jg.paintedhouse-第48部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


for　the　house；　a　sad　and　dispirited　group。
　　　The　Spruills　had　had　enough。　It　came　as　no　surprise　to　see　them　breaking　camp。　They　did　so　slowly；　as　if　they　were　only　reluctantly　admitting　defeat。　Mr。　Spruill　told　Pappy　that　there　was　no　use　in　their　staying　if　they　couldn't　work。　They　were　tired　of　the　rains　and　we　couldn't　blame　them。　They'd　been　camping　out　for　six　weeks　in　our　front　yard。　Their　old　tents　and　tarps　were　sagging　under　the　weight　of　all　the　rain。　The　mattresses　they　slept　on　were　half…exposed　to　the　weather　and　splattered　with　mud。　I　would've　left　a　long　time　before。
　　　We　sat　on　the　porch　and　watched　them　gather　their　junk　and　pack　it　all　haphazardly　into　the　truck　and　trailer。　There　would　be　more　room　now　with　Hank　and　Tally　gone。
　　　I　was　suddenly　frightened　by　their　leaving。　They　would　be　home　soon；　and　Hank　wouldn't　be　there。　They　would　wait；　then　search；　then　start　asking　questions。　I　wasn't　sure　if　and　how　this　might　one　day　affect　me；　but　I　was　scared　just　the　same。
　　　My　mother　forced　me　into　the　garden；　where　we　gathered　enough　food　for　twenty　people。　We　washed　the　corn；　cucumbers；　tomatoes；　okra；　and　greens　in　the　kitchen　sink；　then　she　carefully　arranged　it　all　in　a　cardboard　box。　Gran　put　together　a　dozen　eggs；　two　pounds　of　country　ham；　a　pound　of　butter；　and　two　quart　jars　of　strawberry　preserves。　The　Spruills　would　not　leave　without　food　for　the　trip。
　　　By　mid…afternoon　they　had　finished　packing。　Their　truck　and　trailer　were　hopelessly　overloaded…boxes　and　burlap　sacks　clung　to　the　sides；　loosely　secured　by　baling　wire　and　destined　to　fall　off。　When　it　was　apparent　they　were　about　to　leave；　we　walked　as　a　family　down　the　front　steps　and　across　the　yard　to　say　our　farewells。　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Spruill　met　us　and　accepted　our　food。　They　apologized　for　leaving　before　the　cotton　was　picked；　but　we　all　knew　there　was　a　good　chance　the　crops　were　finished　anyway。　They　tried　to　smile　and　be　gracious；　but　their　pain　was　obvious。　Watching　them；　I　couldn't　help　but　think　that　they　would　always　regret　the　day　they　decided　to　work　on　our　farm。　If　they　had　picked　another　one；　Tally　wouldn't　have　met　Cowboy。　And　Hank　might　still　be　alive；　though　given　his　lust　for　violence　he　was　probably　doomed　to　an　early　death。　〃He　who　lives　by　the　sword　dies　by　the　sword；〃　Gran　was　fond　of　quoting。
　　　I　felt　guilty　about　all　the　evil　thoughts　I'd　held　against　them。　And　I　felt　like　a　thief　because　I　knew　the　truth　about　Hank；　and　they　didn't。
　　　I　said　good…bye　to　Bo　and　Dale；　neither　of　whom　had　much　to　say。　Trot　was　hiding　behind　the　trailer。　As　the　farewells　were　winding　down；　he　shuffled　toward　me　and　mumbled　something　I　did　not　understand。　Then　he　stuck　out　his　hand　and　offered　me　his　paintbrush。　I　had　no　choice　but　to　take　it。
　　　The　exchange　was　witnessed　by　the　adults；　and　for　a　moment　nothing　was　said。
　　　〃Over　here；〃　Trot　grunted；　and　he　pointed　to　their　truck。　Bo　took　the　cue　and　reached　for　something　just　inside　the　tailgate。　He　pulled　forward　a　gallon　of　white　enamel；　a　clean　unopened　bucket　with　a　bright　Pittsburgh　Paint　logo　across　the　front。　He　set　it　on　the　ground　in　front　of　me；　then　produced　another　one。
　　　〃It's　for　you；〃　Trot　said。
　　　I　looked　at　the　two　gallons　of　paint；　then　I　looked　at　Pappy　and　Gran。　Though　the　house　painting　had　not　been　discussed　in　days；　we　had　known　for　some　time　that　Trot　would　never　finish　the　project。　Now　he　was　passing　the　job　to　me。　I　glanced　at　my　mother　and　saw　a　curious　smile　on　her　lips。
　　　〃Tally　bought　it；〃　Dale　said。
　　　I　tapped　the　brush　on　my　leg　and　finally　managed　to　say；　〃Thanks。〃　Trot　gave　me　a　goofy　grin；　which　made　the　rest　of　them　smile。　Once　again　they　headed　toward　their　truck；　but　this　time　they　managed　to　get　in。　Trot　was　in　the　trailer；　alone　now。　Tally　had　been　with　him　when　we　first　saw　them。　He　looked　sad　and　deserted。
　　　Their　truck　started　with　great　reluctance。　The　clutch　whined　and　scraped；　and　when　it　finally　released；　the　entire　assemblage　lurched　forward。　The　Spruills　were　off；　pots　and　pans　rattling；　boxes　shaking　from　side　to　side；　Bo　and　Dale　bouncing　on　a　mattress；　and　Trot　curled　into　a　corner　of　the　trailer；　bringing　up　the　rear。　We　waved　until　they　were　out　of　sight。
　　　There'd　been　no　talk　of　next　year。　The　Spruills　were　not　ing　back。　We　knew　we'd　never　see　them　again。
　　　What　little　grass　was　left　in　the　front　yard　had　been　flattened；　and　when　I　surveyed　the　damage　I　was　instantly　glad　they　were　gone。　I　kicked　the　ashes　where　they'd　built　their　fires　on　home　plate　and　once　again　marveled　at　how　insensitive　they'd　been。　There　were　ruts　from　their　truck　and　holes　from　their　tent　poles。　Next　year　I'd　put　up　a　fence　to　keep　hill　people　off　my　baseball　field。
　　　My　immediate　project；　however；　was　to　finish　what　Trot　had　begun。　I　hauled　the　paint　to　the　front　porch；　one　gallon　at　a　time；　and　was　surprised　by　the　weight。　I　was　expecting　Pappy　to　say　something；　but　the　situation　drew　no　ment　from　him。　My　mother；　however；　gave　some　orders　to　my　father；　who　quickly　erected　a　scaffold　on　the　east　side　of　the　house。　It　was　a　two…by…six　oak　plank；　eight　feet　long；　braced　by　a　sawhorse　on　one　end　and　an　empty　diesel　drum　on　the　other。　It　tilted　slightly　toward　the　drum；　but　not　enough　to　unbalance　the　painter。　My　father　opened　the　first　gallon；　stirred　it　with　a　stick；　and　helped　me　onto　the　scaffold。　There　were　some　brief　instructions；　but　since　he　knew　so　little　about　house　painting　I　was　let　loose　to　learn　on　my　own。　I　figured　if　Trot　could　do　it；　so　could　I。
　　　My　mother　watched　me　carefully　and　offered　such　wisdom　as　〃Don't　let　it　drip〃　and　〃Take　your　time。〃　On　the　east　side　of　the　house；　Trot　had　painted　the　first　six　boards　from　the　bottom；　from　the　front　of　the　house　to　the　rear；　and　with　my　scaffold　I　was　able　to　reach　another　three　feet　above　his　work。　I　wasn't　sure　how　I　would　paint　up　to　the　roof；　but　I　decided　I　would　worry　about　it　later。
　　　The　old　boards　soaked　up　the　first　layer　of　paint。　The　second　one　went　on　smooth　and　white。　After　a　few　minutes　I　was　fascinated　by　my　work　because　the　results　were　immediate。
　　　〃How　am　I　doin'？〃　I　asked　without　looking　down。
　　　〃It's　beautiful；　Luke；〃　my　mother　said。　〃Just　work　slow；　and　take　your　time。　And　don't　fall。〃
　　　〃I'm　not　gonna　fall。〃　Why　did　she　always　warn　me　against　dangers　that　were　so　obvious？
　　　My　father　moved　the　scaffold　twice　that　afternoon；　and　by　supper…time　I　had　used　an　entire　gallon　of　paint。　I　washed　my　hands　with　lye　soap；　but　the　paint　was　stuck　to　my　fingernails。　I　didn't　care。　I　was　proud　of　my　new　craft。　I　was　doing　something　no　Chandler　had　ever　done。
　　　The　house　painting　was　not　mentioned　over　supper。　Weightier　matters　were　at　hand。　Our　hill　people　had　packed　up　and　left；　and　they　had　done　so　with　a　large　amount　of　the　cotton　still　unpicked。　There　had　been　no　rumors　of　other　workers　leaving　because　of　wet　fields。　Pappy　didn't　want　folks　to　know　we　were　yielding　anything　to　the　rains。　The　weather　was　about　to　change；　he　insisted。　We'd　never　had　so　many　storms　this　late　in　the　year。
　　　At　dusk　we　moved　to　the　front　porch；　which　was　now　even　quieter。　The　Cardinals　were　a　distant　memory；　and　we　rarely　listened　to　anything　else　after　supper。　Pappy　didn't　want　to　waste　electricity　so　I　sat　on　the　steps　and　looked　out　at　our　front　yard；　still　and　empty。　For　six　weeks　it　had　been　covered　with　all　manner　of　shelter　and　storage。　Now　there　was　nothing。
　　　A　few　leaves　dropped　and　scattered　across　the　yard。　The　night　was　cool　and　clear；　and　this　prompted　my　father　to　predict　that　tomorrow　would　be　a　fine　opportunity　to　pick　cotton　for　twelve　hours。　All　I　wanted　to　do　was　paint。
　
　
　Chapter　30
　　　
　　　I　glanced　at　the　clock　above　the　stove　as　we　ate。　It　was　ten　minutes　after　four；　the　earliest　breakfast　I　could　remember。　My　father　spoke　only　long　enough　to　give　his　weather　forecast…cool；　clear；　not　a　cloud　anywhere；　with　the　ground　soft　but　firm　enough　to　pick　cotton。
　　　The　adults　were　anxious。　Much　of　our　crop　was　still　unharvested；　and　if　it　remained　so；　our　little　farming　operation　would　fall　farther　into　debt。　My　mother　and　Gran　finished　the　dishes　in　record　time；　and　we　left　the　house　in　a　pack。　The　Mexicans　rode　with　us　to　the　fields。　They　huddled　together　on　one　side　of　the　trailer　and　tried　to　stay　warm。
　　　Clear；　dry　days　had　bee　rare；　and　we　attacked　this　one　as　if　it　might　be　the　last。　I　was　exhausted　by　sunrise；　but　plaining　would　only　get　me　a　harsh　lecture。　Another　crop　disaster　was　looming；　and　we　needed　to　work　until　we　dropped。　The　desire　for　a　brief　nap　arose；　but　I　knew　my　father　would　whip　me　with　his　belt　if　he　caught　me　sleeping。
　　　Lunch　was　cold　biscuits　and　ham；　eaten　hurriedly　in　the　shade　of　the　cotton　trailer。　It　was　warm　by　midday；　and　a　siesta　would　have　been　appropriate。　Instead；　we　sat　on　our　picking　sacks；　nibbled　our　biscuits；　and　watched　the　sky。　Even　when　we　talked；　our　eyes　were　looking　up。
　　　And；　of　course；　a　clear　day　meant　that　the　storms　were　on　the　way；　so　after　twenty　minutes　of　lunch；　my　father　and　Pappy　declared　the　break　to　be　over。　The　women　jumped　up　as　quickly　as　the　men；　anxious　to　prove　they　could　work　just　as　hard。　I　was　the　only　reluctant　one。
　　　It　could've　been　worse：　The　Mexicans　didn't　even　stop　to　eat。
　　　I　spent　the　tedious　afternoon　thinking　about　Tally；　then　Hank；　then　back　to　Tally。　I　also　thought　about　the　Spruills　and　envied　them　for　escaping。　I　tried　to　imagine　what　they　would　do　when　they　arrived　home　and　Hank　wasn't　there　waiting　for　them。　I　tried　to　tell　myself　that　I　didn't　really　care。
　　　We　had　not　received　a　letter　from　Ricky　in　several　weeks。　I　had　heard　the　adults　whisper　about　this　around　the　house。　I　had　not　yet　sent　my　long　narrative　to　him；　primarily　because　I　wasn't　sure　how　to　mail　it　without　getting　caught。　And　I　was　having　second　thoughts　about　burdening　him　with　the　Latcher　news。　He　had　enough　on　his　mind。　If　Ricky　were　home；　we'd　go　fishing　and　I'd　tell　him　everything。　I'd　begin　with　the　Sisco　killing　and　spare　no　details…the　Latcher　baby；　Hank　and　Cowboy；　everything。　Ricky　would　know　what　to　do。　I　longed　for　him　to　e　home。
　　　I　don't　know　how　much　cotton　I　picked　that　day；　but　I'm　sure　it　was　a　world　record　for　a　seven…year…old。　When　the　sun　fell　behind　the　trees　along　the　river；　my　mother　found　me；　and　we　walked　to　the　house。　Gran　stayed　behind；　picking　as　fast　as　the　men。
　　　〃How　long　they　gonna　work？〃　I　asked　my　mother。　We　were　so　tired　that　walking　was　a　challenge。
　　　〃Till　dark；　I　guess。〃
　　　It　was　almost　dark　when　we　got　to　the　house。　I　wanted　to　collapse　on　the　sofa　and　sleep　for　a　week；　but　my　mother　asked　me　to　wash　my　hands　and　help　with　supper。　She　made　corn　bread　and　warmed　up　leftovers　while　I　peeled　and　sliced　tomatoes。　We　listened　to　the　radio…not　a　word　about　Korea。
　　　In　spite　of　a　brutal　day　in　the　fields；　Pappy　and　my　father　were　in　good　spirits　when　we　sat　down　to　eat。　Between　them；　they　had　picked　eleven　hundred　pounds。　The　recent　rains　had　driven　up　the　price　of　cotton　in　the　Memphis　market；　and　if　we　could　just　get　a　few　more　days　of　dry　weather；　then　we　might　survive　another　year。　Gran　listened　from　a　distance。　She　listened　but　did　not　hear；　and　I　knew　she　was　off　in　Korea　again。　My　mother　was　too　tired　to　talk。
　　　Pappy　hated　leftovers；　but