<< Go Back

The Other Side of Freedom

By Cynthia T Toney

Order Now!

Chapter 1

Sal trudged from the fields in mud-caked boots and regretted lingering behind to talk to Hiram. He could talk to his friend anytime. Why didn’t he follow Papa and Uncle Enzo home? They’d probably washed up for supper already, and Mama would be mad at him for being late.

With soiled fingers, he unfastened the shell buttons of his worn cotton shirt, looking down as he neared the packing shed. Anything to save a few seconds before reaching the supper table.

Maybe he’d leave his muddy boots at the shed so he wouldn’t have to clean them until tomorrow. Mama hated dirty boots on her porch, and she’d insist on his cleaning them before she’d allow anyone to eat. Then everyone would be mad at him.

All he’d need to do when he reached the water pump outside the house was rinse his face and …

Voices. He stopped and raised his head.

Not twenty yards away, five men of assorted heights crowded around his father and uncle outside the farmhouse.

Strangers. And none of them dressed like farmers.

Sal’s hairline prickled.

Nor did the strangers resemble the government men who’d visited Papa about his taxes and chatted politely while Mama served them coffee. These men looked more like newspaper pictures of Al Capone and his mobsters, except they didn’t carry Tommy guns. Collars of coats too dark and heavy for late spring in Louisiana stood around their necks. A variety of black hats further disguised their faces under the faint yellow glow of the back porch light that extended to the grass.

Papa glanced in Sal’s direction and crossed his arms, a signal for Sal to stay back. He shouldn’t approach the house, though his stomach growled from the aroma of Mama’s meatballs and tomato gravy cooking inside.

Was Papa in trouble? Or Uncle Enzo?

Sal retreated into the shadows of the packing shed and pressed his back against the exterior wall. A splinter from a weathered cypress board pierced his shirt and knifed the skin covering a shoulder blade. He winced but made no sound.

The strangers wove in and out and around one another like a pack of hunting hounds over a kill. Papa and Uncle Enzo stood silent with their feet anchored to the ground.

A flutter of wings rose in Sal’s chest. Should he do something?

Bruno barked at the unfamiliar scents and voices, pacing along the edge of the pen where one of the family had placed him for the night.

“Bruno, shhh,” Sal whispered, a finger to his lips.

The brown dog questioned Sal with his eyes as though begging to be released to do his job as guardian. His barking continued.

Sal couldn’t risk exposure for the few yards he’d need to travel to open the pen. He dared only to stretch his neck for a better view of the group.

One of the strangers turned in his direction, and a gleam bounced off a revolver tucked into the waistband of the man’s pants.

A gasp caught in Sal’s throat as he ducked back into the shadows. Had he been discovered? He waited, the tips of his ears tingling.

Bruno showed no sign of anyone approaching, and his barking tapered to a low woof and then stopped. He settled into a reclining position in the dirt in front of his doghouse.

The men’s voices mixed with the singing of nearby cicadas. Sal cupped a hand behind his ear to catch more of the distant conversation spoken in Italian. Because Grandma Scaviano had used her native language until
the day she died, Sal understood most of it.

“… a place to stay,” one of the strangers said.

“We can’t help you.” Papa’s voice.

“… drive to the bank,” another said, “and bring your son …”

Me?

“You need to leave now,” Papa demanded.

“… the money ….”

“You heard my brother,” Uncle Enzo said.

“… if you don’t help us.”

The strawberry harvest of ’25 had been good, but why would anyone need help taking money to the Farmers and Merchants Bank—or getting money out? And Sal certainly wouldn’t need to go.

He chanced another glimpse. The shortest man in the group tapped Papa’s cheek with an open hand. Uncle Enzo lunged toward the man, but the largest, tallest of the strangers grabbed Uncle Enzo’s arms from behind.

Papa held up both palms, and Uncle Enzo relaxed. He jerked free of the giant’s grasp with the force of a younger man whose muscles were hardened by labor.

Sal’s heart beat faster. What if one of the strangers looked inside the house? Mama could be in danger. Since he turned thirteen, she often relied on him for assistance and protection. But it would be futile for the three Scaviano males to take on this armed group of five—if Sal would be of any use at all.

He should make a break for a neighbor’s farm and try to get help, but he needed a way to defend himself. He groped along the wall while keeping an eye on the men. His hand struck a wooden handle, and he pulled it slowly toward him.

A rusty sickle, forgotten behind the shed. He seized the ancient tool with both hands and swung the curved blade back and forth a few times, cutting the air with a soft whistle. That would do.

Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Sal’s heart pounded as though it might break free from his chest. He swallowed his fear and took a deep breath. He gripped the sickle tighter, poised and ready.

In an instant, all five of the strangers turned away from the house and began walking toward the road, their coats flapping behind them like buzzards’ wings.

Sal exhaled and dropped the sickle as the large man paused and shouted a curse at Uncle Enzo.

Sal again reached for his weapon.

Papa pressed his hand against his younger brother’s chest to stop him from going after the man, who continued on his way.

Sal waited a few seconds that seemed like hours, watching his father and uncle, who stood guard near the porch until the intruders disappeared into the darkness. Relief loosened his muscles, and when Papa motioned to him, he emerged from the shadows and ran to his family.

#

Sal pretended to concentrate on his supper while stealing furtive glances at Papa and Uncle Enzo’s faces of sunburned stone. He missed the usual mealtime stories about working in the fields and the way they made his mother laugh until her dark curls bounced around her face. But more than that, his family’s silence worried him. The strangers who’d visited earlier had to be the cause.

Maybe he should mention the squirrel he’d seen that day climbing the giant oak tree carrying an ear of early corn. That would make everyone smile. Then he’d ease in a question about the strangers. Sal opened his mouth to speak.

“They wanted to sleep here!” Papa’s dark brows pushed the skin of his forehead into furrows like the plowed earth as he brandished a piece of crusty bread in the air.

Sal’s upper body stiffened, and he dropped his fork into his pasta. Red gravy splattered onto his shirt. Papa had never yelled at the table before.

“Gianni.” Mama quickly held up her hand and nodded sideways in Sal’s direction, the way she had when he was a little boy who wasn’t supposed to hear what adults said.

Sal picked up his napkin and dabbed his shirt.

“I’m sorry, Rosa.” Papa firmly stroked his black moustache with a thumb and forefinger as though to soothe it and prevent additional words from escaping his lips.

Mama sighed. “Enzo, have some more.” Her face bore lines of worry as she slid a platter of meatballs across the handmade kitchen table.

Did Mama know something? What had Papa told her?

“Grazie.” Uncle Enzo helped himself to a few more meatballs and ate them in single bites one after another. He clenched his free hand into a fist and breathed hard, exhaling through flared nostrils like the angry bull that once broke the fence and chased Sal from Mr. Domiano’s farm.

“Bunch of crooks think they can drop off their low life anytime they feel like it …” Uncle Enzo mumbled and scowled.

Mama cast a look at Enzo as sharp as the bread knife in her hand.

Uncle Enzo’s temper bothered Sal at times but only because it could get Uncle Enzo into trouble. His temper was never directed at Sal, and Mama and Papa had always been able to handle him.

Mama’s tight gaze floated between Uncle Enzo and Papa before it relaxed and rested on Sal. She patted his arm. “Have another meatball, Salvatore.”

Sal nodded and accepted a meatball. He took a bite, but his ability to enjoy its flavor had vanished.
He was supposed to be one of the men in the family now, but they sure weren’t treating him like one.

Order Now!

<< Go Back