jg.paintedhouse-第13部分

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　　　〃One　of　them　Sisco　boys　is　near　'bout　dead；〃　I　heard　him　say　as　I　moved　in　closer。　It　was　almost　dark　now；　and　no　one　was　watching　me。
　　　〃Nothing　wrong　with　that；〃　Pappy　said。
　　　〃They　say　that　hillbilly　is　working　out　at　your　place。〃
　　　〃I　didn't　see　the　fight；　Stick；〃　Pappy　said；　his　quick　temper　already　rising。　〃You　got　a　name？〃
　　　〃Hank　something　or　other。〃
　　　〃We　got　lots　of　somethings　and　others。〃
　　　〃Mind　if　I　ride　out　tomorrow　and　look　around？〃　Stick　asked。
　　　〃I　can't　stop　you。〃
　　　〃No；　you　can't。〃　Stick　wheeled　on　his　good　leg　and　gave　the　Mexicans　a　look　as　if　they　were　guilty　as　sin。
　　　I　eased　around　to　the　other　side　of　the　truck　and　said；　〃What　was　that　all　about？〃
　　　As　usual；　when　it　was　something　I　was　not　supposed　to　know　or　hear；　they　simply　ignored　me。
　　　We　rode　home　in　the　dark；　the　lights　of　Black　Oak　fading　behind　us；　the　cool　wind　from　the　road　blowing　our　hair。　At　first；　I　wanted　to　tell　my　father　about　the　fight；　but　I　couldn't　do　it　in　front　of　the　Mexicans。　Then　I　decided　not　to　be　a　witness。　I　wouldn't　tell　anybody　since　there　was　no　way　to　win。　Any　involvement　with　the　Siscos　would　make　my　life　dangerous；　and　I　didn't　want　the　Spruills　to　get　mad　and　leave。　The　picking　had　hardly　begun；　and　I　was　already　tired　of　it。　And　most　important；　I　didn't　want　Hank　Spruill　angry　with　me　or　my　father　or　Pappy。
　　　Their　old　truck　was　not　in　our　front　yard　when　we　arrived　home。　They　were　still　in　town；　probably　visiting　with　other　hill　people。
　　　After　supper；　we　took　our　places　on　the　porch　as　Pappy　fiddled　with　his　radio。　The　Cardinals　were　at　Philadelphia；　playing　under　the　lights。　Musial　came　to　bat　in　the　top　of　the　second；　and　I　began　to　dream。
　
　
　Chapter　8
　　　
　　　We　awoke　at　dawn　Sunday　to　the　crack　of　lightning　and　the　rumble　of　low　thunder。　A　storm　blew　from　the　southwest；　delaying　sunrise；　and　as　I　lay　in　the　darkness　of　Ricky's　room；　I　again　asked　the　great　question　of　why　it　rained　on　Sundays。　Why　not　during　the　week；　so　I　wouldn't　be　forced　to　pick　cotton？　Sunday　was　already　a　day　of　rest。
　　　My　grandmother　came　for　me　and　told　me　to　sit　on　the　porch　so　we　could　watch　the　rain　together。　She　fixed　my　coffee；　mixing　it　with　plenty　of　milk　and　sugar；　and　we　rocked　gently　in　the　swing　as　the　wind　howled。　The　Spruills　were　scurrying　about；　throwing　things　in　boxes；　trying　to　find　shelter　away　from　their　leaking　tents。
　　　The　rain　fell　in　waves；　as　if　trying　to　make　up　for　two　weeks　of　dry　weather。　A　mist　swirled　around　the　porch　like　a　fog；　and　above　us　the　tin　roof　sang　under　the　torrents。
　　　Gran　carefully　picked　her　moments　to　speak。　There　were　times；　usually　once　a　week；　when　she　would　take　me　for　a　walk；　or　meet　me　on　the　porch；　just　the　two　of　us。　Because　she'd　been　married　to　Pappy　for　thirty…five　years；　she'd　learned　the　art　of　silence。　She　could　walk　or　swing　for　long　periods　of　time　while　saying　little。
　　　〃How's　the　coffee？〃　she　asked；　barely　audible　above　the　storm。
　　　〃It's　fine；　Gran；〃　I　said。
　　　〃What　would　you　like　for　breakfast？〃
　　　〃Biscuits。〃
　　　〃Then　I'll　make　us　some　biscuits。〃
　　　The　Sunday　routine　was　a　little　more　relaxed。　We　generally　slept　later；　though　the　rain　had　awakened　us　early　today。　And　for　breakfast　we　skipped　the　usual　eggs　and　ham　and　somehow　managed　to　survive　on　biscuits　and　molasses。　The　kitchen　work　was　a　little　lighter。　It　was；　after　all；　a　day　of　rest。
　　　The　swing　moved　slowly　back　and　forth；　going　nowhere；　its　rusty　chains　squeaking　softly　above　us。　Lightning　popped　across　the　road；　somewhere　on　the　Jeter　property。
　　　〃I　had　a　dream　about　Ricky　last　night；〃　she　said。
　　　〃A　good　dream？〃
　　　〃Yes；　very　good。　I　dreamed　the　war　suddenly　ended；　but　they　forgot　to　tell　us。　And　one　night　we　were　sitting　here　on　the　porch；　listening　to　the　radio；　and　out　there　on　the　road　we　saw　a　man　running　toward　us。　It　was　Ricky。　He　was　in　his　army　uniform；　and　he　started　yelling　about　the　war　being　over。〃
　　　〃I　wish　I　could　have　a　dream　like　that；〃　I　said。
　　　〃I　think　the　Lord's　telling　us　something。〃
　　　〃Ricky's　ing　home？〃
　　　〃Yes。　Maybe　not　right　away；　but　the　war'll　be　over　soon。　We'll　look　up　one　day　and　see　him　walking　across　the　yard　there。〃
　　　I　looked　at　the　yard。　Puddles　and　streams　were　beginning　to　form　and　run　down　toward　the　Spruills。　The　grass　was　almost　gone；　and　the　wind　was　blowing　the　first　of　the　dead　leaves　from　our　oaks。
　　　〃I　pray　for　Ricky　every　night；　Gran；〃　I　said；　quite　proud。
　　　〃I　pray　for　him　every　hour；〃　she　said；　with　a　hint　of　mist　in　her　eyes。
　　　We　rocked　and　watched　the　rain。　My　thoughts　about　Ricky　were　rarely　of　a　soldier　in　uniform；　with　a　gun；　under　fire；　hopping　from　one　safe　place　to　another。　Rather；　my　memories　were　of　my　best　friend；　my　uncle　who　was　more　like　a　brother；　a　buddy　with　a　fishing　pole　or　a　baseball　glove。　He　was　only　nineteen；　an　age　that　seemed　both　old　and　young　to　me。
　　　Before　long　my　mother　came　to　the　door。　The　Saturday　bath　was　followed　by　the　Sunday　scrubbing；　a　quick　but　brutal　ritual　in　which　my　neck　and　ears　were　scraped　by　a　woman　possessed。　〃We　need　to　get　ready；〃　she　said。　I　could　already　feel　the　pain。
　　　I　followed　Gran　to　the　kitchen　for　more　coffee。　Pappy　was　at　the　kitchen　table；　reading　the　Bible　and　preparing　his　Sunday　school　lesson。　My　father　was　on　the　back　porch；　watching　the　storm　and　gazing　into　the　distance　at　the　river；　no　doubt　beginning　to　worry　that　floodwaters　were　ing。
　　　
　　　The　rains　stopped　long　before　we　left　for　church。　The　roads　were　muddy；　and　Pappy　drove　even　slower　than　usual。　We　puttered　along；　sometimes　sliding　in　the　ruts　and　puddles　of　the　old　dirt　road。　My　father　and　I　were　in　the　back；　holding　tightly　to　the　sides　of　the　bed；　and　my　mother　and　Gran　rode　up　front；　everybody　dressed　in　their　best。　The　sky　had　cleared；　and　now　the　sun　was　overhead；　already　baking　the　wet　ground　so　that　you　could　see　the　humidity　drifting　lazily　above　the　cotton　stalks。
　　　〃It's　gonna　be　a　hot　one；〃　my　father　said；　issuing　the　same　forecast　he　uttered　every　day　from　May　through　September。
　　　When　we　reached　the　highway；　we　stood　and　leaned　on　the　cab　so　the　wind　was　in　our　faces。　It　was　much　cooler　that　way。　The　fields　were　vacant；　not　even　the　Mexicans　were　allowed　to　work　on　the　Sabbath。　Every　harvest　season　brought　the　same　rumors　of　heathen　farmers　sneaking　around　and　picking　cotton　on　Sunday；　but　I　personally　had　never　witnessed　such　sinful　behavior。
　　　Most　things　were　sinful　in　rural　Arkansas；　especially　if　you　were　a　Baptist。　And　a　great　part　of　our　Sunday　worship　ritual　was　to　be　preached　at　by　the　Reverend　Akers；　a　loud　and　angry　man　who　spent　too　much　of　his　time　conjuring　up　new　sins。　Of　course；　I　didn't　care　for　the　preaching…most　kids　didn't…but　there　was　more　to　Sunday　church　than　worship。　It　was　a　time　for　visiting；　and　spreading　news　and　gossip。　It　was　a　festive　gathering；　with　everyone　in　good　spirits；　or　at　least　pretending　to　be。　Whatever　the　worries　of　the　world…the　ing　floods；　the　war　in　Korea；　the　fluctuating　price　of　cotton…they　were　all　put　aside　during　church。
　　　The　Lord　didn't　intend　for　His　people　to　worry；　Gran　always　said；　especially　when　we　were　in　His　house。　This　forever　struck　me　as　odd；　because　she　worried　almost　as　much　as　Pappy。
　　　Other　than　the　family　and　the　farm；　nothing　was　as　important　to　us　as　the　Black　Oak　Baptist　Church。　I　knew　every　single　person　in　our　church；　and　they　of　course　knew　me。　It　was　a　family；　for　better　or　worse。　Everybody　loved　one　another；　or　at　least　professed　to；　and　if　one　of　our　members　was　the　slightest　bit　ill；　then　all　manner　of　prayer　and　Christian　caring　poured　forth。　A　funeral　was　a　weeklong；　almost　holy　event。　The　fall　and　spring　revivals　were　planned　for　months　and　greatly　anticipated。　At　least　once　a　month　we　had　some　form　of　dinner…on…the…grounds…a　potluck　picnic　under　the　trees　behind　the　church…and　these　often　lasted　until　late　afternoon。　Weddings　were　important；　especially　for　the　ladies；　but　they　lacked　the　high　drama　of　funerals　and　burials。
　　　The　church's　gravel　parking　lot　was　almost　full　when　we　arrived。　Most　of　the　vehicles　were　old　farmers'　trucks　like　ours；　all　covered　with　a　fresh　coat　of　mud。　There　were　a　few　sedans；　and　these　were　driven　either　by　town　folk　or　by　farmers　who　owned　their　land。　Down　the　street　at　the　Methodist　church；　there　were　fewer　trucks　and　more　cars。　As　a　general　rule；　the　merchants　and　schoolteachers　worshiped　there。　The　Methodists　thought　they　were　slightly　superior；　but　as　Baptists；　we　knew　we　had　the　inside　track　to　God。
　　　I　jumped　from　the　truck　and　ran　to　find　my　friends。　Three　of　the　older　boys　were　tossing　a　baseball　behind　the　church；　near　the　cemetery；　and　I　headed　in　their　direction。
　　　〃Luke；〃　someone　whispered。　It　was　Dewayne；　hiding　in　the　shade　of　an　elm　tree　and　looking　scared。　〃Over　here。〃
　　　I　walked　to　the　tree。
　　　〃Have　you　heard？〃　he　said。　〃Jerry　Sisco　died　early　this　mornin'。〃
　　　I　felt　as　if　I'd　done　something　wrong；　and　I　couldn't　think　of　anything　to　say。　Dewayne　just　stared　at　me。　Finally；　I　managed　to　respond。　〃So？〃
　　　〃So　they're　tryin'　to　find　people　who　saw　what　happened。〃
　　　〃Lot　of　folks　saw　it。〃
　　　〃Yeah；　but　nobody　wants　to　say　anything。　Everybody's　scared　of　the　Siscos；　and　everybody's　scared　of　your　hillbilly。〃
　　　〃Ain't　my　hillbilly；〃　I　said。
　　　〃Well；　I'm　scared　of　him　anyway。　Ain't　you？〃
　　　〃Yep。〃
　　　〃What're　we　gonna　do？〃
　　　〃Nothin'。　We　ain't　sayin'　a　word；　not　now　anyhow。〃
　　　We　agreed　that　we　would　indeed　do　nothing。　If　we　were　confronted；　we　would　lie。　And　if　we　lied；　we　would　say　an　extra　prayer。
　　　The　prayers　were　long　and　windy　that　Sunday　morning。　So　were　the　rumors　and　gossip　of　what　had　happened　to　Jerry　Sisco。　News　spread　quickly　before　Sunday　school　began。　Dewayne　and　I　heard　details　about　the　fight　that　we　couldn't　believe　were　being　reported。　Hank　grew　larger　by　the　moment。　〃Hands　as　big　as　a　country　ham；〃　somebody　said。　〃Shoulders　like　a　Brahma　bull；〃　said　somebody　else。　〃Had　to　weigh　three　hundred　pounds。〃
　　　The　men　and　older　boys　grouped　near　the　front　of　the　church；　and　Dewayne　and　I　milled　around；　just　listening。　I　heard　it　described　as　a　murder；　then　a　killing；　and　I　wasn't　clear　about　the　difference　until　I　heard　Mr。　Snake　Wilcox　say；　〃Ain't　no　murder。　Good　folks　get　murdered。　White　trash　like　the　Siscos　get　killed。〃
　　　The　killing　was　the　first　in　Black　Oak　since　1947；　when　some　sharecroppers　east　of　town　got　drunk　and　had　a　family　war。　A　teenage　boy　found　himself　on　the　wrong　end　of　a　shotgun；　but　no　charges　were　filed。　They　fled　during　the　night；　never　to　be　heard　from　again。　No　one　could　remember　the　last　〃real〃　murder。
　　　I　was　mesmerized　by　the　gossip。　We　sat　on　the　front　steps　of　the　church；　looking　down　the　sidewalk　toward　Main　Street；　and　heard　men　arguing　and　spouting　off　about　what　should　or　shouldn't　be　done。
　　　Down　the　street；　I　could　see　the　front　of　the　Co…op；　and　for　a　moment　I　thought　I　could　see　Jerry　Sisco　again；　his　face　a　mess；　as　Hank　Spruill　clubbed　him　to　death。
　　　I　had　watched　a　man　get　killed。　Suddenly；　I　felt　the　urge　to　sneak　back　into　the　sanctuary　and　start　praying。　I　knew　I　was　guilty　of　something。
　　　We　drifted　into　the　church；　where　the　girls　and　women　were　also　huddled　and　whispering　their　versions　of　the　tragedy。　Among　them；　J