Into the Free Page 3

  It’s almost dark before I finally calm down enough to sit still. I stay a fair distance from the dog and her puppies. I sing them to sleep with a song I make up about lightning bugs and Jesus. Then I go in to fix egg-salad sandwiches for Mama and me. I figure the last thing she’ll ever want again is a bite of pot roast. Same goes for me. So I set it aside to take out to the stray, and I sweep up the mess left behind from Jack’s latest fit.

  I set out a fresh cup of water on Mama’s bedside table, kiss her good night, and try to smell her strawberry shampoo under the stench of mud and blood in her hair. Then I grab the roast and head out to check on the pups.

  The mother mutt looks up at me, the spotted pup I named Rose hanging in her jaws. The mama hunches over, crunching tiny bone and tendon with those yellow teeth. I look around the yard, frantic. I call their names. “Twinkle? JuJuBee? Belle?” I listen for their weak yelps, their hushed panting. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of the mother limping back into the deep, dark woods from where she came.

  Soon enough, I fall asleep on the ground next to Sweetie’s trunk. I sleep all night under the stars. The next morning, it isn’t Mama who finds me, and thankfully it isn’t Jack. Instead, Sloth wakes me as the sun comes up. “Morning, Wild Child.” He holds a biscuit and a cup of coffee. “You missed breakfast.”

  Sloth is old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s my best friend. I spend almost all my time with him. He likes to be outside as much as I do, and we can always manage to find a squirrel to befriend if the day is taking too long to get done.

  Unlike Mama, who only cooks when Jack’s coming home, Sloth is serious about preparing meals every day, and he expects me to help. Whether it’s catching game, filleting fish, or plucking hens, I try to pull my share of the load. “Don’t work. Don’t eat,” Sloth teases as he holds the biscuit and coffee above me. It’s a belief that’s stuck with me. Ever since Mama stopped cooking on a regular basis. If I get hungry, I go looking for Sloth.

  I was only about four years old the first time I found him on the side of his house holding a plump red hen and a rusty ax. He pinned her to the cedar stump, stretching her scrawny neck long and thin across the wood. Her eyes looked into mine. They were black and round, and they knew.

  When his ax sliced into her, the sound of her cries sent me spinning. By the time I settled, Sloth was carrying the hen to a tin wash bucket on his porch. Headless, she swung from his hand. Blood dripped down with each of his wobbly steps. He threw the bird into the bucket. Then he came back from the fire pit with a pot of hot water. “Watch out, now,” he said, dumping it over the bird. “Helps the feathers slide out.”

  Next thing I knew, he was handing me the hen and pointing me to sit on the edge of the porch. “Pluck,” he said. I gave him my absolutely-not look. “Pluck!” he said again, this time a direct order.

  He pulled one long red feather from her belly. I tried, but it didn’t slide out. It was stuck. The thick base of the feather clung to the hen. I argued that she didn’t want to be plucked. Didn’t want to be supper. “Gotta eat!” is all Sloth said. He pulled the bird back to his own lap and stripped the feathers out in bunches.

  That sure wasn’t the last bird I’ve plucked with Sloth. He’s taught me a lot about things like that. Like how to spread trotlines from bank to bank and come back in the evening to find a whole line of catfish, turtles, or crappie hanging from hooks.

  My favorite is when we catch gars. Their long narrow mouths look like they could snap my arm in two. Sloth always signals me to keep back. Then he slides the hook right out of the fish, like he’s slipping a knife through jelly. No pressure at all. Looks easy. But that’s how Sloth does pretty much everything in life.

  “I should have gone fishing with you yesterday,” I say, biting into the warm biscuit and looking around for Jack’s truck, hoping it’s nowhere in sight.

  Sloth reaches out his hand to help me to my feet. “Ever a choice,” he says, “choose fishing.”

  Mama said they moved to Cabin Two not because it was cheap but because it was the farthest place they could find from her parents on the other side of town. It’s been almost twelve years since Mama married Jack. His Choctaw blood was not welcome in Mama’s family, and so neither am I. We live in the same town, shop in the same stores, walk the same streets, but if my grandparents happen to cross my path, they simply turn the other way.

  Jack found out about Mr. Sutton’s empty cabin during a horse sale, and it’s all I’ve ever called home. We actually pay rent every month on the fifteenth instead of working the plantation like Sloth and the other farmhands. Mr. Sutton agreed to rent to us when Jack proved that he knew a thing or two about the horses. And the cows. Jack helps out when they have a problem with the livestock, and Mr. Sutton repays him by providing materials like clapboard siding and a fully flushing bathroom.

  I’m also lucky to have my own bedroom. The other two cabins are one-roomers, which at some point might have housed eight to ten slaves. That’s what Sloth told me.

  Sloth has spent his whole life in this place, rising with the sun each day. He cooks himself a sizzling strip of bacon, heats a biscuit “big as a cat head,” fries an egg fresh from his coop, and drinks a cup of coffee—“Black, like any real man do.” Then, he and his pet rooster named King take a stroll up to the big house to deliver a basket of brown eggs and see if there is work to be done. He does odd jobs around the farm and gives the Suttons the best meat from his hunts. Just before Mrs. Sutton passed away, she told Mr. Sutton that Sloth should always have a place on their plantation. And so it is. But now he’s getting a little too old to keep up with everything, so I help him before and after school, plus on weekends, like today. I never mind pitching in—I collect dark oval eggs in his coop, pick crisp vegetables from his garden, and help him cook over an open fire.

  By the time we reach the coop, I finish the biscuit he’s brought me so I can hunt for eggs. I take my time, curving my hands around the smooth shapes, amazed by the hens’ magical creations, even after seeing them day after day for as long as I remember. King struts and screams, chasing me around the pen, threatening to peck my eyes out. Sloth laughs and clicks his tongue, calling the rooster back to his side long enough for me to snatch the rest of the eggs.

  “Biscuit was good,” I say, still wishing I had been with Sloth last night instead of watching Jack carve a knife through Mama’s neck.

  Sloth must know my thoughts. “What happened?” he asks.

  “Jack,” I say, and nothing else is needed. I try to work up the nerve to ask him a question I’ve wanted to ask forever. A question I’ve started to ask too many times to count, but never did on account of Sloth’s rule: Ask me anything. But don’t ask about my family. “Sloth?” I’ve never seen Sloth angry, but still, I squirm. I want answers, but I don’t want to cross the line.

  “Um-hum,” he says, giving King a pat and tossing biscuit crumbs to the flock of hens before closing the coop.

  “Did you ever have any kids?” I spit the words out fast before they stick to my throat.

  “Nope,” he answers, giving me a funny look, a warning that he doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

  “Why not?” I pry, unable to look him in the eye.

  “Guess I be needing room for you,” he says, turning his attention back to the chickens. We count twenty-three eggs in the wire basket. I wish that Sloth were my father instead of Jack.

  Sloth’s wife died young, so I figure that’s the real reason he doesn’t have children. He never talks about her. He takes flowers to her grave every Sunday and leaves it at that. “Best get these eggs up the hill,” he says.

  I follow him up to the big house. Halfway up the steep climb, Sloth is out of breath. He passes the basket to me and says, “Take it.” I wait for him to rest, but he tells me, “Carry it for me. Go on, now!”

  I leave Sloth in the shade of the slim dogwood leaves and carry his load up the familiar path, only this time it’s church day, so I deposit the loot on
Mr. Sutton’s porch instead of ringing the bell and waiting for conversation about school and Mama and Sloth’s next batch of gumbo. I hurry back to find Sloth sitting on the grass, propped up against the bundle of crooked dogwood trunks. He is deep in thought. So I sit beside him under the flowered limbs and wait.

  I spin one of the soft white blooms in my hands and remember sitting on the porch swing with Mama last spring.

  “You know what’s special about these flowers?” she asks, handing me a petal from the bouquet I brought her and bending to smell its sweet breath.

  “They’re one of the first to bloom?” I guess.

  “Well, that’s special, for sure, but there’s something else,” Mama says, rubbing her smooth finger across my back to spell out the letters D-O-G-W-O-O-D. “Remember when Jesus was nailed to a cross?” I nod, never tiring of Mama’s stories. “It was made from a dogwood tree.”

  I look out into the pasture, where Mr. Sutton’s showy white dogwoods line the trail between his big house and the cabins. The trees are all small, with skinny bundles of trunks reaching out from the ground, like fingers. Mama senses my doubt and says, “I know, it seems strange, but back then, the dogwood was a strong, tall tree. Like oaks. The dogwood didn’t want to be made into the cross, so Jesus promised He would never again let the tree be used for such terrible things. From that day on, dogwoods have been small, with twisted branches. Look. See how the blossom is in the shape of the cross?”

  Mama rubs her fingers across two long petals and two short, marking my memory. “Here, in the center, you can see a crown of thorns, and here on the outer edge of each petal are bloodstains. From the nails. These flowers bloom every year, right on time, to remind us that no matter how badly someone hurts us, we have to find the strength to forgive. Do you believe that, Millie?” I close my eyes and stay quiet. No matter how much I want to, I can’t tell Mama what she needs to hear.

  Now, a year later, I almost fall asleep against the dogwood, thinking of Mama and how she loves to tell me stories, especially those from the Bible. But just as I start to dream, I realize something isn’t right. That breathing sound, the sound of life, is absent. As soon as I recognize it, the missing rhythm, I say, “Sloth?”

  No answer.

  I touch his arm. I scramble to my hands and knees, move above him and clap as loud as I can. “Wake up,” I say. And then I scream it, “Wake up! Wake up!” Nothing. He sits there, perfectly still. Perfectly peaceful. But he seems to be smiling, so I complain with a nervous laugh, “Come on, Sloth. It’s not funny.” Still, no response.

  I lean down and place my ear on his chest. No beat.

  I place my hand under his nose. No air.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sloth is right here next to me, sitting up against the dogwood tree, and I’m sure now. He isn’t breathing. I take off, back up the hill, heading for the big house. But then my feet stop moving and my arms start shaking and I can’t take another step. I don’t want my time with Sloth to end. My best friend. My neighbor. The closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.

  I race back down to the dogwood and sit next to Sloth. I lean against the knobby trunk and let my bare calves fall into the new spring grass. I slide near and press my head onto Sloth’s bony shoulder. I hold his hand and cry.

  I stay with Sloth for more than two hours, there under the sweet-smelling limbs. Cool morning breezes chill the shady spot and bloodstained petals scoop the wind.

  I want to go with Sloth, wherever he’s gone. I don’t want to go back down the hill to his empty house, his feisty rooster, his cupboard of mice. I don’t want to go back down to Mama and Jack and sad songs and heavy boots. I don’t want to leave the sweet-smelling shade and the sweet, sweet man who tells me every day, in ways unspoken, that I am worth his time.

  When I finally run out of tears, I let go of Sloth’s rough and wrinkled hand. I walk up the hill to find Mr. Sutton, just arriving home from church, and within minutes he has a work crew wrap Sloth’s body in a clean white sheet and move him to the barn.

  Mr. Sutton arranges for the undertaker to bury Sloth in the field next to his wife, the one who died so young. It isn’t common to have a burial on Sunday, but Mr. Sutton is the kind of man who gets things done right away.

  Mama, Mr. Sutton, his housekeeper, and I stand under the pin oak and watch the simple wooden box slip under the earth. Four men lower Sloth’s casket with ropes. I drop three dogwood blooms into the hole—one for Sloth, one for his wife, and one for me. Mama sings

  Sometimes I’m up, and sometimes I’m down,

  Coming for to carry me home,

  But still my soul feels heavenly bound,

  Coming for to carry me home.

  We all bow our heads to pray, and Mr. Sutton calls Sloth a “good man.”

  I stand still and quiet. Tears trace my cheeks. Mama doesn’t hold my hand, or give me a hug, or say it will be all right. She just waits for it all to end and then walks back home alone in silence. There’s been no sign of Jack since he put a knife to Mama last night, and now Mama is going back to the valley.

  Mr. Sutton pays the men and returns to the big house. I spend another night under the stars, curled between tree roots by Sloth’s grave, and once again Mama doesn’t bother trying to find me.

  In the morning, I wake to King’s sunrise cries and know that no matter how much I want it to stop, the earth will go right on turning. I have no choice but to move right along with it. I walk down the hill to Sloth’s house, collect six brown eggs, give King a tsk, tsk, and go home to boil four eggs for Mama and me. Then I walk across the yard to the gravel lane, on to the paved streets, past the rodeo arena, and finally to the brick schoolhouse where my classmates seem to be years younger than I am, even though my tenth birthday is still five days away. I think about the song Mama sang at Sloth’s grave and whisper a verse to myself, hoping to heaven that Sloth hears me. “If I get there before you do, I’ll cut a hole and pull you through.” All the way to school, I watch the sky and hope I see a big hole where the sun’s supposed to be.

  CHAPTER 5

  More than a week has passed since Jack pinned Mama to the ground with a knife to her neck, and he’s due back in town today. At least that’s what it says on his rodeo schedule, tacked to the kitchen pantry. Mama has spent most of the time in bed, but now she’s in the kitchen humming along to “Rhapsody in Blue.” She stirs red beans and rice for Jack’s supper. It’s the first time she’s cooked since he left, and I can’t figure out if she really wants him to come back, or if she’s just afraid not to have supper ready if he does.

  I stay in my room, staring at the family portrait that hangs framed above my bed. In it, Jack is sitting with his arm around Mama. They are tucked close together like petals on the same bloom. In Mama’s arms, I’m wrapped snug in a little blanket she knitted just for me. Mama’s looking straight at the camera, smiling big in her flowered dress and polished pearls. Jack wears his cowboy hat. He’s looking down at me, and I’m looking at him, and it’s easy to see it there. Love. Plain as plain can be.

  “Millie?” Mama calls me from the kitchen. I don’t answer. As happy as I am to find Mama out of bed cooking, I walk right past her and go outside to prop myself against my sweet gum tree. From there, I keep a close eye on Mama. Sometimes she gets so deep into the music, she forgets all about the cooking. I worry she will melt her skin to blisters.

  I scoot up Sweetie’s limbs and watch the sky. I figure Sloth can see me better from up here, but still—no hole. Just as I reach my favorite spot, a gang of skinny boys in overalls runs by yelling, “The gypsies are coming! The gypsies are coming!”

  The boys, barefoot with dirtbeads ringing their necks, don’t slow down. While they are yelling to the chickens and the farmhands, I tuck my dress between my legs, drop my hands, and hang upside down from my branch.

  The gypsies’ laughter reaches me right away. It rises up above Iti Taloa’s everyday sounds: train sirens, mill whistles, and streetcar squeals. It floats acros
s the ticking clock tower and the tall white steeples with their hollow hourly bells. Out past the two-story red brick library where sweet Miss Harper sits reading God’s Little Acre from the banned book box. Their laughter rolls beyond the matching red brick corner bank, where men in ties count crisp green bills and starched rich ladies pull tight gloves over small, soft hands.

  Their laughter rises all the way up to the clouds of my Mississippi town and reaches out to my family’s little rental cabin perched on the back side of Mr. Sutton’s plantation. It finds me, two days after my tenth birthday, in the limbs of my sweet gum tree. It rolls across her branches and whispers in my ear. “Come find us, Millie. This is where you belong.”

  I climb down from Sweetie’s branches and follow the gypsy laughter. With bare feet and black braids, I follow it all the way across the hard dirt patches of our yard and down the gravel lane that leads me off the Sutton plantation, away from Jack’s fire and Mama’s valley and Sloth’s empty house.

  I follow it all the way to the paved streets, the swept sidewalks, and hot-pink azaleas. Past the rodeo arena, the courthouse, and the carousel. Past the turn that would take me to my grandparents’ house, a house where their mixed-blood granddaughter would never be welcome.

  I follow that laughter all the way to the stiff iron fence that surrounds Hope Hill, where the gypsies gather each spring.

  I squeeze through the green gate, past statues of angels. I follow the sound of laughter to the graves of the gypsy queen and king.

  Then, I slide behind a poplar trunk to watch a woman, barely taller than me, pour purple juice over the grave of her queen. A younger girl, wearing red, lights a tall white candle and places it at the foot of a gray cross. Two tweed-capped boys sprinkle coins over a second stone, covering the king’s tomb in silver and gold. More than twenty gypsies have circled the graves to pluck strings and sing in an unknown tongue, and as much as I want to sing along with them, I can only listen as they tell stories I barely understand.