Into the Free Read Online Free PDF Page A

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