Free Sweet Song by Terry Persun Page B

an enormous hand let go of his shoulder. Then his hat and burlap sack fell next to his face.
    “There it is,” the big man said.
    Leon put his hat and sack in his lap and shot up into a sitting position. His eyes burned. His mouth watered. He waited for something to happen. The big man lowered his body down on a log next to a smaller man with a pearly-white beard. Two more men sat on another log and one man leaned on an elbow perched against the second log. All five men were old. All five were black.
    “Gonna steal from us? Kill us in our sleep?” The man leaning against the log said.
    “I wuz gonna steal bones and lick ‘em clean, is all,” Leon said.
    “Hungry,” the man said to the rest of them.
    “You runnin’ son? You awful skinny,” the man said.
    “You a criminal? You kilt somebody?” Another one of them asked.
    “I not runnin’. I never laid a hand on nobody,” Leon said.
    “You look familiar. You the son of that farmer we take those eggs from two days back? You trackin’ us?”
    The leaning man looked over at the man at the end of the log. “Hell, Jesse, who send a boy out to chase down five old niggers robbed a han-full a eggs?” They all laughed.
    “You don’t know what white folks do with they kids sometimes,” Jesse said.
    Leon listened to them. His stomach cried out.
    The smaller man who sat next to the giant who had dragged Leon into their camp said, “The boy’s hungry.” He pointed at Leon. “You hungry?”
    Leon nodded his head.
    “I’m feedin’ ‘im,” the man announced.
    “Ain’t juss your food,” the leaning man said.
    “This piece is.” The man crouched down and stretched an arm toward Leon as if he were a wild animal. A half-eaten chicken leg pushed out from the man’s greasy fingers.
    Leon took the leg and popped it into his mouth, holding the bulbous bone in his fingertips. The meat slid off into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then licked and gnawed at the bone.
    “What yo’ name, boy?” The man who had given him the chicken asked.
    “Leon.”
    “Leon what?”
    “Juss Leon.”
    “No need to be scared. We ain’t hurt no one.” The leaning man lifted slowly to a standing position. “Ma-name’s Cracker-Jack.” He took a breath. “That there, who give you his chicken bone, that Buddy.”
    Buddy nodded.
    “Next there, that Big Josh.” Cracker-Jack pointed to the opposite end of the log. “You probably got that there Jesse.”
    Leon waited, looking at the last man. The other four looked at the last man, too. Then they started giggling.
    The last man looked from one to the other of them. “Well, God-do-diddly-dam,” he said. “My name’s Bob.”
    Everyone burst into loud laughs except for Leon and Bob. Cracker-Jack slapped his thighs. “He named Bob after an old white man’s horse. He not even named after no man.”
    “Ain’t so do-damned funny to me,” Bob said. “Looka him.” Bob motioned toward Leon. “He got a nigger’s name. What you suppose his ma and pa thinkin’?”
    “Maybe they foreigners and don’t know no better. He do look a little I-talian,” Cracker-Jack said.
    “He look dirty white to me,” Buddy said. “He been in the sun all summer, I ‘spect.”
    Big Josh handed another piece of chicken over to Buddy, who handed it to Leon. Leon ripped some breast meat from the bird and stuck it in his mouth.
    Cracker-Jack, obviously in charge if anyone was, motioned for Jesse to hand over some bread.
    Leon took it right away and stuffed it into his mouth beside the half-chewed chicken breast. He stared at the ground waiting for the hammer to fall.
     

CHAPTER 9
     
    D espite the conversation of the five men, their through-the-night discussions, singing, and laughter, Leon seldom woke, and when he did, he only rolled over and fell back to sleep. In the morning, he awoke to the sweet smell of breakfast stew. His arm had fallen asleep. His hands, together like in prayer, rested under the side of his face. The stoked cooking fire