Cy in Chains (2 page)

He wondered, as he always did, why his mama left her bonnet the morning she walked out of the cabin and out of his life. Where had she gone, and why? His father said she was homesick for her people downstate near Valdosta, where she was from, yet he never bothered to go down there and see. At first, Cy thought he himself must have done something to make her unhappy enough to leave, something real bad. But no matter how many nights he lay awake searching for a reason, he couldn't think of anything. He loved his mama—she had to know that. So why would she abandon him? He didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask his father.

Cy did know that after his mother left, something changed in Pete Williams. He used to work on the land all day and in the evenings still have energy to play checkers and then sit on the front stoop and entertain folks by playing his mouth organ and singing. Now he was silent most evenings, sitting by the fireplace repairing tack or carving spoons out of the dry, hard oak he stored in the corner. Days, he was always on the move, mending fences, chopping weeds, hauling firewood—staying busy.

A change in the light meant evening was coming on, and it was past time to start supper. Preparing their meals was one thing Cy had been forced to learn in the last two years. The day after his wife left, Pete Williams informed his son he wasn't no cook, and if Cy wanted to eat decent from then on, he'd have to learn to do for himself.

Do for himself. That had meant a lot more than figuring out how to get a fire going in the cookstove and how to keep it just hot enough so it would cook a cornpone all the way through without charring the bottom or top. It meant washing his own clothes, what few there were—just a couple pairs of drawers, denim overalls, a blue cotton work shirt, and a jacket.

It meant getting along without the jokes his daddy used to tell, without the games of catch they used to play with the tattered baseball Pete had found somewhere and brought home. It meant not feeling his daddy's arms, strong as iron, around him at bedtime the way they always used to be when he was young. The last time Cy had wanted his father to hug him, he'd been told he was too old for that foolishness now.

So Cy had started spending even more time with the puny white boy he'd known as long as he could remember. They hunted everything from mourning doves and squirrels to white-tailed deer, but not the sharp-tusked wild hogs—they were too dangerous. They fished in the Ogeechee for redbreast. Shared stories about what they'd do one day when they were grown men. They made their own world of secret hideouts with hidden treasure-troves of iron railroad spikes, turtle shells, the skulls of small animals, spear points left behind by the Indians Uncle Daniel claimed once roamed this land until the white folks drove them away or gave them bad diseases so they all died.

I hope to God Mist' John don't wake up till he sober
, Cy thought as he put a match to the fatwood in the stove. When he was sure the fire was well started, he rummaged in the food bin. Now, what we got for supper? he asked the plank walls of the cabin. Same stuff as always, they seemed to reply.

The food was ready when Pete Williams came into the cabin. His work shirt was dark under the arms and even the bib of his overalls was wet with sweat, and he hadn't bothered to wash up. When his wife was around, he'd never come into the house dirty and smelling bad, but these days there was no reason for that nice stuff, he said.

Cy eyed his father, wondering what kind of night it would be. A moonshine night, with the man slowly drinking himself into a rage and then into tears of self-pity, falling asleep in his chair, his mouth slack and spit dribbling from its corners? Or the kind when he would eat without a word, then get up and leave, not to return until dawn? Cy guessed he had a woman somewhere, but who she was and what she saw in Pete Williams, he didn't know.

“What's with you?” the man asked.

“Nothin', Daddy. Why?” Cy could feel his muscles tense. These days, he never knew what to expect from his father.

“Don'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.”

“Shit! I ain't never knowed no man have worse luck with horses than John Strong. You know what this mean, don't you?”

“No, sir.”

“Mean 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.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dish it up, then.”

Cy served his father a plateful of beans, a piece of pone, a slice of fried fatback, and some dandelion greens.

“Lord, 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.”

“Yes, 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.

“Why, Daddy? Even if Mist' John lost the place, we can stay.”

“For 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.

“What's a matter?” Williams asked. “Don't you want to get outta here?”

“Sure, Daddy. But—”

“But nothin'! The sooner we go, the better I like it. Savannah can't be no worse than this hole.”

“How we get there? Mule belong to Strong.”

“You got two feet that work, ain't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, 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?”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“Fetch 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.

“Come 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 everything this time? Would a new owner take over the place? Would Travis have to leave?

Hatred stirred in Cy's belly. John Strong had so much, and Cy and his daddy had so little. Black folks tried to hold tight to what little they
did
have, while a sorry man like Strong went and threw away everything. Travis said everyone had told his daddy not to buy that horse. Yeah, he was fast, fastest ever seen in those parts. But there was something devilish about him, something no man could trust. And now see how it had turned out.

The fire burnt low in the hearth, and Cy went to bed.

A
LIGHT BUT URGENT TOUCH ON HIS SHOULDER
woke him out of sad dreams. He flinched, but then he recognized Uncle Daniel's voice, whispering close to his ear.

Cy sat up, wondering what the old man wanted. It had to be something important for him to come into the cabin in the dark of night. “Uncle Daniel?”

“I tapped on the door, but I didn't see no light, so I figured y'all was asleep. When they warn't no answer, I stuck my head inside the door and heard him snorin' the way he do when he been drinkin'.”

“I put him to bed.”

“It's a shame. But you the one I got to talk to. Can you come with me fo' a moment? We needs yo' help.”

Cy followed Uncle Daniel outside. The air was colder than inside the cabin.

“What is it?”

“Travis gone! Took Teufel with him.”

“Naw! He promised me he warn't gon' do nothin' like that.”

“Y'all talked about it?”

“After Mist' John whipped Teufel so bad, Travis said he was gon' run away. I made him promise he wouldn't.”

“Well, he ain't kept his word. He took off, him and that damned horse. I was done with my work up at the big house and was headed home when I heard noises in the barn.”

“Ain't it real late?”

“Naw. I stayed 'round tonight to finish puttin' fresh mortar between them bricks in the kitchen fireplace. Had to wait for the hearth to cool down enough fo' me to work. Like I said, I heard these noises, and when I went to check up on things, Travis come bustin' outta the barn, ridin' bareback on that black devil! I shouted at him, but he didn't pay me no mind, just kept goin', headin' for the road.”

“Travis was
ridin'
on
Teufel? He ain't never been on that horse's back! He ain't big enough to get up there.”

“I'd of said the same thing if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes. But that ain't the point. We got to go after him, bring him back 'fore Mist' John wake up and find him gone. If he catch him, they's gon' be hell to pay.”

“What can I do?”

“Son, I hates to ask you this, but I wants you to go look for him. I's too old to come with you. I just slow you down. Them young legs o' yours can carry you fast.”

Uncle Daniel's request was crazy, impossible. “I can't! He on a horse—fastest one around. Travis bound to be long gone by now.”

“Gone where? Don't you see? He ain't really runnin' away. Boy that age got nowhere
to
run. I reckon he just gone off somewhere close, somewhere to calm down. In the mornin', I bet he come home by hisself, but we can't take the chance of his daddy findin' out he left and took that horse.”

“I can't, Uncle Daniel! Where I even begin to look for him?”

The old man put his hand on Cy's shoulder. “I know you boys got you a secret hideout somewhere not too far off. Ain't I right?”

How did Uncle Daniel know? Cy and Travis did have a place of their own, down on the river, but they'd sworn a blood oath not to tell anyone about it.

“I's right, ain't I?” Uncle Daniel asked again.

“Yes, sir.”

“I bet if you go there, you find him wishin' he hadn't done such a thing. That boy probably scared o' the dark, and cold, too. You go get him, and he follow you home like a little lost puppy. With any luck, we can get Teufel put up and Travis in his own bed without Mist' John ever findin' out. Please, Cy! Go an' fetch him home. You know he look up to you.”

Yes, Travis would listen to him, but Cy felt uneasy. This was between Travis and his father. How many times had his own father said that the black man must
never
get in the middle of white folks' business? If he did, when everything was settled, somehow the black man was the one who ended up in trouble. No, best keep out of it. Let Travis come home on his own.

But Cy couldn't leave Travis out there somewhere in the dark with a horse he couldn't really handle. Not with Uncle Daniel begging him to find the boy and bring him home. And what if Travis really
was
gone for good, if he hadn't gone to their secret place near where the Ogeechee was extra wide, the spot folks called the Bull Hole? At the least, he'd have to try and find Travis, see if Uncle Daniel was correct.

“All right,” Cy told the old man.

“Oh, thank you, son! You can use my lantern. This place o' yours, it ain't too far, I hope?”

“No, sir. It gon' take time to get there in the dark, though.”

“All right. You best hurry along. Sooner we have that boy home safe, the easier I can rest. Dorcas an' me be sittin' up, waitin' on you.”

Cy eased back inside the cabin. His father was snoring hard. He'd be out cold for hours. Cy grabbed his coat and closed the door behind him. Outside, Uncle Daniel gave him the lantern and put a piece of pound cake in his hand. “From Aunt Dorcas,” he said. “She always say a nice sweet make things seem better.”

Cy left the clearing and headed for the Bull Hole, cutting through the woods on a narrow path only he and Travis knew about. Even in the dark, he could go pretty quickly because he knew the way so well. Still, it took what seemed a long time to get to the river, which he heard before he came up to it. Spring rains had been heavy, and the water was running high and fast.

Cy slowed to a cautious walk as he came to the place. There was no light except from his lantern, but when he stood still, he could hear another sound besides the movement of the water surging to his right. The soft nickering of a horse. It had to be Teufel.