jg.paintedhouse-第5部分

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slowly。
　　　〃This　is　my　daughter；　Tally；〃　he　said；　pointing。　When　she　looked　at　me；　I　could　feel　my　cheeks　burning。
　　　〃And　these　are　my　nephews；　Bo　and　Dale；〃　he　said；　nodding　to　the　two　boys　who'd　been　resting　on　the　mattress　when　they　had　stopped　on　the　highway。　They　were　teenagers；　probably　fifteen　or　so。　And　sitting　next　to　them　was　the　giant　I'd　first　seen　on　the　tailgate；　half…asleep。
　　　〃This　is　my　son　Hank；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said。　Hank　was　at　least　twenty　and　was　certainly　old　enough　to　stand　up　and　shake　hands。　But　he　kept　eating。　Both　jaws　were　ballooned　with　what　appeared　to　be　corn　bread。　〃He　eats　a　lot；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　and　we　tried　to　laugh。
　　　〃And　this　here　is　Trot；〃　he　said。　Trot　never　looked　up。　His　limp　left　arm　hung　by　his　side。　He　clutched　a　spoon　with　his　right　hand。　His　standing　in　the　family　was　left　undeclared。
　　　My　mother　presented　the　large　basket　of　vegetables；　and　for　a　second；　Hank　stopped　his　chomping　and　looked　up　at　the　fresh　supply。　Then　he　returned　to　his　beans。　〃The　tomatoes　and　corn　are　especially　good　this　year；〃　my　mother　was　saying。　〃And　there's　plenty。　Just　let　me　know　what　you　like。〃
　　　Tally　chewed　slowly　and　stared　at　me。　I　studied　my　feet。
　　　〃That's　mighty　nice　of　you；　ma'am；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　and　Mrs。　Spruill　added　a　quick　thanks。　There　was　no　danger　of　the　Spruills　going　without　food；　not　that　they　had　missed　any　meals。　Hank　was　burly　with　a　thick　chest　that　narrowed　only　slightly　where　it　met　his　neck。　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Spruill　were　both　stocky　and　appeared　strong。　Bo　and　Dale　were　lean　but　not　thin。　Tally；　of　course；　was　perfectly　proportioned。　Only　Trot　was　gaunt　and　skinny。
　　　〃Didn't　mean　to　interrupt　dinner；〃　my　father　said；　and　we　began　backing　away。
　　　〃Thanks　again；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said。
　　　I　knew　from　experience　that　within　a　short　time　we　would　know　more　than　we　wanted　about　the　Spruills。　They　would　share　our　land；　our　water；　our　outhouse。　We　would　take　them　vegetables　from　the　garden；　milk　from　Isabel；　eggs　from　the　coop。　We　would　invite　them　to　town　on　Saturday　and　to　church　on　Sunday。　We　would　work　beside　them　in　the　fields　from　sunrise　until　almost　dark。　And　when　the　picking　was　over；　they　would　leave　and　return　to　the　hills。　The　trees　would　turn；　winter　would　e；　and　we　would　spend　many　cold　nights　huddled　around　the　fire　telling　stories　about　the　Spruills。
　　　
　　　Dinner　was　potatoes；　sliced　thin　and　fried；　boiled　okra；　corn　on　the　cob；　and　hot　corn　bread…but　no　meats　because　it　was　almost　fall；　and　because　we'd　had　a　roast　the　day　before。　Gran　fried　chicken　twice　a　week；　but　never　on　Wednesdays。　My　mother's　garden　was　producing　enough　tomatoes　and　onions　to　feed　all　of　Black　Oak；　so　she　sliced　a　platter　of　them　for　every　meal。
　　　The　kitchen　was　small　and　hot。　A　round　oscillating　fan　rattled　away　on　top　of　the　refrigerator　and　tried　to　keep　the　air　circulating　as　my　mother　and　grandmother　prepared　dinner。　Their　movements　were　slow　but　steady。　They　were　tired；　and　it　was　too　hot　to　hurry　up。
　　　They　were　not　particularly　fond　of　each　other；　but　both　were　determined　to　exist　in　peace。　I　never　heard　them　argue；　never　heard　my　mother　say　anything　bad　about　her　mother…in…law。　They　lived　in　the　same　house；　cooked　the　same　meals；　did　the　same　laundry；　picked　the　same　cotton。　With　so　much　work　to　do；　who　had　time　to　bicker？
　　　But　Gran　had　been　born　and　bred　deep　in　the　cotton　patch。　She　knew　she　would　be　buried　in　the　soil　she　worked。　My　mother　longed　for　an　escape。
　　　Through　daily　ritual；　they　had　silently　negotiated　a　method　to　their　kitchen　work。　Gran　hovered　near　the　stove；　checking　the　corn　bread；　stirring　the　potatoes；　okra；　and　corn。　My　mother　kept　to　the　sink；　where　she　peeled　tomatoes　and　stacked　the　dirty　dishes。　I　studied　this　from　the　kitchen　table；　where　I　sat　every　night　and　peeled　cucumbers　with　a　paring　knife。　They　both　loved　music；　and　occasionally　one　would　hum　while　the　other　sang　softly。　The　music　kept　the　tension　buried。
　　　But　not　tonight。　They　were　too　preoccupied　to　sing　and　hum。　My　mother　was　stewing　over　the　fact　that　the　Mexicans　had　been　hauled　in　like　cattle。　My　grandmother　was　pouting　because　the　Spruills　had　invaded　our　front　yard。
　　　At　exactly　six　o'clock；　Gran　removed　her　apron　and　sat　across　from　me。　The　end　of　the　table　was　flush　against　the　wall　and　served　as　a　large　shelf　that　accumulated　things。　In　the　center　was　an　RCA　radio　in　a　walnut　casing。　She　turned　on　the　switch　and　smiled　at　me。
　　　The　CBS　news　was　delivered　to　us　by　Edward　R。　Murrow；　live　from　New　York。　For　a　week　there'd　been　heavy　fighting　in　Pyongyang；　near　the　Sea　of　Japan；　and　from　an　old　map　that　Gran　kept　on　her　night　table；　we　knew　that　Ricky's　infantry　division　was　in　the　area。　His　last　letter　had　arrived　two　weeks　earlier。　It　was　a　quickly　written　note；　but　between　the　lines　it　gave　the　impression　that　he　was　in　the　thick　of　things。
　　　When　Mr。　Murrow　got　past　his　lead　story　about　a　spat　with　the　Russians；　he　started　on　Korea；　and　Gran　closed　her　eyes。　She　folded　her　hands　together；　put　both　index　fingers　to　her　lips；　and　waited。
　　　I　wasn't　sure　what　she　was　waiting　for。　Mr。　Murrow　was　not　going　lo　announce　to　the　nation　that　Ricky　Chandler　was　dead　or　alive。
　　　My　mother　listened；　too。　She　stood　with　her　back　to　the　sink；　wiping　her　hands　with　a　towel；　staring　blankly　at　the　table。　This　happened　almost　every　night　in　the　summer　and　fall　of　1952。
　　　Peace　efforts　had　been　started；　then　abandoned。　The　Chinese　withdrew；　then　attacked　again。　Through　Mr。　Murrow's　reports　and　Ricky's　letters；　we　lived　the　war。
　　　Pappy　and　my　father　would　not　listen　to　the　news。　They　busied　themselves　outside；　at　the　tool　shed　or　the　water　pump；　doing　small　chores　that　could've　waited；　talking　about　the　crops；　searching　for　something　to　worry　about　besides　Ricky。　Both　had　fought　in　wars。　They　didn't　need　Mr。　Murrow　in　New　York　to　read　some　correspondent's　cable　from　Korea　and　tell　the　nation　what　was　occurring　in　one　battle　or　the　next。　They　knew。
　　　In　any　case；　it　was　a　short　report　that　night　about　Korea；　and　this　was　taken　in　our　little　farmhouse　as　something　good。　Mr。　Murrow　moved　along　to　other　matters；　and　Gran　finally　smiled　at　me。　〃Ricky's　okay；〃　she　said；　rubbing　my　hand。　〃He'll　be　home　before　you　know　it。〃
　　　She'd　earned　the　right　to　believe　this。　She　had　waited　for　Pappy　during　the　First　War；　and　she　had　prayed　long　distance　for　my　father　and　his　wounds　during　the　Second。　Her　boys　always　came　home；　and　Ricky　would　not　let　us　down。
　　　She　turned　the　radio　off。　The　potatoes　and　okra　needed　her　attention。　She　and　my　mother　returned　to　cooking；　and　we　waited　for　Pappy　to　walk　through　the　back　screen　door。
　　　I　think　Pappy　expected　the　worst　from　the　war。　The　Chandlers　had　been　lucky　so　far　in　the　century。　He　wouldn't　listen　to　the　news；　but　he　wanted　to　know　if　things　looked　good　or　bad。　When　he　heard　the　radio　go　off；　he　usually　made　his　way　into　the　kitchen。　That　evening　he　stopped　at　the　table　and　tousled　my　hair。　Gran　looked　at　him。　She　smiled　and　said；　〃No　bad　news。〃
　　　My　mother　told　me　that　Gran　and　Pappy　often　slept　less　than　an　hour　or　two　before　waking　and　worrying　about　their　younger　son。　Gran　was　convinced　Ricky　was　ing　home。　Pappy　was　not。
　　　At　six…thirty；　we　sat　around　the　table；　held　hands；　and　gave　thanks　for　all　the　food　and　all　the　blessings。　Pappy　led　the　praying；　at　least　over　dinner。　He　thanked　God　for　the　Mexicans　and　for　the　Spruills；　and　for　the　fine　crops　around　us。　I　prayed　quietly；　and　only　for　Ricky。　I　was　grateful　for　the　food；　but　it　didn't　seem　nearly　as　important　as　he　did。
　　　The　adults　ate　slowly　and　talked　about　nothing　but　cotton。　I　was　not　expected　to　add　much　to　the　conversation。　Gran　in　particular　was　of　the　opinion　that　children　should　be　seen　and　not　heard。
　　　I　wanted　to　go　to　the　barn　and　check　out　the　Mexicans。　And　I　wanted　to　sneak　around　front　and　maybe　catch　a　glimpse　of　Tally。　My　mother　suspected　something；　and　when　we　finished　eating；　she　told　me　to　help　her　with　the　dishes。　I　would've　preferred　a　whipping；　but　I　had　no　choice。
　　　
　　　We　drifted　to　the　front　porch　for　our　nightly　sitting。　It　seemed　like　a　simple　enough　ritual；　but　it　wasn't。　First　we　would　let　the　meal　settle；　then　we'd　tend　to　baseball。　We　would　turn　on　the　radio　and　Harry　Caray　at　KMOX　in　St。　Louis　would　deliver　the　play…by…play　of　our　beloved　Cardinals。　My　mother　and　grandmother　would　shell　peas　or　butter　beans。　Any　loose　ends　of　dinner　gossip　would　be　wrapped　up。　Of　course；　the　crops　were　fretted　over。
　　　But　that　night　it　was　raining　two　hundred　miles　away　in　St。　Louis；　and　the　game　had　been　canceled。　I　sat　on　the　steps；　holding　my　Rawlings　glove；　squeezing　my　baseball　inside　it；　watching　the　shadows　of　the　Spruills　in　the　distance　and　wondering　how　anyone　could　be　so　thoughtless　as　to　build　a　fire　on　home　plate。
　　　The　outside　radio　was　a　small　General　Electric　that　my　father　had　bought　in　Boston　when　he　left　the　hospital　during　the　war。　Its　sole　purpose　was　to　bring　the　Cardinals　into　our　lives。　We　seldom　missed　a　game。　It　sat　on　a　wooden　crate　near　the　creaking　swing　where　the　men　rested。　My　mother　and　grandmother　sat　in　padded　wooden　chairs　not　far　away；　on　the　other　side　of　the　porch；　shelling　peas。　I　was　in　the　middle；　on　the　front　steps。
　　　Before　the　Mexicans　arrived；　we'd　had　a　portable　fan　we　put　near　the　screen　door。　Each　night　it　would　hum　away　quietly　and　manage　to　push　the　heavy　air　around　just　enough　to　make　things　bearable。　But；　thanks　to　my　mother；　it　was　now　in　the　loft　of　our　barn。　This　had　caused　friction；　though　most　of　it　had　been　kept　away　from　me。
　　　And　so　the　night　was　very　quiet…no　ball　game；　no　fan…just　the　slow　talk　of　weary　farm　people　waiting　for　the　temperature　to　drop　a　few　more　degrees。
　　　The　rain　in　St。　Louis　inspired　the　men　to　worry　about　the　weather。　The　rivers　and　creeks　in　the　Arkansas　Delta　flooded　with　frustrating　regularity。　Every　four　or　five　years　they　left　their　banks　and　washed　away　the　crops。　I　couldn't　remember　a　flood；　but　I'd　heard　so　much　about　them　I　felt　like　a　veteran。　We　would　pray　for　weeks　for　a　good　rain。　One　would　e；　and　as　soon　as　the　ground　was　soaked；　Pappy　and　my　father　would　start　watching　the　clouds　and　telling　flood　stories。
　　　The　Spruills　were　winding　down。　Their　voices　were　fading。　I　could　see　their　shadows　moving　around　the　tents。　Their　fire　flickered　low；　then　died。
　　　All　was　quiet　on　the　Chandler　farm。　We　had　hill　people。　We　had　Mexicans。　The　cotton　was　waiting。
　
　
　Chapter　4
　　　
　　　At　some　point　in　the　vast　darkness　of　the　night；　Pappy；　our　human　alarm　clock；　awoke；　put　on　his　boots；　and　began　stomping　around　the　kitchen　making　the　first　pot　of　coffee。　The　house　was　not　largethree　bedrooms；　a　kitchen；　a　living　room…and　it　was　so　old　the　plank　floors　sagged　in　places。　If　one　person　chose　to　wake　up　the　rest；　he　or　she　could　certainly　do　so。
　　　I　was　allowed　to　stay　in　bed　until　my　father　came　after　me。　It　was　difficult　to　sleep；　though；　with　all　those　people　on　the　farm　and　all　that　cotton　to　pick。　I　was　already　awake　when　he　shook　me　and　said　it　was　time　to　go。　I　dressed　quickly　and　met　him　on　the　back　porch。
　　　There　was　no　hint　of　sunrise　as　we　walked　across　the　backyard；　the　dew　soaking　our　boots。　We　stopped　at　the　chicken　coop；　where　he　bent　low　and　sl