Zeke leaped off the front porch of the shotgun shack, almost landing on the hound dog and scattering the chickens rooting around the persimmon tree. His back burned where Poppa’s strap hit him; Zeke darted across the freshly plowed snap bean field and plunged into the pines, ignoring the briars cutting into his bare arms.
“Bring yo @ss back here, boy!” Poppa shouted. “Running just gonna make it worse!’
Zeke didn’t slow down. He wasn’t going to let Poppa beat him anymore. He wasn’t his real poppa anyway. His poppa…his daddy died working for the railroad five years ago. His daddy was a good church going man that treated him and momma like Sunday morning. His daddy was a big, dark skin man with skin like glass and a smile that shamed the sun.
Zeke ran up the hill and down to Little Uchee Creek. He waded across the muddy trickle and kept going until he reached Big Uchee. There he finally halted, leaning against a big mulberry tree tilting over the bank. He gasped for breath, tears creasing his face.
“I wish I was bigger,” he panted. He eased down, his legs dangling over the bank.
“Momma wouldn’t need no man. I could plow the field and chop the wood. I could feed the mule and the chickens.”
The mulberry’s bark was rough and soothing against his back. He wished he had his cane pole and some worms. He could fish until he figured Poppa wasn’t drunk anymore. If he brought home a couple of bream or catfish everybody would be happy. Zeke closed his eyes.
“But if I was bigger…”
They swarmed over the creek, buzzing before Zeke like an aggravated cloud and blinking like fireflies. But it was too early for fireflies. The swarm edged closer to the sleeping boy then engulfed him in a bright pulsing iridescence…
Visit Milton’s network Wagadu.
