Cy in Chains Read Free

father.
    â€œDon’t tell me nothin’, boy. You got some misery written all over yo’ face. What is it?”
    There was no point in lying. “Teufel lost the race, and when they come home, Mist’ John put him in his stall and whipped the hide off ’im.”
    â€œShit! I ain’t never knowed no man have worse luck with horses than John Strong. You know what this mean, don’t you?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œMean Strong done lost this place at last. I heard tell he bet every cent he got left on that damn horse, and see how he end up. God in heaven! I don’t give a damn what that man do to hisself, but what about the rest of us? What about Dorcas an’ Daniel? We all gon’ have to leave now, ’less we wants to beg the new owners to let us stay. And after all that damn plowin’ these last five days!”
    Pete Williams went for the crockery jug he kept on the high shelf by the bed where he slept alone. He pulled out the stopper, raised the jug to his lips, and drank deeply. So it would be that kind of night. “Supper ready?” he asked.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDish it up, then.”
    Cy served his father a plateful of beans, a piece of pone, a slice of fried fatback, and some dandelion greens.
    â€œLord, I’s so tired o’ beans,” his father complained. He used his spoon to push the sticky mass to one side of his plate. “We got any syrup?”
    Cy went for the pitcher. “Bring the salt, too,” his father told him. He covered his pone with the thick brown syrup and poured salt on the beans. “That’s better,” he declared. “Next time, be sure to cook them beans with plenty o’ water.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Cy had given up a long time ago trying to cook food the way Pete Williams liked it. Whatever he cooked was usually too this or too that, but he noticed that his father always cleaned his plate. There was too little of anything to waste it.
    The man took to pushing his beans into small mounds. “Guess we be leavin’ here real soon,” he said bitterly.
    â€œWhy, Daddy? Even if Mist’ John lost the place, we can stay.”
    â€œFor what? So I can break my back slavin’ for some new master? Hell, no! I’s done. Somebody else can kill hisself to make money for the white man. I been thinkin’ of headin’ over to Savannah anyway, get me a job on the docks. You, too. You almost old enough.”
    Cy put down his spoon.
Maybe I don’t want to go to Savannah
, he thought.
Maybe I wants to stay here. If Mama ever come back lookin’ for us, and we was gone . . .
    But Cy didn’t dare say this to his father.
    â€œWhat’s a matter?” Williams asked. “Don’t you want to get outta here?”
    â€œSure, Daddy. But—”
    â€œBut nothin’! The sooner we go, the better I like it. Savannah can’t be no worse than this hole.”
    â€œHow we get there? Mule belong to Strong.”
    â€œYou got two feet that work, ain’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell, then.” Pete took a bite of fatback, then spit it out. “Ain’t I told you ’bout cuttin’ off the rind ’fore you fry this up?”
    â€œSorry, Daddy.”
    â€œFetch me the jug.”
    Cy brought the moonshine, and the man took another long swig. They finished their meal in silence. Williams kept drinking, and soon after he’d eaten, his head dropped onto his chest. He began to snore.
    â€œCome on, Daddy,” Cy urged. “Lemme help you.”
    He half carried the big man to the bed and let him drop onto it. Cy lifted his father’s legs from the floor and got him to roll onto his side. The snoring wasn’t as bad that way. Then he cleaned up the dishes and put some wood in the fireplace. After a warm day, the evening was surprisingly chilly. Cy sat staring into the fire, brooding.
    Had John Strong really lost