jg.paintedhouse-第38部分

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　　　Individual　grudges　lasted　a　lifetime；　Pappy　carried　more　than　his　share。　But　there　were　no　serious　enemies。　There　was　a　clear　social　order；　with　the　sharecroppers　at　the　bottom　and　the　merchants　at　the　top；　and　everyone　was　expected　to　know　his　place。　But　folks　got　along。
　　　The　line　between　Baptists　and　Methodists　was　never　straight　and　true。　Their　worship　was　slightly　different；　with　the　ritual　of　sprinkling　little　babies　being　their　most　flagrant　deviation　from　the　Scriptures；　as　we　saw　things。　And　they　didn't　meet　as　often；　which；　of　course；　meant　that　they　were　not　as　serious　about　their　faith。　Nobody　met　as　much　as　us　Baptists。　We　took　great　pride　in　constant　worship。　Pearl　Watson；　my　favorite　Methodist；　said　she'd　like　to　be　a　Baptist；　but　that　she　just　wasn't　physically　able。
　　　Ricky　told　me　once　in　private　that　when　he　left　the　farm　he　might　bee　a　Catholic　because　they　only　met　once　a　week。　I　didn't　know　what　a　Catholic　was；　and　so　he　tried　to　explain　things；　but　Ricky　on　theology　was　a　shaky　discussion　at　best。
　　　My　mother　and　Gran　spent　more　time　than　usual　ironing　our　clothes　that　Sunday　morning。　And　I　certainly　got　scrubbed　with　more　purpose。　Much　to　my　disappointment；　my　nose　had　not　been　broken；　there　was　no　swelling；　and　the　cut　was　barely　noticeable。
　　　We　had　to　look　our　very　best　because　the　Methodist　ladies　had　slightly　nicer　dresses。　In　spite　of　all　the　fuss；　I　was　excited　and　couldn't　wait　to　get　to　town。
　　　We　had　invited　the　Spruills。　This　was　done　out　of　a　sense　of　friendliness　and　Christian　concern；　though　I　wanted　to　pick　and　choose。　Tally　would　be　wele；　the　rest　could　stay　in　the　front　yard　for　all　I　cared。　But　when　I　surveyed　their　camp　after　breakfast；　I　saw　little　movement。　Their　truck　had　not　been　disconnected　from　the　myriad　of　wires　and　ropes　that　held　their　shelters　upright。　〃They　ain't　in'；〃　I　reported　to　Pappy；　who　was　studying　his　Sunday　school　lesson。
　　　〃Good；〃　he　said　quietly。
　　　The　prospect　of　Hank　milling　about　the　picnic；　grazing　from　table　to　table；　gorging　himself　on　food　and　looking　for　a　fight；　was　not　appealing。
　　　The　Mexicans　really　had　no　choice。　My　mother　had　extended　an　invitation　to　Miguel　early　in　the　week；　then　followed　it　up　with　a　couple　of　gentle　reminders　as　Sunday　grew　near。　My　father　had　explained　to　him　that　a　special　worship　service　would　be　held　in　Spanish；　then　there　would　be　plenty　of　good　food。　They　had　little　else　to　do　on　Sunday　afternoons。
　　　Nine　of　them　piled　into　the　back　of　our　truck；　only　Cowboy　was　absent。　This　set　my　imagination　on　fire。　Where　was　he　and　what　was　he　doing？　Where　was　Tally？　I　didn't　see　her　in　the　front　yard　as　we　drove　away。　My　heart　sank　as　I　thought　of　them　back　in　the　fields；　hiding　and　doing　whatever　they　wanted　to　do。　Instead　of　going　to　church　with　us；　Tally　was　probably　sneaking　around　again；　doing　bad　things。　What　if　she　now　used　Cowboy　as　her　lookout　while　she　bathed　in　Siler's　Creek？　I　couldn't　stand　that　thought；　and　I　worried　about　her　all　the　way　to　town。
　　　
　　　Brother　Akers；　with　a　rare　smile　on　his　face；　took　the　pulpit。　The　sanctuary　was　packed；　and　people　were　sitting　in　the　aisles　and　standing　along　the　back　wall。　The　windows　were　open；　and　on　the　north　side　of　the　church；　under　a　tall　oak；　the　Mexicans　were　grouped　together；　hats　off；　dark　heads　making　a　sea　of　brown。
　　　He　weled　our　guests；　our　visitors　from　the　hills；　and　also　the　Mexicans。　There　were　a　few　hill　people；　but　not　many。　As　always；　he　asked　them　to　stand　and　identify　themselves。　They　were　from　places　like　Hardy；　Mountain　Home；　and　Calico　Rock；　and　they　were　as　spruced　up　as　we　were。
　　　A　loudspeaker　had　been　placed　in　a　window；　so　Brother　Akers's　words　were　broadcast　out　of　the　sanctuary　and　into　the　general　direction　of　the　Mexicans；　where　Mr。　Carl　Durbin　picked　up　the　words　and　translated　them　into　Spanish。　Mr。　Durbin　was　a　retired　missionary　from　Jonesboro。　He'd　worked　in　Peru　for　thirty　years　among　some　real　Indians　up　in　the　mountains；　and　every　so　often　he'd　e　and　talk　to　us　during　missions　week　and　show　us　photos　and　slides　of　the　strange　land　he'd　left　behind。　In　addition　to　Spanish；　he　also　spoke　an　Indian　dialect；　and　this　forever　fascinated　me。
　　　Mr。　Durbin　stood　under　the　shade　tree　with　Mexicans　seated　on　the　grass　all　around　him。　He　wore　a　white　suit　and　a　white　straw　hat；　and　his　voice　carried　back　to　the　church　with　almost　as　much　volume　as　old　Brother　Akers's　did　with　the　loudspeaker。　Ricky'd　once　said　that　Mr。　Durbin　had　a　lot　more　sense　than　Brother　Akers；　and　he'd　offered　this　opinion　over　Sunday　dinner　and　created　trouble　yet　again。　It　was　a　sin　to　criticize　your　preacher；　at　least　out　loud。
　　　I　sat　at　the　end　of　the　pew；　next　to　the　window；　so　I　could　watch　and　listen　to　Mr。　Durbin。　I　couldn't　understand　a　word　he　was　saying；　but　I　knew　his　Spanish　was　slower　than　the　Mexicans'。　They　talked　so　fast　that　I　often　wondered　how　they　understood　each　other。　His　sentences　were　smooth　and　deliberate　and　laden　with　a　heavy　Arkansas　accent。　Though　I　had　not　a　clue　as　to　what　he　was　saying；　he　was　still　more　captivating　than　Brother　Akers。
　　　Not　surprisingly；　with　such　a　large　crowd；　the　morning's　sermon　took　on　a　life　of　its　own　and　became　a　marathon。　Small　crowd；　shorter　sermon。　Big　crowd；　like　Easter　and　Mother's　Day　and　the　Fall　Picnic；　and　Brother　Akers　felt　the　need　to　perform。　At　some　point；　in　the　midst　of　his　ramblings；　Mr。　Durbin　seemed　to　get　bored　with　it　all。　He　ignored　the　message　being　broadcast　from　inside　the　sanctuary　and　began　to　deliver　his　own　sermon。　When　Brother　Akers　paused　to　catch　his　breath；　Mr。　Durbin　kept　right　on　preaching。　And　when　Brother　Akers's　hellfire　and　brimstone　was　at　its　fever　pitch；　Mr。　Durbin　was　resting　with　a　glass　of　water。　He　took　a　seat　on　the　ground　with　the　Mexicans　and　waited　for　the　shouting　to　stop　inside　the　sanctuary。
　　　I　waited；　too。　I　passed　the　time　by　dreaming　of　the　food　that　we'd　soon　have…heaping　plates　of　fried　chicken　and　gallons　of　homemade　ice　cream。
　　　The　Mexicans　began　glancing　at　the　church　windows。　I'm　sure　they　thought　Brother　Akers　had　gone　crazy。　〃Relax；〃　I　wanted　to　tell　them；　〃it　happens　all　the　time。〃
　　　We　sang　five　stanzas　of　〃Just　As　I　Am〃　for　the　benediction。　No　one　walked　down　the　aisle；　and　Brother　Akers　reluctantly　dismissed　us。　I　met　Dewayne　at　the　front　door；　and　we　raced　down　the　street　to　the　baseball　field　to　see　if　the　Methodists　were　there。　Of　course　they　were；　they　never　worshiped　as　long　as　we　did。
　　　Behind　the　backstop；　under　three　elm　trees　that　had　caught　a　million　foul　balls；　the　food　was　being　arranged　on　picnic　tables　covered　with　redand…white　checkerboard　cloths。　The　Methodists　were　swarming　around；　the　men　and　children　hauling　food　while　the　ladies　organized　the　dishes。　I　found　Pearl　Watson　and　chatted　her　up。　〃Brother　Akers　still　goin'？〃　she　asked　with　a　grin。
　　　〃He　just　turned　us　loose；〃　I　said。　She　gave　Dewayne　and　me　two　chocolate　cookies。　I　ate　mine　in　two　bites。
　　　Finally；　the　Baptists　started　arriving；　amid　a　chorus　of　〃Hello〃　and　〃Where　you　been？〃　and　〃What　took　so　long？〃　Cars　and　trucks　were　pulled　close；　and　soon　were　parked　bumper　to　bumper　along　the　fences　around　the　field。　At　least　one　and　maybe　two　would　get　hit　with　foul　balls。　Two　years　earlier；　Mr。　Wilber　Shifflett's　brand…new　Chrysler　sedan　lost　a　windshield　when　Ricky　hit　a　home　run　over　the　left…field　fence。　The　explosion　had　been　terrific…a　loud　thud；　then　the　racket　of　glass　bursting。　But　Mr。　Shifflett　had　money；　so　no　one　got　too　worried。　He　knew　the　risks　when　he　parked　there。　The　Methodists　beat　us　that　year；　too；　seven　to　five；　and　Ricky　was　of　the　opinion　that　the　manager；　Pappy；　should've　changed　pitchers　in　the　third　inning。
　　　They　didn't　speak　to　each　other　for　some　time。
　　　The　tables　were　soon　covered　with　large　bowls　of　vegetables；　platters　heaped　with　fried　chicken；　and　baskets　filled　with　corn　bread；　rolls；　and　other　breads。　Under　the　direction　of　the　Methodist　minister's　wife；　Mrs。　Orr；　dishes　were　moved　here　and　there　until　a　certain　order　took　shape。　One　table　had　nothing　but　raw　vegetables…tomatoes　of　a　dozen　varieties；　cucumbers；　white　and　yellow　onions　in　vinegar。　Next　to　it　were　the　beans…black…eyed　peas；　crowder　peas；　green　beans　cooked　with　ham；　and　butter　beans。　Every　picnic　had　potato　salad；　and　every　chef　had　a　different　recipe。　Dewayne　and　I　counted　eleven　large　bowls　of　the　dish；　and　no　two　looked　the　same。　Deviled　eggs　were　almost　as　popular；　and　there　were　plates　of　them　that　covered　half　a　table。　Last；　and　most　important；　was　the　fried　chicken。　There　was　enough　to　feed　the　town　for　a　month。
　　　The　ladies　scurried　about；　fussing　over　the　food　while　the　men　talked　and　laughed　and　greeted　each　other；　but　always　with　one　eye　on　the　chicken。　Kids　were　everywhere；　and　Dewayne　and　I　drifted　to　one　tree　in　particular；　where　some　ladies　were　arranging　the　desserts。　I　counted　sixteen　coolers　of　homemade　ice　cream；　all　covered　tightly　with　towels　and　packed　with　ice。
　　　Once　the　preparations　had　met　the　approval　of　Mrs。　Orr；　her　husband；　the　Reverend　Vernon　Orr；　stood　in　the　center　of　the　tables　with　Brother　Akers；　and　the　crowd　grew　still　and　quiet。　The　year　before；　Brother　Akers　had　thanked　God　for　His　blessings；　this　year　the　honor　went　to　the　Methodists。　The　picnic　had　an　unspoken　pattern　to　it。　We　bowed　our　heads　and　listened　as　the　Reverend　Orr　thanked　God　for　His　goodness；　for　all　the　wonderful　food；　for　the　weather；　the　cotton；　and　on　and　on。　He　left　out　nothing；　Black　Oak　was　indeed　grateful　for　everything。
　　　I　could　smell　the　chicken。　I　could　taste　the　brownies　and　ice　cream。　Dewayne　kicked　me；　and　I　wanted　to　lay　him　out。　I　didn't；　though；　because　I'd　get　whipped　for　fighting　during　a　prayer。
　　　When　the　Reverend　Orr　finally　finished；　the　men　corralled　the　Mexicans　and　lined　them　up　to　be　served。　This　was　a　tradition；　Mexicans　first；　hill　people　second；　children　third；　then　the　adults。　Stick　Powers　appeared　from　nowhere；　in　uniform；　of　course；　and　managed　to　cut　in　line　between　the　Mexicans　and　the　hill　folks。　I　heard　him　explain　that　he　was　on　duty　and　didn't　have　much　time。　He　carried　away　two　plates…one　covered　with　chicken　and　one　covered　with　everything　else　he　could　pile　on。　We　knew　he'd　eat　until　he　was　stuffed；　then　find　a　tree　on　the　edge　of　town　and　sleep　off　his　lunch。
　　　Several　of　the　Methodists　asked　me　about　Ricky…how　was　he　doing；　had　we　heard　from　him。　I　tried　to　be　nice　and　answer　their　questions；　but　as　a　family　we　Chandlers　did　not　enjoy　this　attention。　And　now　that　we　were　horrified　over　the　Latcher　secret；　any　mention　of　Ricky　in　public　scared　us。
　　　〃Tell　him　we're　thinkin'　about　him；〃　they　said。　They　always　said　this；　as　if　we　owned　a　phone　and　called　him　every　night。
　　　〃We're　prayin'　for　him；〃　they　said。
　　　〃Thank　you；〃　I　always　replied。
　　　A　perfectly　wonderful　moment　like　the　Fall　Picnic　could　be　ruined　with　an　unexpected　question　about　Ricky。　He　was　in　Korea；　in　the　trenches；　in　the　thick　of　the　war；　dodging　bullets　and　killing　people；　not　knowing　if　he　would　ever　e　home　to　go　to　church　with　us；　to　picnic　with　the　town；　to　play　against　the　Methodists　again。　In　the　midst　of　the　excitement　I　suddenly　felt　very　alone；　and　very　frightened。
　　　〃Get　tough；〃　Pappy　would　say。　The　food　hel