Chapter 2
Harry Desmond had made an immediate impression upon me, though it was an ambivalent one. He had seemed a hurried man, an impatient man, but at the same time, he seemed so utterly composed at all times that he must have been more patient than I gave him credit for. His stature was one of a man who had worked- and worked hard- on his farm for all of his life, he was built with tight, solid muscles over all of his frame, though he was going soft in the midsection with middle age and beer. Although his physical appearance was an intimidating one, there was a tiredness about him- a sagging of the soul, rather than the shoulders, a ghost of almost sadness which haunted his every expression. As I have told you before, Harry Desmond was observant; in fact, in the coming months it seemed less and less a blasphemy to say that he was omniscient as the Lord. Although Desmond seemed tired, he proved quite often to be more alert than I knew.
When Harry Desmond gave me a job, I said Yes, sir and set about the task. I never asked him for payment and I never complained and after the first week, I knew that the employment would be an ongoing one. I was given blankets and my own soaps to use at the river each night. I was given a list of daily tasks to perform before beginning my larger projects. Once the Ford's engine was back to life, I was informed that the roofs needed re-shingling, the well-house needed new masonry- the very things I had first noticed, of course- and I accepted the jobs diligently. I was also told I would be digging a new well, but this was to be done later in the year. Desmond had told me one day that he would be paying me for every task performed- that my smaller daily chores were in return for meals and the hay loft- and that Desmond would keep the money in his box until I was ready to leave. "When it comes time for you to move on," he had said, "just let me know, and it's yours. Keep up the good work and I just might throw in a little extra, too." Also, Desmond had promised that if I wanted to go into town one evening a week he would give me three dollars from the box to use as I wished. All in all, it was a very comfortable deal- I knew I had easily two months' work lined up and Desmond would be regulating my spending. By the time summer turned to fall, I could surely take my money to California and go to work for Uncle Herbert.
Over the first week of my employment at the Desmond farm, I learned that Harry Desmond had sired quite a few children. John Desmond was the oldest- and was, in fact, the young man I had spied while bathing that first night. I saw very little of John during my time at the farm; he spent much of his time in the back few acres, tending the fields. He was a quiet, but intelligent young man and I took an immediate liking to him, although he always seemed a little far away. Of all the Desmond children, he was the only one that had gone to school. He had been pulled out of school to work in the fields when the oldest child, Harry Jr. had gotten sick and died eight years before. John had taken Junior's place in the fields. That spring, John was seventeen, the same age as I was.
Sam Desmond was the second oldest child- and easily the most dimwitted of the Desmond children. He was just a year younger than John, but seemed no more than a child at times. He spent most of his time hassling the pigs and chickens while Harry and Marjory's backs were turned, tending to them while under his parents' supervision. Knowing what I know now of Harry Desmond's omniscience, I'm sure he was aware of Sam's foolishness, though I rarely saw him chastise the boy.
After Sam came Susan Desmond, but I saw her not even once during my first week on the Desmond farm. Through Sam's half-wit conversations with me as I worked on the barn roof, I discerned that she was fifteen and under heavy training from Mrs. Desmond. Sam had told me that she was learning to mother, a thought which puzzled me more than a little, but I later learned that she was being taught to be a good homemaker.
The next Desmond was Dirk Desmond, born the same year as Susan, but they were not twins. Dirk was a gorilla of a fifteen year old, with huge corded muscles wrapping around his arms, chest, and shoulders. His abdomen was narrow but as solid as stone and his legs were like tree trunks. I most often saw Dirk out in the fields with Noxie, the cow, shoving his great shoulder under her gut and pushing her forward when she grew too stubborn to pull the plow. While I roofed the barn, Dirk often stood below, casually tossing eighty pound bundles of shingles fifteen feet into the air to land beside me as I worked. Although I feared his aim would be off and I would be horribly injured, he always seemed to be on his mark. Dirk Desmond seemed every bit as intelligent as John, though he had never gone to school. Dirk's intelligence was different somehow, even scary at times. There was a sinister gleam in Dirk's blue eyes that set my teeth on edge whenever his gaze fell upon me. During those first weeks, I did my best to stay out of his way.
The elder Desmond twins, Allen and Greg, were fourteen that year and seemed to be bad eggs, deep down to the core. Quite often as I worked, they would shout awful things at me, calling me 'white nigger' and 'jigaboo' and often hurling rocks in my direction as I worked. Harry Desmond kept the elder twins busy in the nearer fields most of the time and for that, I was grateful.
Ethel Desmond, who was thirteen, seemed just as rotten as the elder twins and somehow even more rude. The first time we met, she spit at me for no reason at all.
Louise Desmond was ten years old and somehow detached from the world. Her eyes were always glazed and she rarely spoke to anyone. She had a peculiar obsession with torturing beetles and mice. The term sociopath would not have come to me in 1937, but it comes to me now.
To make up for these rotten Desmond children- except for John, of course, who was quiet, but pleasant- there were the younger twins, Willy and Heather. They had all the sweet shyness and manners of any eight-year-old and an uncanny ability to make me smile when they called me Dewwick because they could not properly pronounce their r's.
The youngest Desmond was Seymour, who was still a toddler, but I saw very little of him because he was sickly and constantly in the house, being coddled by Marjory, who was unbelievably pregnant with a twelfth child.
Although it was the first time I had come face-to-face with it, I knew it was not uncommon for poor farmers to raise so many children and I was never completely baffled by it. Though, being an only child, I often wondered how different my life would have been, had I been born a Desmond. The thought still makes me cringe and I still have dreams about it, waking me in the middle of the night, with sweat sticking my pajamas to my clammy skin.
Although the Desmonds lived so many in such a small farm house, they seemed used to the accommodations and I rarely heard a complaint from them. I was intrigued by the family- and a little frightened by them- and I found myself watching them often for the first two weeks, while I roofed the two barns. They seemed as dysfunctional as any family, sibling rivalries and all, though on a multiplied scale because of their numbers. From time to time I would see bruises on some of the children and I could almost imagine the arguments that had caused them; brothers fighting over chores or second helpings at supper time. Sisters scuffling over the last clean dress or a rag doll.
It wasn't until the three roofs were completed before I learned more about the occasional bruising on the Desmond children.
It was the third week of work on the Desmond farm, and the first week of June, that I began the stonework on the well-house, killing two birds with one stone as I gathered rocks from the fields and piled them in a wagon to use to rebuild the walls. My first trip into the fields, I gathered so many stones in the wagon that it sank down into the dry soil and wouldn't budge. I had briefly entertained the idea of lightening the load before Dirk pushed his way through the corn stalks, looking as if he had been watching me all the while, laughing silently at my mistake.
"Less rocks next time, jigaboo," he said. He put his weight into the wagon and it rolled through the field, digging up great trenches in its wake, his muscles bulging terrifically and even ripping through one sleeve.
It was that morning, while I caked mortar on my trowel, that I saw the first sibling scuffle at the Desmond farm, the first explanation for the bruising. Allen was crossing the yard by the chicken coup, glancing casually at Sam who was lightly tossing one chicken after another into the air and whooping with great invalid laughter. Allen passed me as I placed a stone in the wall, the bottom third of the south side coming along nicely, and spit tobacco in my hair as he went. I didn't take the time to wipe it away, knowing it would only validate his action, but I knew I would spend some extra time in the river that night, washing away the insult as much as the spit. The rotten Desmond brat passed by without a word and entered the well-house through the door on the north wall. I saw him enter through the window before my face. I saw his face change from a distant smile- at my expense, for sure- to a bitter scowl that seemed almost uncomprehending. I followed his gaze to see Willy, who had been at the pump for several minutes, drawing water for the pigs' trough. Willy had dozed off at the pump, his delicate little white fist loosely gripping the handle. His expression was loose, as if sleeping accidentally after trying very hard to stay awake.
"You little sneak!" Allen shrieked and Willy's eyes popped open, not showing even a second of disorientation, but immediately darkening with dismay. Allen took two quick steps, crossing the small well-house, and grabbed Willy's tiny forearm and swung him around to slam face-first into the stone wall. Although their backs were to me, I saw blood on the wall where Willy's face had hit. "You wanna go to sleep?" Allen wailed. "I'll put you to sleep!" He slammed him into the wall again and I was appalled to note that little Willy was not only not resisting the assault, but he was not crying out either; it seemed, in that awful second, to be a common occurrence for the small boy. Allen reached up onto a high shelf and pulled down a broad shaft of wood, what seemed to be a crude crop of sorts. He turned Willy over, pushing him down hard on his face, lacing into him with the wooden crop, crisscrossing the strokes across the poor child's back two dozen times. Willy still had not cried out, but I could hear him whimpering as quietly as he could.
Allen pulled the limp little boy to his feet and turned his face up into his own as I watched. "I'm gonna give you three, asshole," he said. "You explain it to Papa." I could feel my eyes widen- could feel the blood drain from my face- as Allen pulled Willy's shirt sleeve up to the elbow, produced a small paring knife from a pocket, and slashed three deep lines across the boy's forearm, just below the elbow. In that brief glimpse of the boy's arm, I found that I no longer wished to work on the Desmond farm, that I didn't want to be anywhere near such a sadistic boy as Allen Desmond. I decided immediately that I would resign from my position that night- and I would explain myself that evening to Harry Desmond.
Allen's eyes met my own through the window as he replaced Willy's sleeve as the little boy wept. One corner of his mouth seemed to come up in a sly smirk and I felt my breakfast move a little in my stomach. He left the boy there, crying and alone, his face bloody and right sleeve ruined with stains, and rounded the well-house to stare into my face. Never had I felt so outraged, so terrified, so exuberantly appalled- never had I wanted so badly to hurt another human being- to maybe even kill someone- but I couldn't even close my gaping mouth or blink my shocked eyes. I couldn't even utter a word of protest.
"Work, nigger!" Allen shouted. He lifted one knee and kicked me heavily in the face. Although I tasted blood, it was distant and I hardly felt the blow at all. The brutal attack on little Willy had hurt me so much more than any kick to the face ever could. Still, I wished to retaliate, but could still not move. It had not been necessary, though, for Harry Desmond appeared on the porch of the house, a knowing expression on his face, and called for Allen to get in here, boy. I felt a brief stab of triumph, but the boy's face showed no remorse, no fear. And though I waited for many minutes for Allen to cry out from the house under the disciplinary lashes, it never came.