description. He hitched up his pants and stepped down to the ground. He leaned against the back of the truck, barely able to stand up by himself.



The door to the trailer opened; the driver descended the stairs, coffee in hand, with a six-foot-seven-inch tool pusher behind him. The tool pusher was not happy. “Where is Toby?” he asked.



The driver said, “He is a bit hungover, Uncle Bob.”



“Toby and Timothy, McPherson, you are two of the poorest excuses for human beings I know of; if you weren’t the sons of my only brother, I’d kick you off this property with the toe of my boot!”



Toby weaved out from behind the truck. “Unka Bob, I’m sorry, musta have got some bad lightning.”



Uncle Bob grabbed Toby’s collar and dragged him around so that he could stand next to his brother. "You two get your asses into Slidell. When you get there, tell Thelma, the proprietor of Thelma’s Motel, that I said to put you two on my bill. Close by, there is a place to eat. Thelma will point you in the right direction. I expect you here tomorrow morning at daylight, SOBER and ready to WORK as you have never worked before.”



Just then, Bob spied me curled up in the seat of the truck. “Get rid of that little underage whore, she ain’t nuthin’ but trouble, of the very worst kind I damn sure ain’t paying for her keep!” Unka Bob’s face was purple, with veins protruding like they were ready to burst.



Toby returned to the back of the truck. This time, he used a bedroll from the cab for a headrest. Timothy climbed into the front of the pickup and started the engine. I joined him. We didn't talk, and I wondered where I'd wind up. A cold wave of fear clutched at my chest as I peered intently, trying to see a spot of sky through the canopy of trees overhead. The truck crept down the four-mile, very rutted stretch back to the main road. After twenty-five more road miles, he parked in front of Thelma’s Motel. The trip had taken over an hour because of thick fog that seemed to come from everywhere, saturating the air and making it nearly impossible to see.



Finally, Timothy introduced himself and his brother. “We are the McPherson brothers. He,” gesturing toward the back,” He is Toby. I am Timothy. Honestly, I do not know what we are going to do with you. Wait here.”



“What have I done? I thought.” I was afraid and struggled to hold back a flood of tears. I was terrified of having to go home. I thought about the beating I would get and how many times my father and brothers would rape me as punishment. I opened the door and vomited even though my stomach was nearly empty. Sour bile left a rank burning taste in my mouth.



Timothy went into the Motel Office, leaving the door open so that I could hear every word spoken inside. I saw an enormous woman with brass-colored dyed hair up in curlers, wearing a worn cotton print dress, emerge. “I’m Thelma,” she said, sticking out a hand with long fake nails on the fingers.



Thelma had a “whiskey and cigarette tenor” voice. She handed a key to Timothy, “Stow your gear in #5, then take your brother to the 24-hour café around the corner; tell Gloria to feed you on Bob’s nickel. If I were you, I would get some rest. You will be expected to eat breakfast at 4 AM tomorrow, get on the road by 4:45, and get to the drill site by 5:15. Bob will work you harder than you ever dreamed possible.”



“Do you have any idea what we can do with our hitchhiker?”



Thelma took a look at me standing by the pickup truck. “Humph might as well send her in where I can get a look at her; I might know a way to help her.”



When Timothy talked to me, he said, “Look, you need to talk to Thelma. She said maybe she could help you.” I walked hesitantly into the office and paused before the closed door, choking back my terror and dry heaves.



“Come on in, sweetie. Damn! You are a young one to be on your own! Tell me your story, and I will try to help you.” She moved a stack of newspapers off a little table onto an already overflowing trash can in the corner. Thelma got a couple of cups and a fresh pot of coffee and set them on the table. Two hours later and after a second carafe of coffee and four sticky pecan buns, I finished my tearful story.



“Honey, you ain’t got no reason to worry about going back home; I know someone who can and will help you. She is a madam who rescues girls in your situation. What you do from here on is between you and Madam Angelique Simone Dupree.



Thelma took the telephone around the corner, trailing the long coiled cord from behind the desk into her little apartment. I could hear her talking, but could not tell what she was saying. The fan on the counter was loud enough to muffle any voice spoken into the phone.



Thelma came back a little later and sat down across from me. “Honey, you are a lucky girl; a certain 'Fallen Angel' wants to meet you. She will come here in a little while.” Thelma was mentally counting a finder’s fee.



Thelma once worked at the same place the Madam was to acquire, through a fortunate twist of fate. When Thelma gained well over one hundred and fifty pounds not

Owning outright eliminates other hands reaching into your pocket. Thelma told me a little of her story as we waited for Madam.



A little over two hours later, a shiny lipstick-red Studebaker convertible with its white leather top down pulled into the shell parking lot by the Motel. A very short, dainty woman emerged from the car and seemed to float across the parking lot to the office.



“That woman is Angelique. Are you ready, sweetie?



I stood up when she came through the door. I inspected Angelique thoroughly; at the same time, she scrutinized me with a sympathetic eye. I was very conscious of my dirty bare feet, sack dress, and tangled dirty hair that cried for attention. Madam seemed satisfied with what she saw. “Let me see your hands, Wendy.”



I held out my rough, callused, cracked hands for inspection.



“Ouch, I know that hurts,” said Angelique. She dug into a little purse she always carried, “Use this lotion on those hands. It will help begin to heal them and keep that crack from bleeding more.”



I did as instructed, working the creamy mixture into my sore hands. Then I followed Angelique to the car, Angelique opened the passenger door, and motioned for me to get in.



“We have a couple of stops to make on our way home, she said.



I peered out of the convertible at a whole new world when we started through New Orleans. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before.



Seven hours later, I had been freshly bathed in a real bathtub, and my skin had the scent of rosewater. I was dressed in new store-bought clothing from head to toe. I even had panties, the first ever. My feet were comfortably tucked into new, well-fitting shoes, and my soft, honey-colored hair was in a neat, stylish coiffure. In the back seat were several dresses, bras, lace panties, and real silk stockings. There were three more pairs of new shoes in boxes. An expert had manicured my nails. Callouses were no longer the most prominent feature of my hands. I had experienced a makeover second to none. Angelique spared no expense, including a quick visit to a doctor.



I felt like a princess, far beyond anything I could ever have imagined possible. We talked about things so far removed from Mississippi that a whole new world opened before my eyes like a flower.



When the red convertible with the white leather seats came to a stop in front of “La Maison de Fontaine de Bleu ” (the house of the blue fountain), my eyes opened wide. I never dreamed such a Palace existed outside of picture books.



Madam Angelique parked in the circular drive by the fountain and escorted me up the front steps of the mansion. I paused for a few moments, enthralled by the fountain. Madam spoke to the uniformed butler, asking him to unload the car and move my treasures to my new room



These were my first steps into a world that I could not even imagine existed before this long, strange day. It was only the beginning of my new life.

Angelique stood looking at me. “Honey, you are the most radiant, beautiful little girl I have ever seen.”



At the time, I did not understand what thoughts were behind her enigmatic smile. I now realize that she was thinking, "I will help this child any way I can."



At the time, I could never have fathomed the influence she would have on my life.



“It is time to eat and meet the girls, Honey.” Angelique led the way to the dining room. Inside was a fine hardwood table, set with crystal, fine china, and sterling silverware. Already, several other women were seated. “This is Wendy, and she will be staying with us for a while.”



Wendy stopped and then said, "Daveed, I am emotionally exhausted right now. Let's eat breakfast and let me recharge my batteries before I begin the next segment of my story."



I put my arms around her and smelled her hair. It has been so very long, but in the last couple of days, I rediscovered that I have loved Wendy all along. Even a man in his mid-sixties can feel the wonders of love. She is as bright and beautiful as she was so long ago, the first time I held her in my arms.