“Trouble, ya have every right ta be angry an' upset but don’t allow it ta consume ya,” admonished Reverend Stevenson as he calmly placed a consoling palm upon Trouble's shoulder. The teenager shook the pastor's hand off of his body and walked toward the fire.
“The flames are almost out,” replied Trouble, icily.
"Trouble, I really think that --!" started the reverend before seeing he was being ignored.
The pair gathered arms full of dead branches from the scattered foliage of the fallen tree. The teenager quickly snapped the ropes just as Reverend Stevenson was about to pull a small knife from his pocket.
"How did you--?" stammered Reverend Stevenson before resuming his silence.
The burly man reached for one of the bodies before it was whisked away from him like paper. He saw the boy toss the corpse onto the flames twenty feet away like a pebble across a field. Reverend Stevenson's jaw dropped as he proceeded to walk toward Monica LaSalle’s husk. The reverend's fingertips were only an inch away before it flew out of his reach into the flames.
“Well, Trouble, I am certainly glad I could help,” snorted Reverend Stevenson beneath his breath. The young man glowered at the large man and trotted out of sight. I think I'll leave 'im alone fo' uh while.
A few minutes later, the reverend threw a few branches onto the raging flames to stoke it. A large flare nearly singed him as he quickly tossed a large branch onto it. He walked another ten feet away from it before deciding to sit down. God bless you, Ezekiel, Monica, and Gene. I wish I coulda been mo' helpful in savin' yo lives. I know dat heaven received three mo' faithful servants. I'm gone ta miss ya, very much. The reverend heard the sound of grass shuffling. He lifted his head to see Trouble three feet away from him. The adolescent suddenly grasped the reverend's shoulder with tears in his eyes and spoke.
"Reverend Stevenson, I's sorry fo' actin' mean spirited! I know ya mean me no harm. I'm just in uh lotta pain, right now!" said Trouble with a cracking voice. The pensive man slowly lifted his arm and firmly but supportively grasped the grieving adolescent's hand. Trouble slowly lowered himself to the ground and sat beside Reverend Stevenson while the pair watched the physical remains of loved ones leave this world, forever. They watched the fading, orange glow emanating from a patch of black soot remaining of the boy's parents and cabin with the mighty blaze destroying the aforesaid. The pair grabbed some rusty buckets from near the burnt site, walked through the moonlit grass to a small bayou near them, and retrieved some water. The friends quickly returned and dumped the buckets over the ashes. Trouble knelt beside the cleared area with a still but calm expression before rising to his feet, again.
“Where are you going for the night, Trouble?” asked Reverend Stevenson from behind the young man.
“I don’t know. I don’t have any other fam'ly in these parts, but I know how ta survive by myself,” replied Trouble with his gaze remaining on the smoldering ashes.
“Dat may be true, but I would feel much better if ya stayed wit' us 'til we c'n find some fam'ly dat c'n take ya in an' care fo' ya,” volunteered Reverend Stevenson.
"Are ya sure dat a good idea?" queried concerned teenager.
"Not really, but I'd feel better, knowin' dat my dead friends' son is with me than wonderin' 'round Lou'siana like uh fool wit' a broken compass." Trouble shrugged his shoulders and followed welcoming man.
Reverend Stevenson and Trouble treaded upon tall, thick grass until they approached a cabin similar to his previous home. The large man walked slowly toward the familiar residence until he noticed the absence of footsteps from behind him. He slowly turned around and saw his guest lingered fifteen feet behind him.
“It’s dark an’ late in the evenin’. Ya really thank we c'n enter wit'out bein’ shot or mistaken fo’ intruders?” inquired Trouble. Reverend Stevenson turned toward his teenage companion and responded, “I understan' ya concern, but dere is uh very easy solution to dat problem.” Reverend Stevenson inhaled very deeply and shouted, “I’m home!”
Trouble's eyes widened as he stumbled and fell backwards. A soft, golden light moved through the dark cabin within the next few seconds. A heavy-set woman with chestnut skin slowly opened the door and held a lit candle.
“Dorothy, we have uh guest dat'll be stayin' wit' us fo' uh while,” informed Reverend Stevenson. The woman enthusiastically smiled until her candle illuminated the face of their visitor. Her smile was quickly replaced by a scowl, squinted eyes, and a frown.
“Anthony, I don’t min’ bein’ hospitable but him,” responded Dorothy as she pointed toward Trouble.
“It's uh long story; I'll tell ya all 'bout it in da mornin',” addressed Reverend Stevenson, exhaustively.
“Anthony?” snickered Trouble.
“That’s Reverend Stevenson to you, Trouble!” replied Reverend Stevenson, firmly and fiercely. The fourteen-year-old quickly acknowledged the man’s authority and responded, accordingly, “Yes sir.” Ain't dat somethin'? He called me by my new name twice, and I never mentioned it!? Reverend Stevenson noticed the adolescent’s submission and subtly nodded in approval.
“Trouble! you'll be sharin' a cot wit' Reynaldo,” informed Dorothy Stevenson with her gaze fixed upon him like a rabid coyote. The attentive individual walked toward Reynaldo’s room with Dorothy following closely behind like a prison guard escorting a felon to their cell. Trouble glanced behind him to see his hostess’ furrowed brows and pursed lips hovering over him like a dark cloud. The Reverend said he invited me ta calm his nerves, but I thank his wife nerves would feel betta if I were dead in 'nother place hun'reds of miles from here.
Trouble felt small, warm rays of heat grazing his cheek. He slowly opened his eyes to see a pair of large, brown overalls standing a foot from his face. The waking adolescent raised his gaze to see a familiar, chubby, chestnut face staring down at him with a clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows.
“You can’t be lazy ‘round here. There’s uh lot of work dat needs ta be done!” asserted Reynaldo. This fat punk coulda jus' told me himself he didn't like me! We worked in da fields together an' helped each other, regularly. Now, I know I'm bad, but workin' was never uh problem, considering that both of our fathers’ livin's depended on whether the owner of the plantation was satisfied wit' da harvest. The observant visitor simply nodded his head, rose to his feet, and walked through the door.
Trouble gazed onto the field and stared at the seemingly eternal expanse of soil with a few lines in it. A warm breeze gently stroked the surface of his skin with the scent of freshly disturbed earth. He saw other people grabbing tools from the side of the house. The willing worker calmly walked to the area, and stretched his fingers toward a hoe only to have a flabby, chestnut arm quickly grasp it from his reach. Trouble slowly turned around to see Reynaldo frowning at him with the tool he reached for in his hand.
“You need ta get yo’ own, you thief!”
Trouble paused and glanced around to see everyone had stopped working to stare at him. Some already gave him accusing glances and distasteful stares. Right now, I prefer to keep compn'y wit' tha lynch mob! The unwelcome guest glanced around for Revered Stevenson before recalling he went to another plantation to work for extra money like his father did, occasionally. The adolescent parted his lips to ask for a tool before their frowning eyes casted doubts about their willingness to assist him.
I need ta go someplace to thank clearly and wit'out distraction. He slowly walked away from them to an area where they could not stare at him. His mind raced for a way to approach Mrs. Stevenson to ask for a tool, but it kept responding with emptiness in regards to finding an easy way to carry out the matter. He finally decided to approach the woman, directly. The woman's eyes became more peeled with each step he made towards her.
“How come you don’t have one? You should keep up wit' yo' own tools, Trouble!” replied Dorothy Stevenson, condescendingly.
“Yes ma’am,” replied Trouble, disdainfully but respectfully. Wow! I'd get mo' help from uh constipate
d snail! He slowly turned away as he felt Mrs. Stevenson's unwelcoming gaze settling upon his back like weights.
Sweat drenched Trouble's face with dust rising around his feet from the dirt road he treaded. He walked toward the shack of the Kingston's. He saw a chestnut girl who was only a few inches taller than a doorknob standing on the porch and staring at him as he approached their residence. Her pupils were fixed upon him like lasers upon getting closer. Her shrill voice pierced the air when Trouble came less than five feet from her.
“Daddy! Dat ol' bad boy ova here!”
A skinny man with a rugged beard and pinewood skin came outside. He stared at the young man and asked, “How may I help ya?”
“I jus' wanna know if you got any hoes?”
“Sorry, but I don't, an' I pro'bly wouldn't loan to ya if I had it! You'd probably use it fo' somethin' other th'n gardenin.’”
Seriously?! What else am I gone do wit a garden tool? Trouble quietly turned around and walked toward the dusty road.
The young man approached another family down the road about ten minutes, later. He saw the family watching him like buzzards watching their prey. He started to open his mouth before the woman shouted, “Get off our land, ya little heathen!”
He knew there was no point in conversing when people began with a hostile greeting. Trouble slowly turned around and left. The young man set foot on another plantation, twenty minutes later. He began walking on the soil until he saw the cabin. There was no one inside of the residence when the door opened. Trouble began turning around before he felt something strike the back of his head. He looked at the ground and saw soil near his feet.
He glanced upward to see a tall, thin hickory man, two eight-year-old boys, a ten-year-old girl, and a woman with a similar complexion grasping clumps of dirt draining from their hands. He opened his mouth to speak before he spat earth out of it. Trouble immediately ran away with brittle, brown balls flying past his head. Why are all of these people treating me this way? Twenty minutes later, Trouble was running away from a family throwing rocks at him. Then, another family was chasing him off of their land, ten minutes after that. He felt something soft strike his back. Well, at least it is not rocks. Then, his nose widened upon smelling the odor coming from his body. Dat just nasty!!!
He knew he could not come back to the Stevenson Family without offering to do something. Trouble began to think of explanations for their unreasonable behavior: Maybe Reverend Stevenson didn’t tell the other members of his family that my family been lynched, and all our tools were either burnt or stolen, afterwards. The young man returned to the Stevenson Family. He felt a war-like gaze telling him he was near Dorothy Stevenson.
“S'cuse me, Mrs. Stevenson, ya realize my paren's been killed? That one uh da reasons I cain’t find any uh my tools ta work wit’ cause dey were either stolen or los’ in the blaze set by the lynch mob. I asked several people if I could use dey tools, and they turnt me down,” volunteered Trouble.
“Well, if ya weren’t such uh bad boy, yo’ paren's would still be 'live, an' yo’ tools would be wit' ya. You ain’t the only teenager to lose yo’ parents to lynching, so I don’t wanna hear any excuse dat ya have not ta work. All ya have ta say is dat you don’t wanna work, and we’ll all know dat ya ain’t the workin’ kind!” screamed Dorothy Stevenson. Tears fell to Trouble's feet as he walked away. He turned around to ask one question in vain:
“Is there anything dat I can do dat doesn’t require uh tool?” inquired Trouble.
“No!” replied Dorothy Stevenson, abrasively and firmly.
How they gone call me “lazy” when I'm workin' beside th'm nearly ev'ryday?! Trouble knew that his residence at the Stevenson residence was going to be uncomfortable, but he did not expect it to be cruel. He walked around the corner of the worn house, sat down upon an overturned basin, lowered his head into his lap, and drenched his hands in tears. The young man slowly raised his head and deeply inhaled. He had asked most of the black people in the area for a tool, but he did not ask any of the white ones. No one will loan or give me a tool, but I wonder if I could work for it?
I could go into town where da white folks are and see if I c'n work fo' a tool. This gone be risky, but what do I have ta lose? I already died, once. He began to rise to his feet before he found himself gagging on dust. Then, he looked to his right and saw Reynaldo with a hand full of soil, draining from his hand. Seriously?! Dirt Again?! I almos' wish dey were white, so dey could 'ford ta throw somethin' else at me!
“I said ya couldn’t be lazy 'round here!” shouted Reynaldo. Trouble jumped to his feet, turned around, and walked away. I'm gone! I ain't gone get no peace 'round here! Two hands forcefully pressed into his back, resulting in broken skin upon his face from slamming into the dirt. I really wanna see how deep his mout' is wit' my foot, but dat gone ruin my frien'ship wit' Reverend Stevenson! Reynaldo jumped expecting his feet to land on his quarry's back, but the soil greeted the cherubic boy's sandals instead of Trouble's ribs. Where he go?! How'd he do that?! Trouble always been bad! Negro done made a deal wit' da Devil!!
Trouble's feet passed blocks, plantations, and forests within a single breath. He glanced to his right to see a man in a horse-drawn carriage. The old, Creole driver glanced to his left to see the superb athlete and casually returned his glance to the road. He suddenly returned his stare to the adolescent with widened eyes. The driver vehemently dropped the reins, beckoning the horse to move faster, but Trouble passed it with extreme ease before speeding out of sight. Then, the man gawked in the winner's direction.
“He bet'r know how ta run wit' his bad ass!"
The angel ain't told me nuthin' 'bout what "provisions" I had, but findin' out myself is fun. Trouble slowed down upon seeing a few small buildings. A black person walking through town attracted enough trouble, but a running Negro was suicidal. There'll pro'bly be uh welcomin' committee greetin' me with shotguns and pinewood boxes, but I gotta do what I gotta do!
Trouble listened to the cadence of each of his footsteps through town. Then, other steps out of sync with his came closer. His two steps were replaced by numerous feet pounding the gravel. The pedestrian glanced behind him to see green eyes mildly covered by small tufts of red hair at half of a second. Another stolen glimpse of his followers revealed t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. Some of them were the same size and some slightly larger.
Trouble gradually sprinted with footsteps trailing behind him like an odor. However, he heard more footfalls quickly gathering behind him as he progressed. When people who don't know you follow you, they’re up to no good. I have ta stop doin' dat myself! This could only lead to trouble. He turned around to narrowly miss being hit by several different shades of alabaster knuckles heading in his direction. Freckled arms and vanilla fists swung at him, but they all seemed to move in slow motion although it did not make them less dangerous.
The black adolescent swiftly turned around and started to run with all of his might. If I can outrun a man on a horse, then I got nothing to worry about! His muscles gathered energy as fusion in a nuclear reactor before recalling something. I could get mo' unwan'ed attention if I move fasta dan people's ho'ses. So, he ran only fast enough to stay ahead of the teenage mob. Feminine, green eyes swiveled from beneath a large, church hat in another direction as though glancing at a dead animal. A bald man snickered as the teenagers chased Trouble.
I'm gone get outta here! This was a bad id--oomph!!! Trouble suddenly noticed he was sliding across a smooth, wooden floor. His motion came to a halt when his body struck a counter. A quick stare revealed his pursuers gathered outside of door's threshold like foreign immigrants attempting to sneak across a national border. Trouble turned his head upward to see a middle-aged man with skin resembling light sand with an auburn tint, badly receding red hair, and slightly wrinkled eyelids staring down at him from over the counter. The visitor rose from the floor and faced the man.
“How may I help you, boy?” asked the man as he stared at the visitor with his
nose turned upward.
“Sir, I don’t have any money, but I'm willin' ta work 'til I done 'nough ta earn one of dose hoes that ya have on da back wall,” proposed Trouble as he pointed to the shiny, new, agricultural tools.
“Well son, I usually don’t just give any tools away, but I like the fact that you asked to do some work to earn one,” responded the man, “I can have you do some deliveries, chores, and other tasks. If I am satisfied with your performance, I might allow you to select one of the hoes from off of the wall.”
“By the way, my name is Mr. Matthews, and I am the owner of the shop.”
“It nice ta meet ya,” greeted Trouble as he extended his hand to shake.
Mr. Matthews stared condescendingly at the visitor's hand as he pulled his arm further behind his back.
“What’s da first task ya like me ta perform?” inquired Trouble as he returned his arm to his side.
“Well, I'd like for you to deliver tools to the mechanic down the street,” informed the red-haired gentleman.
“Sir, there’re some boys outside that are giv—,” complained Trouble.
“Do you want the hoe or not?!!” snapped the man.
“Yes sir” replied the black boy with grievance in his voice. The hesitant adolescent walked up to the counter and picked up the heavy package. Then, he slowly placed one foot outside of the doorstep as his eyes toggled, back and forth. Trouble glanced all ways to see the typical town's scenery and no signs of his welcoming committee; however, he closed his eyes and his mind flashed with his point of view greatly expanding and contracting with the speed and accuracy of a telescope and microscope from various positions despite not moving his body.
Trouble's Always Watching Volume 1: Volume 1 (The Trouble Series) Page 14