jg.paintedhouse-第43部分

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　　　This　helped　calm　things　somewhat。　They　led　me　to　the　kitchen　and　sat　me　at　the　table。　My　mother　scrubbed　me　while　Gran　doctored　the　Johnson　grass　cuts　on　my　arms。　The　men　saw　that　matters　were　under　control；　so　they　left　to　gather　eggs　and　milk。
　　　A　loud　thunderstorm　hit　just　as　we　were　about　to　eat；　and　the　sounds　were　a　great　relief　to　me。　We　wouldn't　be　going　to　the　fields　for　a　few　hours。　I　wouldn't　be　near　Cowboy。
　　　They　watched　me　as　I　picked　at　my　food。　〃I'm　okay；〃　I　said　at　one　point。
　　　The　rain　fell　heavy　and　loud　onto　our　tin　roof；　drowning　out　conversation　so　that　we　ate　in　silence；　the　men　worrying　about　the　cotton；　the　women　worrying　about　me。
　　　I　had　enough　worries　to　crush　us　all。
　　　〃Could　I　finish　later？〃　I　asked；　slightly　shoving　my　plate　away。　〃I'm　really　sleepy。〃
　　　My　mother　decided　that　I　would　go　back　to　bed　and　rest　for　as　long　as　I　needed　to。　As　the　women　were　clearing　the　table；　I　whispered　to　my　mother　and　asked　her　if　she　would　lie　down　with　me。　Of　course　she　would。
　　　She　fell　asleep　before　I　did。　We　were　in　my　parents'　bed；　in　their　semidark　bedroom；　still　and　cool　and　listening　to　the　rain；　with　the　men　in　the　kitchen　not　far　away；　drinking　coffee　and　waiting；　and　I　felt　safe。
　　　I　wanted　it　to　rain　forever。　The　Mexicans　and　the　Spruills　would　leave。　Cowboy　would　be　shipped　home；　back　to　where　he　could　cut　and　slash　all　he　wanted；　and　I'd　never　know　about　it。　And　sometime　next　summer；　when　plans　were　made　for　the　harvest；　I'd　make　sure　Miguel　and　his　band　of　Mexicans　were　not　hauled　back　to　our　county。
　　　I　wanted　my　mother　next　to　me；　with　my　father　nearby。　I　wanted　to　sleep；　but　when　I　closed　my　eyes　I　saw　Hank　and　Cowboy　on　the　bridge。　I　was　suddenly　hopeful　that　Hank　was　still　there；　still　in　Camp　Spruill　rummaging　for　a　biscuit；　still　throwing　rocks　at　the　barn　at　midnight。　Then　it　would　all　be　a　dream。
　
　
　Chapter　26
　　　
　　　I　clung　to　my　mother　throughout　the　day；　after　the　storm　passed；　after　lunch；　after　the　rest　of　them　went　to　the　fields　and　we　stayed　around　the　house。　There　were　whispers　between　my　parents　and　a　frown　from　my　father；　but　she　was　adamant。　There　were　times　when　little　boys　just　needed　to　be　with　their　mothers。　I　was　afraid　to　let　her　out　of　my　sight。
　　　The　very　thought　of　telling　what　I　saw　on　the　bridge　made　me　weak。　I　tried　not　to　think　about　either　the　killing　or　the　telling　of　it；　but　it　was　impossible　to　think　of　anything　else。
　　　We　gathered　vegetables　from　the　garden。　I　followed　her　with　the　straw　basket；　my　eyes　cutting　in　all　directions；　ready　for　Cowboy　to　leap　from　nowhere　and　slaughter　both　of　us。　I　could　smell　him；　feel　him；　hear　him。　I　could　see　his　nasty　liquid　eyes　watching　every　move　we　made。　The　weight　of　his　switchblade　on　my　forehead　grew　heavier。
　　　I　thought　of　nothing　but　him；　and　I　stayed　close　to　my　mother。
　　　〃What's　the　matter；　Luke？〃　she　asked　more　than　once。　I　was　aware　that　I　wasn't　talking；　but　I　couldn't　force　words　out。　There　was　a　faint　ringing　in　my　ears。　The　world　was　moving　slower。　I　just　wanted　a　place　to　hide。
　　　〃Nothin'；〃　I　said。　Even　my　voice　was　different…low　and　scratchy。
　　　〃You　still　tired？〃
　　　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　And　I'd　be　tired　for　a　month　if　it　kept　me　out　of　the　fields　and　away　from　Cowboy。
　　　We　stopped　to　examine　Trot's　house　painting。　Since　we　were　there　and　not　picking　cotton；　Trot　was　nowhere　to　be　seen。　If　we　left　the　house；　then　he　would　return　to　his　project。　The　east　wall　now　had　a　white　strip　about　three　feet　high；　running　from　the　front　almost　to　the　rear。　It　was　clean　and　neat；　obviously　the　work　of　someone　who　wasn't　burdened　with　time。
　　　At　his　current　pace　there　was　no　way　Trot　would　finish　the　house　before　the　Spruills　left。　What　would　happen　after　they　left？　We　couldn't　live　in　a　house　with　a　two…toned　east　wall。
　　　I　had　more　important　things　to　worry　about。
　　　My　mother　decided　she　would　〃put　up；〃　or　can；　some　tomatoes。　She　and　Gran　spent　hours　during　the　summer　and　early　fall　putting　up　vegetables　from　our　garden…tomatoes；　peas；　beans；　okra；　mustard　greens；　and　corn。　By　the　first　of　November　the　pantry　shelves　would　be　packed　four…deep　with　quart　jars　of　food；　enough　to　get　us　through　the　winter　and　early　spring。　And；　of　course；　they　also　put　up　enough　for　anyone　who　might　need　a　little　help。　I　was　certain　that　we'd　be　hauling　food　to　the　Latchers　in　the　months　to　e；　now　that　we　were　kinfolk。
　　　The　very　thought　made　me　furious；　but　again；　I　wasn't　worried　about　the　Latchers　anymore。
　　　My　job　was　to　peel　tomatoes。　Once　peeled　they　would　be　chopped　and　placed　into　large　pots　and　cooked　just　enough　to　soften　them；　then　packed　into　Kerr　quart　jars；　with　a　tablespoon　of　salt；　and　secured　with　new　lids。　We　used　the　same　jars　from　year　to　year；　but　we　always　bought　new　lids。　A　slight　leak　around　the　seal　and　a　jar　would　spoil；　and　it　was　always　a　bad　moment　during　the　winter　when　Gran　or　my　mother　opened　ajar　and　its　contents　couldn't　be　eaten。　It　didn't　happen　often。
　　　Once　properly　packed　and　sealed；　the　jars　were　placed　in　a　row　inside　a　large　pressure　cooker　half…filled　with　water。　There　they　would　boil　for　half　an　hour；　under　pressure；　to　remove　any　remaining　air　and　to　further　seal　the　lid。　Gran　and　my　mother　were　very　fussy　about　their　canning。　It　was　a　source　of　pride　among　the　women；　and　I　often　heard　the　ladies　around　the　church　boast　of　putting　up　so　many　jars　of　butter　beans　or　of　this　and　that。
　　　The　canning　began　as　soon　as　the　garden　started　producing。　I　was　forced　to　help　with　it　occasionally　and　always　hated　it。　Today　was　different。　Today　I　was　quite　happy　to　be　in　the　kitchen　with　my　mother；　with　Cowboy　out　in　the　fields　far　away。
　　　I　stood　at　the　kitchen　sink　with　a　sharp　paring　knife；　and　when　I　cut　the　first　tomato　I　thought　of　Hank　on　the　bridge。　The　blood；　the　switchblade；　the　painful　cry　with　the　first　cut；　then　the　silent　look　of　horror　as　other　cuts　followed。　In　that　first　instant；　I　think　Hank　knew　he　was　about　to　be　carved　up　by　someone　who'd　done　it　before。　He　knew　he　was　dead。
　　　My　head　hit　the　leg　of　a　kitchen　chair。　When　I　awoke　on　the　sofa；　my　mother　was　holding　ice　on　a　knot　above　my　right　ear。　She　smiled　and　said；　〃You　fainted；　Luke。〃
　　　I　tried　to　say　something　but　my　mouth　was　too　dry。　She　gave　me　a　sip　of　water　and　told　me　I　wasn't　going　anywhere　for　a　while。　〃Are　you　tired？〃　she　asked。
　　　I　nodded　and　closed　my　eyes。
　　　
　　　Twice　a　year　the　county　sent　a　few　loads　of　gravel　to　our　road。　The　trucks　dumped　it；　and　right　behind　them　a　road　grader　came　along　and　leveled　things　out。　The　grader　was　operated　by　an　old　man　who　lived　near　Caraway。　He　had　a　black　patch　over　one　eye；　and　the　left　side　of　his　face　was　scarred　and　disfigured　to　the　point　of　making　me　cringe　when　I　saw　it。　He'd　been　injured　in　the　First　War；　according　to　Pappy；　who　claimed　to　know　more　about　the　old　man　than　he　was　willing　to　tell。　Otis　was　his　name。
　　　Otis　had　two　monkeys　that　helped　him　grade　the　roads　around　Black　Oak。　They　were　little　black　things　with　long　tails；　and　they　ran　along　the　frame　of　the　grader；　sometimes　hopping　down　on　the　blade　itself；　just　inches　above　the　dirt　and　gravel。　Sometimes　they　sat　on　his　shoulder；　or　on　the　back　of　his　seat；　or　on　the　long　rod　that　ran　from　the　steering　wheel　to　the　front　end。　As　Otis　motored　up　and　down　the　road；　working　the　levers；　changing　the　angle　and　pitch　of　the　blade；　spitting　tobacco　juice；　the　monkeys　jumped　and　swung　without　fear　and　seemed　to　have　a　delightful　time。
　　　If；　for　some　dreadful　reason；　we　kids　didn't　make　it　to　the　Cardinals；　many　of　us　wanted　to　be　road　grader　operators。　It　was　a　big；　powerful　machine　under　the　control　of　one　man；　and　all　those　levers　had　to　be　worked　with　such　precision…hands　and　feet　moving　with　great　coordination。　Plus；　level　roads　were　crucial　to　the　farmers　of　rural　Arkansas。　Few　jobs　were　more　important；　at　least　in　our　opinion。
　　　We　had　no　idea　what　it　paid；　but　we　were　certain　it　was　more　profitable　than　farming。
　　　When　I　heard　the　diesel　engine；　I　knew　Otis　was　back。　I　walked　hand　in　hand　with　my　mother　to　the　edge　of　the　road；　and　sure　enough；　between　our　house　and　the　bridge　were　three　mounds　of　new　gravel。　Otis　was　spreading　it；　slowly　working　his　way　toward　us。　We　stepped　back　under　a　tree　and　waited。
　　　My　head　was　clear；　and　I　felt　strong。　My　mother　kept　tugging　at　my　shoulder；　as　if　she　thought　I　might　faint　again。　As　Otis　drew　near；　I　stepped　closer　to　the　road。　The　engine　roared；　the　blade　churned　up　dirt　and　gravel。　We　were　getting　our　road　fixed；　a　most　important　event。
　　　Sometimes　Otis　waved；　sometimes　he　did　not。　I　saw　his　scars　and　his　black　eye　patch。　Oh；　the　questions　I　had　for　that　man！
　　　And　I　saw　only　one　monkey。　He　was　sitting　on　the　main　frame；　just　beyond　the　steering　wheel；　and　he　looked　very　sad。　I　scanned　the　grader　for　his　little　partner；　but　there　were　no　other　monkeys。
　　　We　waved　at　Otis；　who　glanced　at　us　but　did　not　wave　back。　This　was　a　terrible　sign　of　rudeness　in　our　world；　but　then　Otis　was　different。　Because　of　his　war　wounds；　he　had　no　wife；　no　children；　nothing　but　isolation。
　　　Suddenly　the　grader　stopped。　Otis　turned　and　looked　down　at　me　with　his　good　eye；　then　motioned　for　me　to　climb　aboard。　I　instantly　moved　toward　him；　and　my　mother　rushed　forward　to　say　no。　Otis　yelled；　〃It's　okay！　He'll　be　fine。〃　It　didn't　matter：　I　was　already　climbing　up。
　　　He　yanked　my　hand　and　pulled　me　up　to　the　platform　where　he　sat。　〃Stand　here；〃　he　said　gruffly；　pointing　to　a　little　spot　next　to　him。　〃Hold　on　here；〃　he　growled；　and　I　clutched　a　handle　next　to　an　important…looking　lever　that　I　was　terrified　to　touch。　I　looked　down　at　my　mother；　who　had　her　hands　on　her　hips。　She　was　shaking　her　head　as　if　she　could　choke　me；　but　then　I　saw　a　hint　of　a　smile。
　　　He　hit　the　throttle；　and　the　engine　behind　us　roared　to　life。　He　pushed　the　clutch　with　his　foot；　moved　a　gearshift；　and　we　were　off。　I　could've　walked　faster；　but　with　the　noise　from　the　diesel　it　seemed　as　if　we　were　racing　along。
　　　I　was　on　Otis's　left　side；　very　close　to　his　face；　and　I　tried　not　to　look　at　his　scars。　After　a　couple　of　minutes；　he　seemed　oblivious　to　my　presence。　The　monkey；　however；　was　quite　curious。　He　watched　me　as　if　I　were　an　intruder；　then　he　slinked　along　on　all　fours；　slowly；　prepared　to　lunge　at　me　at　any　moment。　He　jumped　onto　Otis's　right　shoulder；　walked　around　the　back　of　his　neck；　and　settled　onto　his　left　shoulder；　staring　at　me。
　　　I　was　staring　at　him。　He　was　no　bigger　than　a　baby　squirrel；　with　fine　black　fur　and　little　black　eyes　barely　separated　by　the　bridge　of　his　nose。　His　long　tail　fell　down　the　front　of　Otis's　shirt。　Otis　was　working　the　levers；　moving　the　gravel；　mumbling　to　himself；　seemingly　unaware　of　the　monkey　on　his　shoulder。
　　　When　it　was　apparent　that　the　monkey　was　content　just　to　study　me；　I　turned　my　attention　to　the　workings　of　the　road　grader。　Otis　had　the　blade　down　in　the　shallow　ditch；　tilted　at　a　steep　angle　so　that　mud　and　grass　and　weeds　were　being　dug　out　and　shoved　into　the　road。　I　knew　from　previous　observations　that　he　would　go　up　and　down　several　times；　cleaning　the　ditches；　grading　the　center；　spreading　the　gravel。　Pappy　was　of　the　opinion　that　Otis　and　the　county　should　fix　our　road　more　often；　but　mo