What Readers are saying:
A wonderful coming of age story of learning hard lessons of right and wrong, as well as love and loyalty as Sal Scaviano and his family struggle to work their farm in Prohibition Louisiana. Join Sal as his world is thrown off its axis. Will he ever be able to right it? As I read, I found myself asking, what’s he going to do? I couldn’t wait to find out!
Cynthia Toney writes for young adult, but this is a must read for all, young or not-so-young. This book belongs on your bookshelf.
~ Angela Moody,
author of YA historical
No Safe Haven
Also by Cynthia T. Toney
Bird Face Series:
8 Notes to a Nobody
10 Steps to Girlfriend Status
6 Dates to Disaster
Write Integrity Press
The Other Side of Freedom
© 2017 Cynthia T. Toney
ISBN-13: 978-1-944120-39-9
ISBN-10: 1-944120-39-4
E-book ISBN: 978-1-944120-40-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Write Integrity Press
PO Box 702852; Dallas, TX 75370.
Learn more about the author at her website:
CynthiaTToney.com
WriteIntegrity.com
Printed in the United States of America,
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017941451
Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - The Visitors
Chapter 2 - The Question
Chapter 3 - The Ride
Chapter 4 - Keeping Secrets
Chapter 5 - Death of All Kinds
Chapter 6 - The Plan
Chapter 7 - The Spies
Chapter 8 - Hole in the Ground
Chapter 9 - Hostages
Chapter 10 - No Right Answer
Chapter 11 - Legacy
Chapter 12 - Scrambled
Chapter 13 - Ready to Pick
Chapter 14 - The Darkest Night
Chapter 15 - The Disappearance
Chapter 16 - Everyone’s After Enzo
Chapter 17 - No Sale
Chapter 18 - The Porch
Chapter 19 - A Big Operation
Chapter 20 - A Different Kind of Prison
Chapter 21 - A Long Shot
Chapter 22 - Proposal
Chapter 23 - Dilemma
Chapter 24 - In the Open and Behind Bars
Chapter 25 - Say Nothing
Chapter 26 - The Trial
Chapter 27 - Two Kinds of Goodbye
Chapter 28 - Chances Are
Discussion Questions
From the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Young Adult by Cynthia Toney
More Young Adult by WIP
Dedication
To those who understand and appreciate the costs of acquiring and maintaining freedom
Chapter 1
The Visitors
Sal trudged from the fields in mud-caked boots and regretted lingering behind to talk to Hiram. He could talk to his friend anytime. Why didn’t he follow Papa and Uncle Enzo home? They’d probably washed up for supper already, and Mama would be mad at him for being late.
With soiled fingers, he unfastened the shell buttons of his worn cotton shirt, looking down as he neared the packing shed. Anything to save a few seconds before reaching the supper table.
Maybe he’d leave his muddy boots at the shed so he wouldn’t have to clean them until tomorrow. Mama hated dirty boots on her porch, and she’d insist on his cleaning them before she’d allow anyone to eat. Then everyone would be mad at him.
All he’d need to do when he reached the water pump outside the house was rinse his face and …
Voices. He stopped and raised his head.
Not twenty yards away, five men of assorted heights crowded around his father and uncle outside the farmhouse.
Strangers. And none of them dressed like farmers.
Sal’s hairline prickled.
Nor did the strangers resemble the government men who’d visited Papa about his taxes and chatted politely while Mama served them coffee. These men looked more like newspaper pictures of Al Capone and his mobsters, except they didn’t carry Tommy guns. Collars of coats too dark and heavy for late spring in Louisiana stood around their necks. A variety of black hats further disguised their faces under the faint yellow glow of the back porch light that extended to the grass.
Papa glanced in Sal’s direction and crossed his arms, a signal for Sal to stay back. He shouldn’t approach the house, though his stomach growled from the aroma of Mama’s meatballs and tomato gravy cooking inside.
Was Papa in trouble? Or Uncle Enzo?
Sal retreated into the shadows of the packing shed and pressed his back against the exterior wall. A splinter from a weathered cypress board pierced his shirt and knifed the skin covering a shoulder blade. He winced but made no sound.
The strangers wove in and out and around one another like a pack of hunting hounds over a kill. Papa and Uncle Enzo stood silent with their feet anchored to the ground.
A flutter of wings rose in Sal’s chest. Should he do something?
Bruno barked at the unfamiliar scents and voices, pacing along the edge of the pen where one of the family had placed him for the night.
“Bruno, shhh,” Sal whispered, a finger to his lips.
The brown dog questioned Sal with his eyes as though begging to be released to do his job as guardian. His barking continued.
Sal couldn’t risk exposure for the few yards he’d need to travel to open the pen. He dared only to stretch his neck for a better view of the group.
One of the strangers turned in his direction, and a gleam bounced off a revolver tucked into the waistband of the man’s pants.
A gasp caught in Sal’s throat as he ducked back into the shadows. Had he been discovered? He waited, the tips of his ears tingling.
Bruno showed no sign of anyone approaching, and his barking tapered to a low woof and then stopped. He settled into a reclining position in the dirt in front of his doghouse.
The men’s voices mixed with the singing of nearby cicadas. Sal cupped a hand behind his ear to catch more of the distant conversation spoken in Italian. Because Grandma Scaviano had used her native language until the day she died, Sal understood most of it.
“… a place to stay,” one of the strangers said.
“We can’t help you.” Papa’s voice.
“… drive to the bank,” another said, “and bring your son …”
Me?
“You need to leave now,” Papa demanded.
“… the money ….”
“You heard my brother,” Uncle Enzo said.
“… if you don’t help us.”
The strawberry harvest of ’25 had been good, but why would anyone need help taking money to the Farmers and Merchants Bank—or getting money out? And Sal certainly wouldn’t need to go.
He chanced another glimpse. The shortest man in the group tapped Papa’s cheek with an open hand. Uncle Enzo lunged toward the man, but the largest, tallest of the strangers grabbed Uncle Enzo’s arms from behind. Papa held up both palms, and Uncle Enzo relaxed. He jerked free of the giant’s grasp with the force of a younger man whose muscles were hardened by labor.
Sal’s
heart beat faster. What if one of the strangers looked inside the house? Mama could be in danger. Since he turned thirteen, she often relied on him for assistance and protection. But it would be futile for the three Scaviano males to take on this armed group of five—if Sal would be of any use at all.
He should make a break for a neighbor’s farm and try to get help, but he needed a way to defend himself. He groped along the wall while keeping an eye on the men. His hand struck a wooden handle, and he pulled it slowly toward him.
A rusty sickle, forgotten behind the shed. He seized the ancient tool with both hands and swung the curved blade back and forth a few times, cutting the air with a soft whistle. That would do.
Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Sal’s heart pounded as though it might break free from his chest. He swallowed his fear and took a deep breath. He gripped the sickle tighter, poised and ready.
In an instant, all five of the strangers turned away from the house and began walking toward the road, their coats flapping behind them like buzzards’ wings.
Sal exhaled and dropped the sickle as the large man paused and shouted a curse at Uncle Enzo.
Sal again reached for his weapon.
Papa pressed his hand against his younger brother’s chest to stop him from going after the man, who continued on his way.
Sal waited a few seconds that seemed like hours. His father and uncle stood guard near the porch until the intruders disappeared into the darkness. Relief loosened Sal’s muscles, and when Papa motioned to him, he emerged from the shadows and ran to his family.
Sal pretended to concentrate on his supper while stealing furtive glances at Papa and Uncle Enzo’s faces of sunburned stone. He missed the usual mealtime stories about working in the fields and the way they made his mother laugh until her dark curls bounced around her face. But more than that, his family’s silence worried him. The strangers who’d visited earlier had to be the cause.
Maybe he should mention the squirrel he’d seen that day climbing the giant oak tree carrying an ear of early corn. That would make everyone smile. Then he’d ease in a question about the strangers. Sal opened his mouth to speak.
“They wanted to sleep here!” Papa’s dark brows pushed the skin of his forehead into furrows like the plowed earth as he brandished a piece of crusty bread in the air.
Sal’s upper body stiffened, and he dropped his fork into his pasta. Red gravy splattered onto his shirt. Papa had never yelled at the table before.
“Gianni.” Mama quickly held up her hand and nodded sideways in Sal’s direction, the way she had when he was a little boy who wasn’t supposed to hear what adults said.
Sal picked up his napkin and dabbed his shirt.
“I’m sorry, Rosa.” Papa firmly stroked his black moustache with a thumb and forefinger as though to soothe it and prevent additional words from escaping his lips.
Mama sighed. “Enzo, have some more.” Her face bore lines of worry as she slid a platter of meatballs across the handmade kitchen table.
Did Mama know something? What had Papa told her?
“Grazie.” Uncle Enzo helped himself to a few more meatballs and ate them in single bites one after another. He clenched his free hand into a fist and breathed hard, exhaling through flared nostrils like the angry bull that once broke the fence and chased Sal from Mr. Domiano’s farm.
“Bunch of crooks think they can drop off their low life anytime they feel like it …” Uncle Enzo mumbled and scowled.
Mama cast a look at Enzo as sharp as the bread knife in her hand.
Uncle Enzo’s temper bothered Sal at times but only because it could get Uncle Enzo into trouble. His temper was never directed at Sal, and Mama and Papa had always been able to handle him.
Mama’s tight gaze floated between Uncle Enzo and Papa before it relaxed and rested on Sal. She patted his arm. “Have another meatball, Salvatore.”
Sal nodded and accepted a meatball. He took a bite, but his ability to enjoy its flavor had vanished.
He was supposed to be one of the men in the family now, but they sure weren’t treating him like one.
Chapter 2
The Question
Sal joined Papa and Uncle Enzo at the packing shed the following morning.
Mental images of the strangers nagged Sal as he loaded the truck with the last strawberry flats for market. Who were those men, and where had they come from? He’d never before seen anyone able to frighten Papa or anger Uncle Enzo the way they had. Judging from the mood at the supper table last night, he’d have to choose exactly the right moment to ask about them.
Inside the open door of the shed sat two women who packed the strawberries into their little pint baskets and then into flat wooden trays. Damp flour-sack dresses clung to skin as dark as coffee. Every few minutes, they paused to wipe their faces with red handkerchiefs.
From these women, Sal had learned how to properly pick a strawberry by pinching the stem without bruising the fruit. This wasn’t a skill he’d been eager to acquire. A few rows of stooping to reach the low-growing plants had resulted in an aching back. How could Papa, Uncle Enzo, and the field workers stand it? Now, instead of helping around the house and barn next season, he’d be expected to pick berries. Sal had complained all his life about not having a sister to do the household chores, but he didn’t want to trade them for working in the fields after all.
“Hold out your hand, Sal.” Marie, who managed the women in the shed, reached into her red-stained apron and pulled out the biggest strawberry Sal had ever seen. She placed it onto his right palm. “There won’t be any more like this one until next year.” She winked and smiled, exposing a gold tooth.
“Did Hiram grow it?” Sal asked. His sixteen-year-old friend was Papa’s best hand next to Uncle Enzo.
“Of course.” Marie’s brown face beamed. She’d named Hiram after the first Negro elected to the United States Senate, as though she expected equal greatness from her son.
Sal took a bite. He savored its juicy sweetness and inhaled the aroma he’d miss so much when strawberry season was over.
“Andiamo!” Papa yelled and started the truck’s engine.
Sal slid onto the seat next to Papa, and Uncle Enzo hopped in beside him. Hiram hoisted his lanky frame into the truck bed and sat in the opening he’d created amidst the strawberry flats, his back facing the truck cabin.
Sal smiled to himself. Hiram watched over those berries as though they were his children. They were, in a way, because Hiram helped Papa and Uncle Enzo develop the best strawberries in all of Freedom. They’d won first prize at the Strawberry Festival two years in a row.
That was fine for Hiram, but Sal wanted nothing to do with the farm once he finished school. He wanted to see places beyond Freedom. Still, a trip into town was better than staying home.
“Hiram, I’d better not find out you’ve been smoking!” Marie shouted over the engine’s roar.
Hiram ducked his head between bony shoulders. With a hand too large for its arm, he rubbed the short ebony curls edging the back of his neck.
Sal laughed at him through the rear window.
As the truck pulled away, Hiram patted the shirt pocket where he sometimes carried a rolling paper and bit of tobacco when Marie wasn’t around.
If Sal took chances like that and got caught, he’d have three adults to answer to instead of one. He shook his head and faced forward again.
Papa drove down the gravel drive leading out of the farm, deep ruts causing the truck to dip and buck. Pebbles flew from beneath its tires and startled a chicken that had strayed from the barnyard.
Sal bounced between Papa and Uncle Enzo, inhaling dusty air that flowed through the open windows. Uncle Enzo held onto Sal’s shoulder for the ride like he had for as long as Sal could remember.
Bruno trotted alongside the truck to escort them safely to the end of the drive. His shoulder wound was healing nicely. Hiram had found the undernourished dog suffering from a gunshot in the
fields. Papa removed the bullet, and Marie mixed an ointment that Hiram and Sal took turns applying to the wound twice a day. Mama fattened him up with meat scraps and eggs. He never left the farm.
After a few minutes, the truck reached the main road, a ribbon of black tar that appeared to melt in the heat of the midmorning sun. The road was full of potholes, but it still provided a smoother ride than any of the dirt roads in the area—when they managed to avoid the holes.
At the farm next to theirs, Mr. Domiano watered his mules before continuing the day’s plowing. His horse and milk cows grazed under a shade tree in a grassy field, their tails swishing away flies. It was probably the hardest work they’d do while the mules labored in the sun until dusk. Why did some people and some animals have to work so hard when others didn’t? Sal would have to remember to reward the Scaviano mules with a carrot or piece of sweet potato sometimes.
Farther down the road, the truck approached two young women walking back from town carrying baskets on their arms. Their dark hair and cotton skirts swayed back and forth, brushing against their tanned arms and legs.
Papa slowed down, and Uncle Enzo stuck his head out the window as they rolled past. “Buon giorno.” He smiled and tipped his hat to them. The women blushed and giggled.
Papa laughed at his younger brother, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Wasn’t that Matilde Costa?”
“No, she’s away at teacher’s school.” Uncle Enzo set his hat back on his head and blushed as much as the girls.
A faint smile curled Papa’s lips and remained there. He drove with one arm draped over the steering wheel like all the other times they’d taken strawberries to market. He seemed relaxed, not worried about anything at all.
“Papa, what did those men who came to the farm yesterday want?” Sal blurted.
Uncle Enzo gripped Sal’s shoulder so tightly that Sal winced. He opened his mouth to complain, but Uncle Enzo was looking at Papa.
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