Aunt Dora and Uncle Joe, because of her health, moved from sagebrush country to a farm near Molalla, about thirty miles from Portland. Aunt Dora invited us out to see a rodeo, the annual Molalla Roundup. I found this invitation exciting, something to brag about to Ralph.
When we arrived in Molalla on a hot summer day, Uncle Joe said he had been unable to buy five seats together. He offered to sit with me so my parents and Aunt Dora could sit together and visit. Uncle Joe and I climbed to the top of the bleachers while the others sat down in front.
The heat was unusual for Oregon. Cowboys riding bucking broncos and roping steers churned up clouds of dust. The spectacle was sweaty, dirty, and, at first, fascinating. Gradually it grew monotonous and the heat and dust stifling.
Uncle Joe bought me a bottle of Orange Crush, which I held in one hand as I drank through a straw. Uncle Joe took my other hand in his. Having my hand held did not seem unusual. In Yamhill, I had often walked down the street with an uncle holding me by the hand. However, because of the heat, I wiggled my hand free of his. I could not make conversation with this uncle and was glad when the rodeo ended.
On the ride home, Mother remarked, “It does seem odd that Joe could not get five seats together.”
Dad said, “I thought so, too.”
I did not bother to mention Uncle Joe’s trying to hold my hand. The incident was dropped. It seemed of no importance.
That winter, Aunt Dora invited us to come out to Molalla for Saturday dinner, a midday meal on the farm. We could spend the night and drive home on Sunday. Mother, tired of cooking, accepted with pleasure. Dad looked forward to exploring the farm. I took a book with me.
Saturday night, after I went upstairs to bed in the cold farmhouse and lay shivering, weighed down by heavy woolen quilts while my body warmed the sheets, Uncle Joe burst into the room, thrust a folded sheet of paper into my hand, planted an urgent tobacco-smelling kiss on my cheek, and said, “For God’s sake, don’t show this to anyone!” and left. I was terrified.
Innocent of any knowledge of sex, I knew something very wrong was occurring. I was too frightened to get out of bed, fumble in the dark for the overhead light, and read what was written on the paper. Uncle Joe might burst in again if he saw a light. My stomach churned in fear, and I scrubbed my cheek with the sheet. This was not uncle behavior. All my other uncles were kindly, affectionate men, but they did not sneak into my bedroom to shove notes at me or kiss me in the dark.
When my parents came upstairs, I heard Mother say, “Why don’t we take Dora and Joe back to town with us?”
“No!” I called out in a whisper. “Please, please, don’t!”
Neither parent caught my fear. “It will make a nice change for Dora,” said Mother, who was always sympathetic to farm women.
“She works pretty hard out here,” agreed my father as they went into another bedroom and closed the door. I lay in fear of the man who had become an evil stranger.
In the morning, Uncle Joe did not take his eyes off me, but I managed to whisper to Mother, “Please don’t take them back with us. Please don’t.”
Mother merely gave me an impatient look. I could not find an opportunity, or was too frightened, to read the letter. Uncle Joe was watching every move I made.
That day I rode back to Portland in anguished silence between Mother and Aunt Dora, the letter clutched in my hand inside my pocket, while Aunt Dora and Uncle Joe made plans to take Mother and me to a movie the next day before they caught the bus back to Molalla. I spoke up. “I don’t want to go to a movie.”
Dad was beginning to be irritated by my behavior. “Of course you want to go to a movie,” he said.
Still I could not bring myself to read that letter. I am not sure why. I know it repelled me. Perhaps I was afraid of what I might find in it. That night I slept on a cot in the attic because my room was used as a guest room. Monday morning I stayed upstairs as long as I dared, listening to the sounds from below.
When Mother and Aunt Dora were in my bedroom, and Uncle Joe was in the living room, I ventured downstairs and into the kitchen, where I finally got up my courage to unfold the letter, a sheet of tablet paper filled with pencil writing. I caught the last words, “Your lover, Joe,” before the writer of the letter was beside me, his dark eyes glittering like coal.
I fled to the bedroom and sat down on the bed with the letter crushed in my fist behind my back, while Mother and Aunt Dora continued their conversation, oblivious to my distress. Uncle Joe followed and sat down on the bed beside me. Smiling at the women, he twisted my arm and pried the letter from my fingers. I shrank from him.
“Why, what’s the matter?” Mother asked at last.
Uncle Joe answered for me. “I just wanted to know what Beverly wanted for Christmas.” A lie. This branch of the family did not exchange Christmas gifts.
Aunt Dora kindly asked what I wanted for Christmas. I couldn’t think of anything. Uncle Joe announced he felt like going for a walk. The women continued their discussion of clothes. I did not want to speak out in front of my aunt.
When time came to leave for the movie, Uncle Joe returned.
For once I defied Mother. “I will not go to the movie.”
“Of course you will,” she informed me, her mouth tightening into a straight line.
“No I won’t,” I contradicted.
To avoid a scene, Mother had to give in. The three of them left, and I was alone, trying to sort out my frightened thoughts.
However, true to habit, halfway to the corner, Mother made some excuse for returning to the house. She was furious. “Beverly, I don’t know what gets into you sometimes!” she began. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be nice to your aunt and uncle. You don’t often see them, and they think a lot of you. How can you be so selfish?”
“I am not selfish,” I said, angry because no one had listened to me and upset at being accused of not being nice to my aunt, whom I loved.
I told her about the kiss, the letter, my twisted arm, the way she and Dad ignored my agitation.
Now Mother had to listen. She was appalled at what she heard. “Beverly, I am sorry. I had no idea” was all she could say as she hurried off to prevent her in-laws from returning to see what had happened to her.
That evening, Mother was heartsick and said she could hardly bear to sit through the movie beside Joe. “Poor Dora,” she said. “Married to that man.”
Dad was furious when he heard the story. “I always knew Joe was no good,” he stormed. Sometime after he had calmed down, he must have told my aunt what had happened, for after my experience, none of my girl cousins was ever left alone in a room with Uncle Joe, and he was watched whenever he was near.
I never saw my lovely aunt again, but when I was married, she sent me an antique quilt made with tiny, tiny stitches; and once after Joe’s death, when she was very old, she wrote me a letter in exquisite penmanship answering some questions about family history Mother had passed on to her.
The most puzzling part of this unpleasant episode of my girlhood was Mother’s failure to give me any information about sex. My understanding of the word “lover” came from fairy tales read when I was younger, and yet I sensed from Uncle Joe’s behavior, from his glittering dark eyes, that the word had a meaning I did not understand and that the meaning held evil for me.
Badly frightened, without understanding exactly what I was frightened of, I did not know how to ask.