“I can’t see anything. Where are the cars?”
We both knew we would need at least two vehicles to transport all of us kids on the eight-hundred-mile trek from Dallas to Denver. Just as I opened my mouth to say I didn’t know, the clouds parted slightly, and a full moon revealed a large box truck sitting at the end of our cracked driveway.
“We’re not going in that, are we?” My surprise and disgust carried my words slightly too far, reaching Arthur’s ears at the front of the line.
As he directed everyone to the open back of the box truck, he hissed at each one, “Get in. Find a place to sit, and be quiet. Absolutely no talking!” Then he spun around and headed toward me. He yanked my arm hard, and held me in place while the line of siblings marched on toward the truck. Celia could only watch, her countenance filled with compassion mixed with confusion. Arthur leaned down, his face only inches away from my own. I could smell the peanut butter on his breath.
“Shut your mouth and get in. You know we’re doing this to build God’s kingdom. Do you think I need to hear you complaining?”
“N-no,” I stammered, trying to wrench free from his firm grasp.
He tightened his strong fingers around my upper arm until I felt certain they would leave a mark —or worse, a bruise. “Then I’d better not hear another peep out of you.” He quickly released my arm and shoved me in the middle of my back, propelling me forward once more. I stutter-stepped but managed not to fall or lose my flimsy flip-flop again and climbed in the back of the truck.
The space inside was dimly lit by a couple of flashlights held by older siblings. Someone had spread a few moving blankets across the floor of the truck, but these did little to soften the hard wood floor. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent odor of mothballs mixed with the greasy residue on the blankets. Scanning the truck for Celia, I quickly spotted her midway back. She patted the floor next to her, indicating she had room for me beside her. Even the slight movement of her hand echoed throughout the empty space and garnered startled looks from the older siblings.
I scurried next to Celia, sat down cross-legged, and leaned up against the metal wall behind me. We sat quietly for what seemed like an eternity. Even a sigh or heavy breath brought worried glances from other siblings because Arthur had told us not to make any noise. I didn’t even want to imagine what the adults might say or do if one of us younger ones actually spoke up about our confusion or fear. Celia and I clutched one another, and that small reassurance helped me keep my rising whimpers at bay.
Finally, Arthur appeared at the back of the truck. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it down, and the door rattled shut, leaving us in darkness, except for the faint light of the flashlights. Moments later, the tired truck sputtered to life. The way it squeaked and groaned around every turn, I worried that we wouldn’t make it out of our neighborhood, much less anywhere else. It bounced in and out of potholes as we made our way onto a Dallas freeway en route to Colorado.
After a while, the noise provided enough covering for me to safely whisper to Celia, “What do we do if we have to go to the bathroom?”
Celia only shrugged her shoulders, but I could see dread in her eyes.
Thankfully, Arthur and Alex, who took turns driving, made scheduled, reasonable potty breaks. They even gave us a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter along with a butter knife after one stop at a gas station and convenience store. It was all we had to eat, but still it was something. I gobbled up my sandwich in mere moments. We played guessing games about where we were headed and told stories to pass the time.
I managed a fitful sleep, but when I woke I was stiff and sore from lying on my side. It took me a moment or two to get my bearings. My ears were buzzing from the constant noise of the motor and the grinding gears that were mere inches from where I’d rested my head.
But ringing ears and stiff muscles seemed a small price to pay to see my mom again. I hoped the truck would hold together long enough to get us to our destination.
Finally, the loud, constant hum of tires on pavement traveling at highway speeds lessened. The truck careened one direction, then the next. We held on to one another for stability when we weren’t lying down. One of the older kids turned a flashlight back on. “I think we’re almost there. Gather up your stuff.” All I had with me was a worn stuffed rabbit and a ponytail holder —we called them bolitos —around my wrist. Celia held her prized possession, a worn Raggedy Andy doll, to her chest.
When we finally came to a stop, the rolling door was opened with a deafening rumble that reverberated off the metal walls. Celia and I squinted in the bright sunlight, thankful to hear nothing but relative quiet. I saw a figure just outside the back of the truck —something familiar about it made me sit up.
“Mom!” I yelled, as the tears started welling up in my eyes and the ache in my heart began to ease. I clambered over my siblings to get to the edge of the truck bed, lean over, and hug my mother’s neck. “I never thought I would see you again!”
“Anna Keturah, stop being so dramatic.” She held me tightly for a few seconds, then peeled me off and searched for her other children who needed hugs as well.
Celia, my other siblings, and I experienced a few blissful days —blissful only in the sense that we were reunited with our mother, not in less work or more comfortable living conditions. This new “home” in Denver was completely run down, like all the other barely affordable houses we rented. The cramped three-bedroom, one-bathroom house sheltered about twenty of us, which meant constantly crowded conditions. Mom, her children, and the other children in her care shared this home with Teresa and Yolanda, two of my mother’s sister-wives, and their six children.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mom shouldered enormous responsibility. She cared for her own seven children, the ones who were still minors, as well as four other children who belonged to Beverly, Mom’s sister-wife who was in prison. But that wasn’t all. Mom was given charge of her sister-wife Mary Lou’s children when Mary Lou lost her short battle with cancer.