The Sometimes Daughter

by Sherri Wood Emmons

  “Five.”

  “Well, you’re a lucky kid. You’re lucky to be alive in a time like this, when so many people are working to make the world a better place for you. And you’re lucky to have such a cool mom.”

  I didn’t reply. I simply watched him as he sprawled across the futon. He seemed completely at home.

  After several minutes, my parents returned, Mama smiling, Daddy looking grim.

  “I told you to go to bed,” Daddy said firmly, glaring at me. “Scoot!”

  In my room, I sat by the closed door, listening intently.

  “Look, you can stay a couple days,” Daddy said. “You can sleep on the futon.”

  “Thanks, man,” Glen drawled.

  “But if you stay here, you will stay here clean. No dope. We have a kid.”

  “No problem.”

  “I mean it.” Daddy’s voice rose. “I don’t care if you smoke a little pot, but I won’t have you bringing this shit into my house!”

  “God, Kirk! Lighten up. It’s just a little acid. It’s not like I’m doing heroin.” Mama’s voice was sharp.

  “I’ve told you before I don’t like it, Cassie. I think it’s dangerous.”

  Mama sighed, then said, “All right, no acid in the house.”

  “But”—her voice trailed as she walked into the kitchen—“we do have some wine.”

  The next morning when I woke up, Glen was sitting in my chair at the kitchen table. Mama sat beside him. They were looking at a big map.

  “This is where we’re going to build the bake house,” Glen said. “We’ve already got a great kitchen, but if we’re going to sell bread, we need more ovens.”

  “Are we making bread, Mama?” I loved kneading dough.

  “Oh, hey, Sweet Judy. Good morning. No, we’re not making bread today. Glen is showing me where he lives on a big farm in Kentucky. A whole bunch of people live there all together, and they grow their own vegetables and all work together, and everyone helps everyone. Doesn’t that sound great?”

  “Look, kiddo.” Glen pointed to a building on the map. “That’s our school. The kids can walk there in the morning and come home for lunch. And they learn by doing, instead of just memorizing shit. It’s a great place for kids.” He was smiling at Mama now.

  “Can I have Fruit Loops?” I asked.

  Mama poured my cereal and set the bowl at Daddy’s place.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He had to work today.” Mama frowned. “He’s always at work or school,” she said to Glen. “He’s hardly ever at home.”

  “Sold out,” Glen said grimly.

  Mama nodded.

  “That’s what’s so groovy about the farm,” Glen said. “We work hard, but we’re all together. Even the kids help. You’ve got to come.”

  “I want to,” Mama said. “I just have to convince Kirk. He’s gotten so weird. He wants everything to be all safe and normal. God, he used to be so much fun.”

  “Well, if he won’t come, maybe you and Judy can come on your own. Just to check it out.”

  “Maybe,” Mama said. “Maybe we’ll just come for a visit.”

  “You can come with me when I go.” Glen reached across the table and covered Mama’s hand with his own. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Maybe,” she said again, smiling.

  Mama and I did bake bread that day. Glen left mid-morning to meet up with some of the other protest organizers. So we made freeform loaves—my favorite kind.

  By the time Daddy came home from work, the apartment smelled of fresh-baked bread.

  “That smells great,” he said, pulling Mama to him and kissing her mouth. “How’d you know I’ve been thinking about bread all day?”

  “I guess I just know how you think.” Mama laughed.

  “Don’t!” she said abruptly, as Daddy reached for a loaf.

  “Why not?”

  “Those are for dinner,” she said.

  “There’s plenty for dinner and then some,” he said, tearing a hunk from the loaf. “It’s best while it’s still warm.”

  “Damn it, Kirk! I worked all day on those and you’ve ruined one of them.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Daddy asked, smiling at her.

  “I just ... damn it! You didn’t even ask, you just took it. Like it’s just your God-given right to exploit my labor.”

  Daddy looked at her in silence, chewing a bite of bread.

  Then he walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of milk, poured himself a glass, and left. I followed him down the stairs to the front porch and sat beside him on the steps.

  “Why is Mama mad?”

  “I’m not sure, sweetie. I think maybe she feels like we don’t appreciate her. Or maybe she’s just cranky today.”

  “Daddy, are we going to go live on Glen’s farm?”

  “No, baby. We are definitely not going to live on Glen’s farm.”

  “Okay.” I felt the tension in my shoulders relax. “I don’t want to live in Kentucky. I like my school.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. We’re not going anywhere.”

  Four days later, Mama and I were sitting on a Greyhound bus with Glen, heading south on I-65.

  Daddy had left for school that morning before I was awake, so I didn’t get to say good-bye. Mama left him a note on the kitchen table, right next to a batch of brownies she’d baked before we left.

  I cried when she told me we were leaving. I told her I didn’t want to go live on Glen’s farm. I didn’t want to leave my school. I didn’t want to leave Daddy.

  “You’ll love it when we get there,” she said, stroking my hair. “If you don’t love it, then we’ll just come back.”

  I buried my face in her lap. For the first time ever, I didn’t believe my mother. I didn’t believe she would bring me back if I didn’t love the farm.

  We rode on the bus for three hours. When we got off the bus, a friend of Glen’s was waiting in his VW van to drive us to the farm. That took another hour. By the time we pulled up in front of the big, shabby-looking farmhouse, I felt as if we might be in another country altogether.

  “Come on, Sweet Judy. Come see our new house!”

  Mama pulled me from the van and picked me up. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She was smiling all over.

  I stared dully at the house, the barns, the endless fields stretching in all directions across gently rolling hills.

  “You’re going to love it here. I promise. There’s so much to do. And there are animals, Judy! Look, in that barn there are horses. And over there are some chickens. Do you want to see the chickens?”

  “Hey, babe.” Glen was pulling bags from the back of the van. “Which of these are yours, and which are Judy’s?”

  He was sorting our luggage into two piles. Mama pointed out her bags, and then mine. When she was done, Glen began carrying Mama’s bags into the big house. Mine still sat on the ground by the van.

  Another man appeared and began gathering my bags. But instead of taking them into the farmhouse, he walked across the road to a long, low building lined with windows.

  “That’s the children’s dormitory,” Mama said, watching me anxiously. She chewed her lip, then said, “You’ll like it there. You’ll be with all the other kids, just like at school.”

  I nodded, not yet comprehending what was happening.

  Glen reappeared and took Mama’s hand. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you around.”

  I trailed behind them as Glen pointed out the dining hall, several small cottages, a large pond, and the horse pasture. When we came to the schoolhouse, he stopped and grinned at me.

  “This is your new school, kiddo. What do you think?”

  We walked inside. It did not look like my classroom at School 57. The large room was mostly empty. No desks stood in rows. No dolls lay in cradles. No kitchen corner, no blocks. Just a big room with some beanbag chairs, a chalkboard, and a huge globe.

  “How many kids are here?” Mama asked.

 
“About fifteen,” Glen said. “It varies. People come and go, you know.”

  A large bell clanging startled me.

  “Dinner,” Glen said. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  We walked to the dining hall, where people were already standing in line, plates in hand.

  Glen introduced Mama to several people. They smiled, hugged her, shook her hand. Everyone seemed friendly. We filled our plates with brown rice, squash, and bread, then sat at a long table to eat. The noise was deafening. People talked and laughed, children ran around the table, a dog barked at the door. My ears hurt from it all.

  “What’s your name?”

  A girl stood across the table, staring at me.

  “Judy,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Judy,” I said more loudly.

  “I’m Liberty,” she said, smiling. “Are you gonna live here?”

  I looked up at Mama, and she smiled. “Yes, Liberty. We are going to live here. I’ve heard so many nice things about this place.”

  “It’s okay.” Liberty shrugged. “You want to see the pigs?” she asked.

  I did not want to see the pigs. I did not want to leave Mama’s side. But Mama was pushing me to go. “You’ll like the pigs,” she said. “And you have a new friend!”

  I looked at Liberty. She was about my age, maybe a little older. She wore a dirty T-shirt and shorts. She smiled, and I saw she was missing a front tooth. She seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t Lee Ann or Susan or Carol.

  Sighing, I followed her out of the dining hall and down a dirt road.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A long time. Before, we lived in Louisville. But my dad wanted to live here.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s okay,” she repeated. “School is fun. We do lots of cool things. But, we work a lot. I don’t like that part.”

  “What do you do?”

  “We work in the garden, mostly. I pull weeds and pick stuff. Sometimes I feed the chickens. We help in the kitchen, too. And other stuff.”

  It sounded like a lot of work.

  “It’s okay,” she said yet again. “But I miss my old house.”

  I nodded. I had not yet been gone a whole day, and already I was homesick.

  Liberty climbed onto a fence and grabbed a big stick.

  “Watch,” she said. “They like this.”

  She leaned over the fence and several huge pigs walked toward her. She used the stick to scratch their backs and they snorted and grunted and pushed at each other to get closer to the stick. After a few minutes, she gave the stick to me. “You do it.”

  So I scratched the pigs and wondered how secure the fence was. The pigs were very big.

  A bell clanged again, and Liberty sighed. “Meeting,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  I followed her back to the dining hall, where the plates had been cleared from the tables.

  “Okay.” A man was talking loudly. “First, let’s say thanks to the folks who made our meal tonight.”

  Everyone clapped.

  “And now, I have a couple introductions.”

  He smiled at Mama. “This,” he said, pointing toward her, “is Cassie Skylark. She’s from Indianapolis. She came down with Glen.”

  Everyone clapped again.

  “And this”—the man pointed at me now—“is Sweet Judy Blue Eyes, Cassie’s daughter. You should know that Sweet Judy was born ... at Woodstock!”

  Everyone clapped loudly. I shrank into Mama’s lap, wishing they would look at anything besides me.

  “Cassie’s going to be working in the kitchen,” the man said. “She’s going to help us set up the bake house. I understand she makes some mean bread.”

  Everyone smiled.

  “Now, let’s have our rap session. Who wants to talk?”

  Several people wanted to talk, as it happened. One complained about someone who wasn’t doing her fair share of work in the laundry. Another reported on the progress made in building a new latrine. The meeting lasted a long time. By the time everyone had finished talking, I was half asleep, my head in Mama’s lap. It had been a very long day.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Glen was grinning at me. “Looks like you’re ready to hit the sack.”

  He lifted me from Mama’s lap.

  “Come on, I’ll show you your new digs.”

  Glen carried me to the long, low building, Mama trailing behind.

  Inside were two rows of bunk beds.

  “This one is yours.”

  Glen sat me down on a lower bunk near the back wall.

  “See, Sweet Judy?” Mama’s voice was anxious. “You get to sleep in here with all the other kids. Won’t that be fun?”

  I simply stared at her.

  “Where’s your bed?”

  “Oh.” Mama knelt in front of me. “I’ll be sleeping in the other house, right over there.” She pointed toward the door.

  “Why can’t I sleep with you?”

  Mama looked up at Glen. He shook his head.

  “Let’s just give this a try for a couple nights, okay? I think you’ll like it when you get used to it.”

  Mama’s eyes were too bright, her smile too stiff.

  Other children began coming into the dormitory. Some climbed into bunk beds. Others gathered toothbrushes and headed for the sinks. Liberty arrived and plopped down on my bed beside me.

  “I’m right over there,” she said, pointing at a bed across the aisle. “So we can talk, if you want.”

  “Okay, then.” Glen stood and took Mama’s hand. “Let’s let Judy settle in.” He began walking toward the door. “Good night, kiddo.”

  Mama pulled her hand from his and bent to hug me. “It’s gonna be all right, baby girl. I promise you’re going to like it here.”

  She kissed my forehead.

  “Okay, kids. Ten minutes till lights out!” A woman’s voice rang through the room.

  She stood by the doorway, smiling at Mama.

  “She’ll be fine, Cassie. It’s hard on them at first, but they adjust pretty quick. And I’ll be right here if she needs anything.” The woman gestured to a curtained corner where a bigger bed stood.

  Mama nodded, kissed me again, and turned away. Tears welled in my eyes as I clutched at her blouse. I’d only ever spent one night away from Mama, the time she’d been arrested for swimming naked.

  “Mama, wait!”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, baby. Sleep tight.”

  Mama walked out of the building and the door closed behind her.

  “Hi, Sweet Judy.” The woman stood by my bed. “My name is Mandy. I’m the dorm mother. So if you need anything, you just let me know, okay? Do you have your toothbrush? Good, there are the sinks. Go brush your teeth. The toilet is out that door,” she pointed to a door at the back of the room. “I’ll go with you the first time, so you’ll know where everything is.”

  She smiled at me.

  “You’ll like it here,” she said. “Everyone likes it here.”

  I nodded at her, but I didn’t think I would like it one bit.

  I cried myself to sleep, wondering where Mama was and where Daddy was. And why Daddy had not come with us. And why he let Mama take me away.

  7

  Life on the farm was a lot of work. We rose early to feed the chickens and weed the garden before breakfast. I always sat with Mama at meals, edging as close to her as I could, trying hard to block out the cacophony of noise in the dining hall. After breakfast, I went to school. Most days, our teacher was a plump young woman named Caroline. She read to us, helped us with math problems, and told us about places around the world, pointing them out on the globe as she talked. Sometimes Glen taught us about the war in Vietnam, and how the United States was killing innocent children and babies there. I thought a lot about Lee Ann’s father then. He didn’t seem like someone who would kill babies.

  After lunch, we had playtime. Liberty and I climbed trees and built forts and sc
ratched the pigs. Then more lessons before dinner. And always, after dinner were the rap sessions. These went on sometimes long into the night, and I would fall asleep stretched out on the bench with my head in Mama’s lap.

  Mama loved the farm. She worked hard in the garden and in the bake house. Both of us got sunburned, then peeled and burned again. Mama spent a lot of time with Glen.

  Every night, after Mandy turned out the lights, I lay in bed and cried, thinking about Daddy and my grandparents and my school in Indianapolis. Sometimes, Liberty heard me cry. Then she would crawl into bed with me and hold my hand until we both fell asleep.

  One morning, after we’d been at the farm for a few weeks, Liberty and I were pulling weeds in the garden when we heard shouting. We peeked around the edge of the barn and saw a police car in front of the main house, doors opened, lights flashing. A policeman stood between Glen and another man, whose back was turned to me.

  As we watched, Mama emerged from the house and ran to stand beside Glen. She was shouting, too.

  And then I saw who the man was, shouting at Glen and Mama. It was my father.

  I ran past Liberty, down the dirt road toward the house.

  “Daddy!”

  He turned, and a huge grin spread across his face. He ran toward me and pulled me into his arms, holding me so tight I felt squished.

  “Judy, oh, thank God! Oh, I missed you.”

  “Sweet Judy!” Mama’s voice cracked. “Come here! You come here right now!”

  “Now, ma’am.” The policeman’s voice was low but firm. “Your husband has a writ of custody. You took the child unlawfully, and he is taking her home. If you want to fight for custody, you’ll have to file a claim in a court of law.”

  “Kirk!” Mama screamed at Daddy. “Kirk, don’t take her! You can’t take her away from me!”

  Daddy didn’t reply. He gave Mama a long, cold stare, then carried me to the police car, put me in the backseat, and climbed in beside me. Outside, Glen was holding Mama tight, so she couldn’t get free.

  The policeman climbed into the front seat of the car, closed the door, and started the engine. As we drove away from the farm, I could hear Mama screaming for me. “Sweet Judy! Noooo! Come back.”

  I leaned into Daddy’s chest and cried.