Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [344]
“S’prise to me you even got on it!”
“Woman, ain’t you gon’ never let me ’lone! Man gone fo’ years an’ you actin’ like I lef’ yestiddy!” The slightest suggestion of an edge was in Chicken George’s voice.
Tom asked quickly, “You bought yo’ hoss in Richmon’?”
“Dat’s right! Sebenty dollars! She a real fas’ speckle mare. I figgered free man gwine need a good hoss. I rid ’er hard as she could stan’ it to Massa Lea’s—”
It being early April, everyone else was extremely busy. Most of the family were in the planting season’s height. Among cleaning, cooking, and serving in the big house, Matilda had very little available free time. Tom’s customers kept him going at his hardest from daylight into deepening dusk, and the nearly eight months’ pregnant Irene was scarely less occupied among her diverse tasks.
No matter, across the next week, Chicken George visited with them all. But out in the fields, it soon was as uncomfortably clear to them as to himself that he and anything connected with field work were alien. Matilda and Irene’s faces made quick smiles when he came near, then they made equally quick apologies that they knew he understood that they had to get back to what they were doing. Several times, he dropped by to have some chat with Tom while he blacksmithed. But each time the atmosphere would grow tense. The slaves who were waiting grew visibly nervous on seeing whatever as yet unattended white customers abruptly quit their conversations, spit emphatically and shift their bodies about on the log benches, while eyeing the wearer of the green scarf and the black derby with obvious silent suspicion.
Twice during these times, Tom happened to glance and see Massa Murray starting down toward the shop, then turn back, and Tom knew why. Matilda had said that when the Murrays first learned of Chicken George’s arrival, “dey seem happy fo’ us, but Tom, I worries, I knows dey’s since had dey heads togedder whole lot, den quits talkin’ soon’s I comes in.”
What was going to be Chicken George’s “free” status there on the Murray plantation? What was he going to do? The questions hung like a cloud in the minds of every individual among them ... excepting Virgil’s and Lilly Sue’s four-year-old Uriah.
“You’s my gran’pappy?” Uriah seized his chance to say something directly to the intriguing man who had seemed to occasion such a stir among all of the other adults ever since his arrival several days before.
“What?”
The startled Chicken George had just wandered back into the slave row, deeply rankled by his feeling of being rejected. He eyed the child who stared at him with large, curious eyes. “Well, reckon I is.” About to walk on, George turned. “What dey say yo’ name?”
“Uriah, suh. Gran’pappy, wherebouts you work at?”
“What you talkin’ ’bout?” He glared down at the boy. “Who tol’ you to ax me dat?”
“Nobody. Jes’ ax you.”
He decided that the boy told the truth. “Don’ work nowheres. I’se free.”
The boy hesitated. “Gran’pappy, what free is?”
Feeling ridiculous standing there being interrogated by a young’un, Chicken George started on, but then he thought of what Matilda had confided of the boy. “Seem like he tend to be sickly, even maybe a l’il quare in de head. Next time you roun’ ’im, notice how he apt to jes’ keep starin’ at somebody even after dey’s quit talkin’.” Turning about, Chicken George searched the face of Uriah, and he saw what Matilda meant. The boy did project an impression of physical weakness and, except for his blinking, the large eyes were as if they had fastened onto Chicken George, assessing his every utterance or movement. George felt uncomfortable. The boy repeated his question. “Suh, what free is?”
“Free mean ain’t nobody own you no mo’.” He had a sense that he was speaking to the eyes. He started off again.
“Mammy say you fights chickens. What you fight ’em wid?”
Wheeling about, a retort on his tongue, Chicken George perceived the earnest, curious face of only a small boy. And it stirred something within him: gran’chile.
Critically