Sweet Song by Terry Persun Page A

shaking, exhausted. He pulled on his trousers, held them at the front and ran out to pee in the bushes that grew along the side of the shack. Nothing felt quite right thatmorning. It began in physical pain and with an uneasiness that followed Leon all morning. Grits and bread for breakfast. That was a treat. No one spoke, though, only grunted and hummed.
    Leon hurried to Sir’s barn to settle the stalls, ready them for evening. The teams would already be out. He planned, too, to clear the kitchen garbage, relax and make up songs, then head for his father’s side to work out the remains of the day.
    The plan was right. It reeked of familiarity clear up until his rendezvous with Hillary. Already, early in the day, he knew it would be different from all their other meetings.
    Leon glided through the day, an uneasy feeling thick in his chest and throat. Hank and Earl weren’t much help, but they weren’t much hindrance either. Leon took orders from them without comment, without acknowledging them except to respond.
    On his way to the back of the house, he saw Hillary for a moment and she winked at him. From that time, it took an hour to adjust his mind. He thought of her thick legs and soft breasts, the wetness between her legs and her moans of pleasure. From there, he imagined her smell, then her threats and rudeness when he didn’t respond the way she wanted. This all flowed, like the creek where they met, into thoughts of Hillary and her other man, Jacob.
    Stamping his foot and hitting one fist into the other palm didn’t fully illustrate Leon’s anger or pain at the thoughts he brought up. Nor did it belie the confusion of those emotions. He loved and hated her. He feared what she might do. He loathed himself for the power he let her have over him, for it was not merely the power of ownership, but of much more. As much as he didn’t understand that power, he also knew it well and from more places than he should. Leon accepted his own feelings. He spit, trying to reduce the acrid taste in his mouth. He pissed onto the garbage trying to empty the poison that was building up inside him. And he hummed and sang with teeth clenched and fists tight to draw his mind back into harmony.
    Before heading for the fields, Leon pushed his back straight, his head high, and let his nostrils – those white-man’s nostrils – flare out and suck in the world as he knew it. The rest of the day, Leon worked hard, often to exhaustion. At one point, Big Leon askedwhether Leon was all right. A moment of fatherly concern Leon would remember. Yet, he was never able to respond.
    That evening, near dusk, Leon carried his anger to the creek flat.
    “What’s wrong with you?” Hillary said.
    He wondered how she could possibly know his thoughts were torn? Did he walk differently? Was his face twisted, tightened, or expressive in some other way?
    “Nothin’,” he said, but knew she wouldn’t have it that simple.
    “You mad at me for not stoppin’ to speak today?” It sounded as though her guilt had come to the creek flat with her.
    “That weren’t no reason.”
    “Why are you talking like that?”
    “I wanna.”
    “You know how I hate for you to talk that way.”
    He stared.
    She walked closer to him, her eyelids lowered to a seductive half-closed position.
    Why he said what he did, he would never know. “You juss want me to sound white so’s you done have to think about who you sinnin’ with. So’s you can imagine it be Jacob stickin’ you and not some nigger farmhand.”
    It was his delivery more than his words that hurt Hillary. He could feel her pain as the words were delivered, and if that weren’t enough, he could imagine her pain being worse from the way her face twisted hideously into a snarl.
    “How dare you?” She fell to her knees, ready to cry.
    He leaned toward her…his hand reaching out. Then he held his position. “You can’t love no nigger. And you can’t, you show can’t, love you half-brother.” He