jg.paintedhouse-第4部分

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　　　I'd　spent　most　of　the　previous　two　weeks　in　the　barn；　alone　with　my　mother；　sweeping　and　cleaning　the　loft；　trying　to　make　a　home　for　the　Mexicans。　Most　of　the　farmers　put　them　in　abandoned　tenant　houses　or　barns。　There'd　been　a　rumor　that　Ned　Shackleford　three　miles　south　had　made　his　live　with　the　chickens。
　　　Not　so　on　the　Chandler　farm。　For　lack　of　another　shelter；　the　Mexicans　would　be　forced　to　live　in　the　loft　of　our　barn；　but　there　wouldn't　be　a　speck　of　dirt　anywhere　to　be　found。　And　it　would　have　a　pleasant　smell。　For　a　year　my　mother　had　gathered　old　blankets　and　quilts　for　them　to　sleep　on。
　　　I　slipped　into　the　barn；　but　stayed　below；　next　to　Isabel's　stall。　She　was　our　milk　cow。　Pappy　claimed　his　life　had　been　saved　in　the　First　War　by　a　young　French　girl　named　Isabel；　and　to　honor　the　memory；　he　named　our　Jersey　cow　after　her。　My　grandmother　never　believed　that　story。
　　　I　could　hear　them　up　in　the　loft；　moving　around；　settling　in。　Pappy　was　talking　to　Miguel；　who　was　impressed　with　how　nice　and　clean　the　loft　was。　Pappy　took　the　pliments　as　if　he　and　he　alone　had　done　the　scrubbing。
　　　In　fact；　he　and　Gran　had　been　skeptical　of　my　mother's　efforts　to　provide　a　decent　place　for　the　laborers　to　sleep。　My　mother　had　been　raised　on　a　small　farm　at　the　very　edge　of　Black　Oak；　so　she　was　almost　a　town　girl。　She　actually　grew　up　with　kids　who　were　too　good　to　pick　cotton。　She　never　walked　to　school…her　father　drove　her。　She'd　been　to　Memphis　three　times　before　she　married　my　father。　She'd　been　raised　in　a　painted　house。
　
　
　Chapter　3
　　　
　　　We　Chandlers　rented　our　land　from　Mr。　Vogel　of　Jonesboro；　a　man　I'd　never　seen。　His　name　was　rarely　mentioned；　but　when　it　did　slip　into　a　conversation；　it　was　uttered　with　respect　and　awe。　I　thought　he　was　the　richest　man　in　the　world。
　　　Pappy　and　Gran　had　been　renting　the　land　since　before　the　Great　Depression；　which　arrived　early　and　stayed　late　in　rural　Arkansas。　After　thirty　years　of　backbreaking　labor；　they　had　managed　to　purchase
　　　from　Mr。　Vogel　the　house　and　the　three　acres　around　it。　They　also　owned　the　John　Deere　tractor；　two　disks；　a　seed　planter；　a　cotton　trailer；　a　flatbed　trailer；　two　mules；　a　wagon；　and　the　truck。　My　father　had　a　vague　agreement　that　gave　him　an　ownership　interest　in　some　〃I　these　assets。　The　land　deed　was　in　the　names　of　Eli　and　Ruth　Chandler。
　　　The　only　farmers　who　made　money　were　those　who　owned　their　land。　The　renters；　like　us；　tried　to　break　even。　The　sharecroppers　had　i　he　worst　and　were　doomed　to　eternal　poverty。　My　father's　goal　was　to　own　forty　acres　of　land；　free　and　clear。　My　other's　dreams　were　tucked　away；　only　to　be　shared　with　me　as　I　grew　older。　But　I　already　knew　she　longed　to　leave　the　rural　life　and　is　determined　that　I　would　not　farm。　By　the　time　I　was　seven；　she　had　made　a　believer　out　of　me。
　　　When　she　was　satisfied　that　the　Mexicans　were　being　properly　situated；　she　sent　me　to　find　my　father。　It　was　late；　the　sun　was　falling　beyond　the　trees　that　lined　the　St。　Francis　River；　and　it　was　time　for　in　to　weigh　his　cotton　sack　for　the　final　time　and　call　it　a　day。　I　walked　barefoot　along　a　dirt　path　between　two　fields；　looking　for　him。　The　soil　was　dark　and　rich；　good　Delta　farmland　that　produced　enough　to　keep　you　tied　to　it。　Ahead；　I　saw　the　cotton　trailer；　and　I　knew　he　was　working　his　way　toward　it。
　　　Jesse　Chandler　was　the　elder　son　of　Pappy　and　Gran。　His　younger　brother；　Ricky；　was　nineteen　and　fighting　somewhere　in　Korea。　There　were　two　sisters　who'd　fled　the　farm　as　soon　as　they'd　finished　high　school。
　　　My　father　didn't　flee。　He　was　determined　to　be　a　farmer　like　his　father　and　grandfather；　except　he'd　be　the　first　Chandler　to　own　his　land。　I　didn't　know　if　he　had　dreams　of　a　life　away　from　the　fields。　Like　my　grandfather；　he　had　been　an　excellent　baseball　player；　and　I'm　sure　at　one　point　he'd　dreamed　of　major　league　glory。　But　he　took　a　German　bullet　through　his　thigh　in　Anzio　in　1944；　and　his　baseball　career　came　to　an　end。
　　　He　walked　with　a　very　slight　limp；　but　then　so　did　most　people　who　toiled　in　the　cotton　patch。
　　　I　stopped　at　the　trailer；　which　was　almost　empty。　It　sat　on　a　narrow　cotton　road；　waiting　to　be　filled。　I　climbed　up　on　it。　Around　me；　on　all　sides；　neat　rows　of　green　and　brown　stalks　stretched　to　the　tree　lines　that　bordered　our　land。　At　the　top　of　the　stalks；　puffy　bolls　of　cotton　were　popping　forth。　The　cotton　was　ing　to　life　by　the　minute；　so　when　I　stepped　on　the　back　of　the　trailer　and　surveyed　the　fields；　I　saw　an　ocean　of　white。　The　fields　were　silent…no　voices；　no　tractor　engines；　no　cars　on　the　road。　For　a　moment；　hanging　on　to　the　trailer；　I　could　almost　understand　why　my　father　wanted　to　be　a　farmer。
　　　I　could　barely　see　his　old　straw　hat　in　the　distance　as　he　moved　between　rows。　I　jumped　down　and　hurried　to　meet　him。　With　dusk　approaching；　the　gaps　between　the　rows　were　even　darker。　Because　the　sun　and　rain　had　cooperated；　the　leaves　were　full　and　thick　and　weaving　together　so　that　they　brushed　against　me　as　I　walked　quickly　toward　my　father。
　　　〃Is　that　you；　Luke？〃　he　called；　knowing　full　well　that　no　one　else　would　be　ing　to　find　him。
　　　〃Yes　sir！〃　I　answered；　moving　to　the　voice。　〃Mom　says　it's　time　to　quit！〃
　　　〃Oh　she　does？〃
　　　〃Yes　sir。〃　I　missed　him　by　one　row。　I　cut　through　the　stalks；　and　there　he　was；　bent　at　the　waist；　both　hands　moving　through　the　leaves；　adroitly　plucking　the　cotton　and　stuffing　it　into　the　nearly　full　sack　draped　over　his　shoulder。　He'd　been　in　the　fields　since　sunrise；　breaking　only　for　lunch。
　　　〃Did　y'all　find　some　help？〃　he　asked　without　looking　at　me。
　　　〃Yes　sir；〃　I　said　proudly。　〃Mexicans　and　hill　people。〃
　　　〃How　many　Mexicans？〃
　　　〃Ten；〃　I　said；　as　if　I'd　personally　rounded　them　up。
　　　〃That's　good。　Who　are　the　hill　people？〃
　　　〃The　Spruills。　I　forgot　where　they're　from。〃
　　　〃How　many？〃　He　finished　a　stalk　and　crept　forward；　with　his　heavy　sack　inching　along　behind　him。
　　　〃A　whole　truckload。　It's　hard　to　tell。　Gran's　mad　because　they've　set　up　camp　in　the　front　yard；　even　got　a　fire　goin'　where　home　plate　is。　Pappy　told　'em　to　set　up　by　the　silo。　I　heard　him。　I　don't　think　they're　real　smart。〃
　　　〃Don't　be　sayin'　that。〃
　　　〃Yes　sir。　Anyway；　Gran's　not　too　pleased。〃
　　　〃She'll　be　all　right。　We　need　the　hill　people。〃
　　　〃Yes　sir。　That's　what　Pappy　said。　But　I　hate　they've　messed　up　home　plate。〃
　　　〃Pickin'　is　more　important　than　baseball　these　days。〃
　　　〃I　guess。〃　Maybe　in　his　opinion。
　　　〃How　are　the　Mexicans？〃
　　　〃Not　too　good。　They　stuffed　'em　in　a　trailer　again；　and　Mom's　not　too　happy　about　it。〃
　　　His　hands　stopped　for　a　second　as　he　considered　another　winter　of　squabbles。　〃They're　just　happy　to　be　here；〃　he　said；　his　hands　moving　again。
　　　I　took　a　few　steps　toward　the　trailer　in　the　distance；　then　turned　to　watch　him　again。　〃Tell　that　to　Mom。〃
　　　He　gave　me　a　look　before　saying；　〃Did　Juan　make　it？〃
　　　〃No　sir。〃
　　　〃Sorry　to　hear　that。〃
　　　I'd　talked　about　Juan　for　a　year。　He　had　promised　me　last　fall　that　he'd　be　back。　〃That's　okay；〃　I　said。　〃The　new　guy　is　Miguel。　He's　real　nice。〃
　　　I　told　him　about　the　trip　to　town；　how　we　found　the　Spruills；　about　Tally　and　Trot　and　the　large　young　man　on　the　tailgate；　then　back　to　i　own　where　Pappy　argued　with　the　man　in　charge　of　labor；　then　the　nip　to　the　gin；　then　about　the　Mexicans。　I　did　all　the　talking　because　my　day　had　certainly　been　more　eventful　than　his。
　　　At　the　trailer；　he　lifted　the　straps　of　his　cotton　sack　and　hung　them　over　the　hook　at　the　bottom　of　the　scales。　The　needle　settled　on　fifty…eight　pounds。　He　scribbled　this　in　a　ragged　old　ledger　wired　to　the　trailer。
　　　〃How　much？〃　I　asked　when　he　closed　the　book。
　　　〃Four…seventy。〃
　　　〃A　triple；〃　I　said。
　　　He　shrugged　and　said；　〃Not　bad。〃
　　　Five　hundred　pounds　equaled　a　home　run；　something　he　acplished　every　other　day。　He　squatted　and　said；　〃Hop　on。〃
　　　I　jumped　on　his　back；　and　we　started　for　the　house。　His　shirt　and　overalls　were　soaked　with　sweat；　and　had　been　all　day；　but　his　arms　were　like　steel。　Pop　Watson　told　me　that　Jesse　Chandler　once　hit　a　baseball　that　landed　in　the　center　of　Main　Street。　Pop　and　Mr。　Snake　Wilcox；　the　barber；　measured　it　the　next　day　and　began　telling　people　that　it　had　traveled；　on　the　fly；　440　feet。　But　a　hostile　opinion　quickly　emerged　from　the　Tea　Shoppe；　where　Mr。　Junior　Barnhart　claimed；　rather　loudly；　that　the　ball　had　bounced　at　least　once　before　hitting　Main　Street。
　　　Pop　and　Junior　went　weeks　without　speaking　to　each　other。　My　mother　verified　the　argument；　but　not　the　home　run。
　　　She　was　waiting　for　us　by　the　water　pump。　My　father　sat　on　a　bench　and　removed　his　boots　and　socks。　Then　he　unsnapped　his　overalls　and　took　off　his　shirt。
　　　One　of　my　chores　at　dawn　was　to　fill　a　washtub　with　water　and　leave　it　in　the　sun　all　day　so　there'd　be　warm　water　for　my　father　every　afternoon。　My　mother　dipped　a　hand　towel　in　the　tub　and　gently　rubbed　his　neck　with　it。
　　　She　had　grown　up　in　a　house　full　of　girls；　and　had　been　raised　in　part　by　a　couple　of　prissy　old　aunts。　I　think　they　bathed　more　than　farm　people；　and　her　passion　for　cleanliness　had　rubbed　off　on　my　father。　I　got　a　plete　scrubbing　every　Saturday　afternoon；　whether　I　needed　it　or　not。
　　　When　he　was　washed　up　and　dried　off；　she　handed　him　a　fresh　shirt。　It　was　time　to　wele　our　guests。　In　a　large　basket；　my　mother　had　assembled　a　collection　of　her　finest　vegetables；　all　handpicked；　of　course；　and　washed　within　the　past　two　hours。　Indian　tomatoes；　Vidalia　onions；　red…skin　potatoes；　green　and　red　bell　peppers；　ears　of　corn。　We　carried　it　to　the　back　of　the　barn；　where　the　Mexicans　were　resting　and　talking　and　waiting　for　their　small　fire　to　burn　low　so　they　could　make　their　tortillas。　I　introduced　my　father　to　Miguel；　who　in　turn　presented　some　of　his　gang。
　　　Cowboy　sat　alone；　his　back　to　the　barn；　making　no　move　to　acknowledge　us。　I　could　see　him　watching　my　mother　from　under　the　brim　of　his　hat。　It　frightened　me　for　a　second；　then　I　realized　Jesse　Chandler　would　snap　Cowboy's　skinny　little　neck　if　he　made　one　wrong　move。
　　　We　had　learned　a　lot　from　the　Mexicans　the　year　before。　They　did　not　eat　butter　beans；　snap　beans；　squash；　eggplant；　or　turnips；　but　preferred　tomatoes；　onions；　potatoes；　peppers；　and　corn。　And　they　would　never　ask　for　food　from　our　garden。　It　had　to　be　offered。
　　　My　mother　explained　to　Miguel　and　the　other　men　that　our　garden　was　full　and　that　she　would　bring　them　vegetables　every　other　day。　They　were　not　expected　to　pay　for　the　food。　It　was　part　of　the　package。
　　　We　took　another　basket　to　the　front　of　the　house；　where　Camp　Spruill　seemed　to　be　expanding　by　the　hour。　They　had　crept　even　farther　across　the　yard；　and　there　were　more　cardboard　boxes　and　burlap　sacks　strewn　about。　They'd　laid　three　planks　across　a　box　on　one　end　and　a　barrel　on　the　other　to　make　a　table；　and　they　were　crowded　around　it　eating　dinner　when　we　approached　them。　Mr。　Spruill　got　to　his　feet　and　shook　my　father's　hand。
　　　〃Leon　Spruill；〃　he　said　with　food　on　his　lip。　〃Nice　to　meet　you。〃
　　　〃Happy　to　have　you　folks　here；〃　my　father　said　pleasantly。
　　　〃Thank　you；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　pulling　up　his　pants。　〃This　here　is　my　wife；　Lucy。〃　She　smiled　and　kept　chewing　slowly。
　　　〃This　is　my　daughter