jg.paintedhouse-第9部分

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　　　〃Who's　winnin'？〃　Mr。　Spruill　asked　from　somewhere　in　the　darkness。
　　　〃Cardinals。　One　to　nothin'。　Bottom　of　the　second。　Musial　just　hit　a　triple；〃　Hank　answered。　If　they　were　such　baseball　fans；　why　had　they　built　their　fire　on　home　plate　and　pitched　their　ragged　tents　around　my　infield？　Any　fool　could　look　at　our　front　yard；　the　trees　notwithstanding；　and　see　that　it　was　meant　for　baseball。
　　　If　not　for　Tally；　I　would　have　dismissed　the　entire　bunch。　And　Trot。　I　did　feel　sympathy　for　the　poor　kid。
　　　I　had　decided　not　to　bring　up　the　issue　of　Hank　and　the　cold　water。　I　knew　that　if　I　reported　it　to　my　father；　or　to　Pappy；　then　a　serious　discussion　would　take　place　with　Mr。　Spruill。　The　Mexicans　knew　their　place；　and　the　hill　people　were　expected　to　know　theirs。　They　did　not　ask　for　things　from　our　house；　and　they　did　not　give　orders　to　me　or　anyone　else。
　　　Hank　had　a　neck　thicker　than　any　I'd　ever　seen。　His　arms　and　hands　were　also　massive；　but　what　scared　me　were　his　eyes。　I　thought　they　were　blank　and　stupid　most　of　the　time；　but　when　he　barked　at　me　to　fetch　him　the　cold　water；　they　narrowed　and　glowed　with　evil。
　　　I　didn't　want　Hank　mad　at　me；　nor　did　I　want　my　father　to　confront　him。　My　father　could　whip　anybody；　except　for　maybe　Pappy；　who　was　older　but；　when　necessary；　much　meaner。　I　decided　to　set　aside　the　incident　for　the　time　being。　If　it　happened　again；　then　I　would　have　no　choice　but　to　tell　my　mother。
　　　The　Pirates　scored　two　in　the　fourth；　primarily　because；　according　to　Pappy；　Eddie　Stanky　didn't　change　pitchers　when　he　should　have。　Then　they　scored　three　in　the　fifth；　and　Pappy　got　so　mad　he　went　to　bed。
　　　In　the　seventh　inning；　the　heat　broke　just　enough　to　convince　us　we　could　get　some　sleep。　The　peas　and　butter　beans　had　been　shelled。　The　Spruills　were　all　tucked　away。　We　were　exhausted；　and　the　Cardinals　were　going　nowhere。　It　wasn't　difficult　to　leave　the　game。
　　　After　my　mother　tucked　me　in　and　we　said　our　prayers；　I　kicked　I　he　sheets　off　so　I　could　breathe。　I　listened　to　the　crickets　sing　their　screeching　chorus；　calling　to　each　other　across　the　fields。　They　serenaded　us　every　night　in　the　summer；　unless　it　was　raining。　I　heard　a　voice　in　the　distance…a　Spruill　was　rambling　about；　probably　Hank　rummaging　for　one　last　biscuit。
　　　In　the　living　room　we　had　a　box　fan；　a　large　window　unit；　which　in　theory　was　supposed　to　suck　the　hot　air　through　the　house　and　blow　it　out　across　the　barnyard。　It　worked　about　half　the　time。　One　door　inadvertently　closed　or　blown　shut　would　disrupt　the　movements　of　。　nr；　and　you'd　lie　in　your　own　sweat　until　you　fell　asleep。　Wind　from　I　he　outside　would　somehow　confuse　the　box　fan；　and　the　hot　air　would　gather　in　the　living　room；　then　creep　through　the　house；　smothering　us。　The　fan　broke　down　often…but　it　was　one　of　Pappy's　proudest　possessions；　and　we　knew　of　only　two　other　farm　families　at　church　who　owned　such　a　luxury。
　　　That　night　it　happened　to　be　working。
　　　Lying　in　Ricky's　bed；　listening　to　the　crickets；　enjoying　the　slight　draft　over　my　body　as　the　sticky　summer　air　was　pulled　toward　the　living　room；　I　let　my　thoughts　drift　to　Korea；　a　place　I　never　wanted　to　see。　My　father　would　tell　me　nothing　about　war。　Not　a　hint。　There　were　a　few　glorious　adventures　of　Pappy's　father　and　his　victories　in　the　Civil　War；　but　when　it　came　to　the　wars　of　this　century；　he　offered　little。　I　wanted　to　know　how　many　people　he'd　shot。　How　many　battles　he'd　won。　I　wanted　to　see　his　scars。　There　were　a　thousand　questions　I　wanted　to　ask　him。
　　　〃Don't　talk　about　war；〃　my　mother　had　cautioned　me　many　times。　〃It's　too　awful。〃
　　　And　now　Ricky　was　in　Korea。　It　had　been　snowing　when　he　left　us　in　February；　three　days　after　his　nineteenth　birthday。　It　was　cold　in　Korea；　too。　I　knew　that　much　from　a　story　on　the　radio。　I　was　safe　and　warm　in　his　bed　while　he　was　lying　in　a　trench　shooting　and　getting　shot　at。
　　　What　if　he　didn't　e　home？
　　　It　was　a　question　I　tortured　myself　with　every　night。　I　thought　about　him　dying　until　I　cried。　I　didn't　want　his　bed。　I　didn't　want　his　room。　I　wanted　Ricky　home；　so　we　could　run　the　bases　in　the　front　yard　and　throw　baseballs　against　the　barn　and　fish　in　the　St。　Francis。　He　was　really　more　of　a　big　brother　than　an　uncle。
　　　Boys　were　getting　killed　over　there；　lots　of　them。　We　prayed　for　them　at　church。　We　talked　about　the　war　at　school。　At　the　moment；　Ricky　was　the　only　boy　from　Black　Oak　in　Korea；　which　bestowed　upon　us　Chandlers　some　odd　distinction　I　cared　nothing　about。
　　　〃Have　you　heard　from　Ricky？〃　was　the　great　question　that　confronted　us　every　time　we　went　to　town。
　　　Yes　or　no；　it　didn't　matter。　Our　neighbors　were　just　trying　to　be　thoughtful。　Pappy　wouldn't　answer　them。　My　father　would　give　a　polite　response。　Gran　and　my　mother　would　chat　quietly　for　a　few　minutes　about　his　last　letter。
　　　I　always　said；　〃Yeah。　He's　ing　home　soon。〃
　
　
　Chapter　6
　　　
　　　Shortly　after　breakfast；　I　followed　Gran　down　the　front　steps　and　through　the　middle　of　the　front　yard。　She　was　a　woman　on　a　mission：　Dr。　Gran　making　her　early　morning　rounds；　thrilled　that　a　bona…fide　sick　person　was　present　within　her　jurisdiction。
　　　The　Spruills　were　hunched　over　their　makeshift　table；　eating　quickly。　Trot's　lazy　eyes　came　to　life　when　Gran　said；　〃Good　mornin'；〃　and　went　straight　toward　him。
　　　〃How's　Trot？〃　she　said。
　　　〃Much　better；〃　said　Mrs。　Spruill。
　　　〃He's　fine；〃　said　Mr。　Spruill。
　　　Gran　touched　the　boy's　forehead。　〃Any　fever？〃　she　demanded。　Trot　shook　his　head　with　a　vengeance。　There'd　been　no　fever　the　day　before。　Why　would　there　be　one　this　morning？
　　　〃Are　you　light…headed？〃
　　　Trot　wasn't　sure　what　that　meant；　nor　were　the　rest　of　the　Spruills。　I　figured　the　boy　went　through　life　in　a　perpetual　state　of　light…headedness。
　　　Mr。　Spruill　took　charge；　wiping　a　drip　of　sorghum　from　the　corner　of　his　mouth　with　a　forearm。　〃We　figure　we'll　take　him　to　the　fields　and　let　him　sit　under　the　trailer；　out　of　the　sun。〃
　　　〃If　a　cloud　es　up；　then　he　can　pick；〃　added　Mrs。　Spruill。　It　was　evident　the　Spruills　had　already　made　plans　for　Trot。
　　　Dammit；　I　thought。
　　　Ricky　had　taught　me　a　few　cuss　words。　I　usually　practiced　them　in　I　he　woods　by　the　river；　then　prayed　for　forgiveness　as　soon　as　I　was　alone。
　　　I　had　envisioned　another　lazy　day　under　the　shade　trees　in　the　Front　yard；　guarding　Trot　while　playing　baseball　and　taking　it　easy。
　　　〃I　suppose；〃　said　Gran　as　she　took　her　thumb　and　index　finger　and　pried　one　of　his　eyes　wide　open。　Trot　shot　a　frightened　look　with　his　other　eye。
　　　〃I'll　stay　close　by；〃　Gran　said；　clearly　disappointed。　Over　breakfast　I'd　heard　her　tell　my　mother　that　she'd　decided　the　proper　remedy　would　be　a　strong　dose　of　castor　oil；　lemon；　and　some　black　herb　she　grew　in　a　window　box。　I'd　stopped　eating　when　I　heard　this。　It　was　her　old　standby；　one　she'd　used　on　me　several　times。　It　was　more　powerful　than　surgery。　My　ailments　were　instantly　cured　as　the　dosage　burned　from　my　tongue　to　my　toes；　and　kept　burning。
　　　She　once　mixed　a　surefire　remedy　for　Pappy　because　he　was　constipated。　He'd　spent　two　days　in　the　outhouse；　unable　to　farm；　begging　for　water；　which　I　hauled　back　and　forth　in　a　milk　jug。　I　thought　she'd　killed　him。　When　he　emerged…pale；　gaunt；　somewhat　thinner…he　walked　with　a　purpose　to　the　house；　angrier　than　anyone　had　ever　seen　him。　My　parents　threw　me　in　the　pickup；　and　we　went　for　a　long　drive。
　　　Gran　again　promised　Trot　she'd　watch　him　during　the　day。　He　said　nothing。　He'd　stopped　eating　and　was　staring　blankly　across　the　table；　in　the　general　direction　of　Tally；　who　was　pretending　I　didn't　exist。
　　　We　left　and　returned　to　the　house。　I　sat　on　the　front　steps；　waiting　for　a　glimpse　of　Tally；　silently　cussing　Trot　for　being　so　stupid。　Maybe　he'd　collapse　again。　Surely　when　the　sun　was　overhead　he'd　succumb；　and　they'd　need　me　to　watch　him　on　the　mattress。
　　　When　we　gathered　at　the　trailer；　I　greeted　Miguel　as　his　gang　emerged　from　the　barn　and　took　their　places　on　one　side　of　the　trailer。　The　Spruills　took　the　other　side。　My　father　sat　in　the　middle；　crowded　between　the　two　groups。　Pappy　drove　the　tractor；　and　I　observed　them　from　my　prized　perch　next　to　his　seat。　Of　particular　interest　this　morning　was　any　activity　between　the　loathsome　Cowboy　and　my　beloved　Tally。　I　didn't　notice　any。　Everyone　was　in　a　daze；　eyes　half…open　and　downcast；　dreading　another　day　of　sun　and　drudgery。
　　　The　trailer　rocked　and　swayed　as　we　slowly　made　our　way　into　the　white　fields。　As　I　gazed　at　the　fields　of　cotton；　I　couldn't　think　of　my　shiny　red　Cardinals　baseball　jacket。　I　tried　mightily　to　pull　up　images　of　the　great　Musial　and　his　muscled　teammates　running　across　the　manicured　green　grass　of　Sportsman's　Park。　I　tried　to　imagine　all　of　them　clad　in　their　red　and　white　uniforms　with　some　no　doubt　wearing　baseball　jackets　just　like　the　one　in　the　Sears；　Roebuck　catalog。　I　tried　to　picture　these　scenes　because　they　never　failed　to　inspire　me；　but　the　tractor　stopped；　and　all　I　could　see　was　the　looming　cotton；　just　standing　there；　row　after　row；　waiting。
　　　
　　　Last　year；　Juan　had　revealed　to　me　the　pleasures　of　Mexican　food；　especially　tortillas。　The　workers　ate　them　three　times　a　day；　so　I　figured　they　must　be　good。　I'd　eaten　lunch　one　day　with　Juan　and　his　group；　after　I'd　eaten　in　our　house。　He'd　fixed　me　two　tortillas；　and　I'd　devoured　them。　Three　hours　later　I　was　on　hands　and　knees　under　the　cotton　trailer；　as　sick　as　a　dog。　I　was　scolded　by　every　Chandler　present；　my　mother　leading　the　pack。
　　　〃You　can't　eat　their　food！〃　she　said　with　as　much　scorn　as　I'd　ever　heard。
　　　〃Why　not？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Because　it's　not　clean。〃
　　　I　was　expressly　forbidden　to　eat　anything　cooked　by　the　Mexicans。　And　this；　of　course；　made　the　tortillas　taste　even　better。　I　got　caught　again　when　Pappy　made　a　surprise　appearance　at　the　barn　to　check　on　Isabel。　My　father　took　me　behind　the　tool　shed　and　whipped　me　with　his　belt。　I　laid　off　the　tortillas　for　as　long　as　I　could。
　　　But　a　new　chef　was　with　us；　and　I　was　eager　to　measure　Miguel's　food　against　Juan's。　After　lunch；　when　I　was　certain　everyone　was　asleep；　I　sneaked　out　the　kitchen　door　and　walked　nonchalantly　toward　the　barn。　It　was　a　dangerous　little　excursion　because　Pappy　and　Gran　did　not　nap　well；　even　when　they　were　exhausted　from　the　fields。
　　　The　Mexicans　were　sprawled　in　the　shade　of　the　north　end　of　the　barn；　most　of　them　sleeping　on　the　grass。　Miguel　knew　I　was　ing　because　we'd　talked　for　a　moment　earlier　in　the　morning　when　we　met　to　get　our　cotton　weighed。　His　haul　was　seventy　pounds；　mine　was　fifteen。
　　　He　knelt　over　the　coals　of　a　small　fire　and　warmed　a　tortilla　in　a　skillet。　He　flipped　it；　and　when　it　was　brown　on　one　side；　he　added　a　thin　layer　of　salsa…finely　chopped　tomatoes　and　onions　and　peppers；　all　from　our　garden。　It　also　contained　jalapenos　and　chopped　red　peppers　that　had　never　been　grown　in　the　state　of　Arkansas。　These　the　Mexicans　imported　themselves　in　their　little　bags。
　　　A　couple　of　the　Mexicans　were　interested　in　the　fact　that　I　wanted　a　tortilla。　The　rest　of　them　were　working　hard　at　their　siestas。　Cowboy　was　nowhere　to　be　seen。　Standing　at　the　corner　of　the　barn；　with　a　full　view　of　the　house　and　any　Chandler　who　might　e　looking；