he didnât stop all the time he put on the black polish and buffed the boots with a rag. Cy felt like choking him, anything to make him shut up. Billy got quiet only when Prescott was satisfied and chained everyone for the night.
Â
A raindrop hit Cy on the face, and then another. Damn! Couldnât the world leave him alone, for once? He wanted to pull the blanket over his face, but even doing that was difficult, what with Jess and Mouse lying so close by.
Somewhere down at the far end, in the gray gloom, cloth started to rustle. Someone playing with himself. All the boys who were old enough did it. Nobody minded, or at least nobody said anything. They all did whatever they could to feel good even for a few seconds, all without privacy. Everything without privacy. You pretended that no one saw you shitting in the five-hole outhouse or heard you crying for your mama in the night or playing with yourself when your body wouldnât give you any peace.
When he had first come to Cainâs camp, Cy complained to Jess about having to do his business in the outhouse in front of other guys. âPretend they ainât nobody there,â Jess had told him, and Cy had learned to do just that. It didnât always work, of course, but you had to try. Otherwise youâd go loony, chained at night to the others, chained during the long marches to the woods, swamps, and fields where you workedâevery day like the ones that went before it and no different from the ones that would come after it. For Cy, it had been three and a half years of those kinds of days, close as he could figure. Sooner or later, heâd die or get sent to the coal mines in Alabama. He couldnât make up his mind which would be worse. Maybe there wasnât much difference between the two.
Six
B ANGA-BANGA-BANGA-BANG ! T HE SOUND OF the wake-up gong shattered the silence. Cy knew heâd fallen asleep again, because daylight was filtering through the cracks in the doors. The rain had stopped, but he was still shivering. Another damn day, and still alive. Heâd taken to hoping, halfheartedly, that heâd die in his sleep and be done with everything.
Mouse roused just enough to pull up his knees and burrow farther under his thin blanket. Cold weather hurt him because there wasnât a pinch of fat on him. His feet suffered the worst. When they touched Cy at night, they felt like fish pulled from a pond in January. The kid was no bigger than a childâ
no bigger than Travisâ
although Mouse swore he was thirteen. His arms and legs were little more than bones, and his voice hadnât begun to get deep. One night, Cy caught him sucking on his fist, just like a pup at its mamaâs tit, sound asleep.
Cy didnât move. Nobody did. Cain didnât mean that first call. He complained that his boys were too lazy to get up when the gong sounded, and heâd have to get real tough on them one day soon unless they changed their ways. Cain hired out the boys in his camp to anyone who needed their labor. He made his money that way. It wasnât much, to hear Cain talk. He was always moaning how he was going broke running the camp when he could do much better up in Atlanta.
Cy closed his eyes again, and his mind went straight to where he didnât want it to go: visiting day. A visiting day was scheduled every three months, but it was a bad joke: nobody ever showed up. Many of the boys didnât have any family they remembered or wanted to remember. If they did have families, maybe their folks stayed too far away to make the trip or were glad to be rid of another mouth to feed. Maybe they just didnât care.
An image of Pete Williams, sweaty in work shirt and overalls, sloppy from too much moonshine, flashed into Cyâs mind and stirred up the black hatred in his gut. Pete Williams had never come for his son. That was too much to forgive.
He dozed again. The second gong sounded. Now it
was
time to move. Jess
Â
A raindrop hit Cy on the face, and then another. Damn! Couldnât the world leave him alone, for once? He wanted to pull the blanket over his face, but even doing that was difficult, what with Jess and Mouse lying so close by.
Somewhere down at the far end, in the gray gloom, cloth started to rustle. Someone playing with himself. All the boys who were old enough did it. Nobody minded, or at least nobody said anything. They all did whatever they could to feel good even for a few seconds, all without privacy. Everything without privacy. You pretended that no one saw you shitting in the five-hole outhouse or heard you crying for your mama in the night or playing with yourself when your body wouldnât give you any peace.
When he had first come to Cainâs camp, Cy complained to Jess about having to do his business in the outhouse in front of other guys. âPretend they ainât nobody there,â Jess had told him, and Cy had learned to do just that. It didnât always work, of course, but you had to try. Otherwise youâd go loony, chained at night to the others, chained during the long marches to the woods, swamps, and fields where you workedâevery day like the ones that went before it and no different from the ones that would come after it. For Cy, it had been three and a half years of those kinds of days, close as he could figure. Sooner or later, heâd die or get sent to the coal mines in Alabama. He couldnât make up his mind which would be worse. Maybe there wasnât much difference between the two.
Six
B ANGA-BANGA-BANGA-BANG ! T HE SOUND OF the wake-up gong shattered the silence. Cy knew heâd fallen asleep again, because daylight was filtering through the cracks in the doors. The rain had stopped, but he was still shivering. Another damn day, and still alive. Heâd taken to hoping, halfheartedly, that heâd die in his sleep and be done with everything.
Mouse roused just enough to pull up his knees and burrow farther under his thin blanket. Cold weather hurt him because there wasnât a pinch of fat on him. His feet suffered the worst. When they touched Cy at night, they felt like fish pulled from a pond in January. The kid was no bigger than a childâ
no bigger than Travisâ
although Mouse swore he was thirteen. His arms and legs were little more than bones, and his voice hadnât begun to get deep. One night, Cy caught him sucking on his fist, just like a pup at its mamaâs tit, sound asleep.
Cy didnât move. Nobody did. Cain didnât mean that first call. He complained that his boys were too lazy to get up when the gong sounded, and heâd have to get real tough on them one day soon unless they changed their ways. Cain hired out the boys in his camp to anyone who needed their labor. He made his money that way. It wasnât much, to hear Cain talk. He was always moaning how he was going broke running the camp when he could do much better up in Atlanta.
Cy closed his eyes again, and his mind went straight to where he didnât want it to go: visiting day. A visiting day was scheduled every three months, but it was a bad joke: nobody ever showed up. Many of the boys didnât have any family they remembered or wanted to remember. If they did have families, maybe their folks stayed too far away to make the trip or were glad to be rid of another mouth to feed. Maybe they just didnât care.
An image of Pete Williams, sweaty in work shirt and overalls, sloppy from too much moonshine, flashed into Cyâs mind and stirred up the black hatred in his gut. Pete Williams had never come for his son. That was too much to forgive.
He dozed again. The second gong sounded. Now it
was
time to move. Jess
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