jg.paintedhouse-第50部分

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d　proud。　It　was　obvious　to　me　that　she　had　pushed　the　buying　of　the　paint。　She　smiled　down　at　me　with　great　satisfaction。
　　　〃That's　fourteen　dollars　and　eighty　cents；〃　the　clerk　said。
　　　My　father　withdrew　his　cash　and　began　counting　bills。
　　　〃I　can　just　put　it　on　your　account；〃　the　clerk　said。
　　　〃No；　this　doesn't　go　there；〃　my　mother　said。　Pappy　would　have　a　heart　attack　if　he　got　a　monthly　statement　showing　that　much　spent　for　paint。
　　　We　hauled　it　to　the　truck。
　
　
　Chapter　31
　　　
　　　The　buckets　of　paint　were　lined　along　the　back　porch；　like　soldiers　poised　for　an　ambush。　Under　my　mother's　supervision；　the　scaffolding　was　moved　by　my　father　and　rigged　at　the　northeast　corner　of　the　house；　enabling　me　to　paint　from　the　bottom　almost　to　the　roofline。　I　had　turned　the　first　corner。　Trot　would've　been　proud。
　　　Another　gallon　was　opened。　I　removed　the　wrapper　from　one　of　the　new　brushes　and　worked　the　bristles　back　and　forth。　It　was　five　inches　wide　and　much　heavier　than　the　one　Trot　had　given　me。
　　　〃We're　gonna　work　in　the　garden；〃　my　mother　said。　〃We'll　be　back　directly。〃　And　with　that　she　left　with　my　father　in　tow；　carrying　three　of　the　largest　baskets　on　the　farm。　Gran　was　in　the　kitchen　making　strawberry　preserves。　Pappy　was　off　worrying　somewhere。　I　was　left　alone。
　　　The　investment　by　my　parents　in　this　project　added　weight　to　my　mission。　The　house　would　now　be　painted　in　its　entirety；　whether　Pappy　liked　it　or　not。　And　the　bulk　of　the　labor　would　be　supplied　by　me。　There　was；　however；　no　hurry。　If　the　floods　came；　I　would　paint　when　it　wasn't　raining。　If　we　finished　the　crop；　I'd　have　all　winter　to　plete　my　masterpiece。　The　house　had　never　been　painted　in　its　fifty　years。　Where　was　the　urgency？
　　　After　thirty　minutes　I　was　tired。　I　could　hear　my　parents　talking　in　the　garden。　There　were　two　more　brushes…another　new　one　and　the　one　Trot　had　given　me…just　lying　there　on　the　porch　beside　the　buckets　of　paint。　Why　couldn't　my　parents　pick　up　the　brushes　and　get　to　work？　Surely　they　planned　to　help。
　　　The　paintbrush　was　really　heavy。　I　kept　my　strokes　short　and　slow　and　very　neat。　My　mother　had　cautioned　me　against　trying　to　apply　too　much　at　once。　〃Don't　let　it　drip。〃　〃Don't　let　it　run。〃
　　　After　an　hour　I　needed　a　break。　Lost　in　my　own　world；　facing　such　a　mammoth　project；　I　began　to　think　ill　of　Trot　for　dumping　it　on　me。　He'd　painted　about　a　third　of　one　side　of　the　house　then　fled。　I　was　beginning　to　think　that　perhaps　Pappy　was　right　after　all。　The　house　didn't　need　painting。
　　　Hank　was　the　reason。　Hank　had　laughed　at　me　and　insulted　my　family　because　our　house　was　unpainted。　Trot　had　risen　to　my　defense。　He　and　Tally　had　conspired　to　start　this　project；　not　knowing　that　the　bulk　of　it　would　fall　on　my　shoulders。
　　　I　heard　voices　close　behind　me。　Miguel；　Luis；　and　Rico　had　walked　up　and　were　eyeing　me　with　curiosity。　I　smiled　and　we　exchanged　buenas　tardes。　They　moved　in　closer；　obviously　puzzled　as　to　why　the　smallest　Chandler　had　been　given　such　a　large　task。　For　a　few　minutes；　I　concentrated　on　my　work　and　inched　my　way　along。　Miguel　was　at　the　porch　inspecting　the　unopened　gallons　and　the　other　brushes。　〃Can　we　play？〃　he　asked。
　　　What　an　absolutely　wonderful　idea！
　　　Two　more　gallons　were　opened。　I　gave　Miguel　my　brush；　and　within　seconds；　Luis　and　Rico　were　sitting　on　the　scaffold；　their　bare　feet　hanging　down；　painting　as　if　they'd　been　doing　it　all　their　lives。　Miguel　started　on　the　back　porch。　Before　long　the　other　six　Mexicans　were　sitting　on　the　grass　in　the　shade　watching　us。
　　　Gran　heard　the　noise；　and　she　stepped　outside；　wiping　her　hands　with　a　dish　towel。　She　looked　at　me　and　laughed；　then　went　back　to　her　strawberry　preserves。
　　　The　Mexicans　were　delighted　to　have　something　to　do。　The　rains　had　forced　them　to　kill　long　hours　in　and　around　the　barn。　They　had　no　truck　to　take　them　to　town；　no　radio　to　listen　to；　no　books　to　read。　（We　weren't　even　sure　if　they　knew　how　to　read。）　They　rolled　dice　occasionally；　but　they　would　stop　the　moment　one　of　us　drew　near。
　　　They　attacked　the　unpainted　house　with　a　vengeance。　The　six　non…painters　offered　endless　advice　and　opinions　to　those　with　the　brushes。　Evidently　some　of　their　suggestions　were　hilarious　because　at　times　the　painters　laughed　so　hard　they　couldn't　work。　The　Spanish　grew　faster　and　louder；　all　nine　laughing　and　talking。　The　challenge　was　to　convince　one　with　a　brush　to　relinquish　it　for　a　spell　and　allow　the　next　one　to　improve　on　the　work。　Roberto　emerged　as　the　expert。　With　a　dramatic　flair；　he　instructed　the　novices；　Pablo　and　Pepe　especially；　on　proper　technique。　He　walked　behind　the　others　as　they　worked；　quick　with　advice　or　a　joke　or　a　rebuke。　The　brushes　changed　hands；　and　through　the　ridicule　and　abuse；　a　system　of　teamwork　emerged。
　　　I　sat　under　the　tree　with　the　other　Mexicans；　watching　the　transformation　of　the　back　porch。　Pappy　returned　on　the　tractor。　He　parked　it　by　the　tool　shed　and；　from　a　distance；　he　watched　for　a　moment。　Then　he　circled　wide　to　the　front　of　the　house。　I　couldn't　tell　if　he　approved　or　not；　and　I'm　not　sure　that　it　mattered　anymore。　There　was　no　spring　in　his　step；　no　purpose　to　his　movement。　Pappy　was　just　another　beaten　farmer　in　the　midst　of　losing　yet　another　cotton　crop。
　　　My　parents　returned　from　the　garden　with　the　baskets　laden　with　produce。　〃Well；　if　it　isn't　Tom　Sawyer；〃　my　mother　said　to　me。
　　　〃Who's　he？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃I'll　tell　you　the　story　tonight。〃
　　　They　placed　the　baskets　on　the　porch；　careful　to　avoid　the　painting　area；　and　went　inside。　All　the　adults　were　gathered　in　the　kitchen；　and　I　wondered　if　they　were　talking　about　me　and　the　Mexicans。　Gran　appeared　with　a　pitcher　of　iced　tea　and　a　tray　of　glasses。　That　was　a　good　sign。　The　Mexicans　took　a　break　and　enjoyed　their　tea。　They　thanked　Gran；　then　immediately　started　bickering　over　who　got　the　brushes。
　　　The　sun　battled　the　clouds　as　the　afternoon　passed。　There　were　moments　when　its　light　was　clear　and　unbroken　and　the　air　was　warm；　almost　summerlike。　Inevitably；　we　would　look　up　at　the　sky　in　hopes　that　the　clouds　were　finally　leaving　Arkansas；　never　to　return；　or　at　least　not　until　the　spring。　Then　the　earth　turned　dark　again；　and　cooler。
　　　The　clouds　were　winning；　and　we　all　knew　it。　The　Mexicans　would　soon　be　leaving　our　farm；　just　as　the　Spruills　had。　We　couldn't　expect　people　to　sit　around　for　days；　watching　the　sky；　trying　to　stay　dry；　and　not　getting　paid。
　　　The　paint　was　gone　by　late　afternoon。　The　rear　of　our　house；　including　the　porch；　was　finished；　and　the　difference　was　astounding。　The　brilliant；　shiny　boards　contrasted　sharply　with　the　unpainted　ones　at　the　corner。　Tomorrow　we　would　attack　the　west　side；　assuming　I　could　somehow　negotiate　more　paint。
　　　I　thanked　the　Mexicans。　They　laughed　all　the　way　back　to　the　barn。　They　would　fix　and　eat　their　tortillas；　go　to　bed　early；　and　hope　they　could　pick　cotton　tomorrow。
　　　I　sat　in　the　cool　grass；　admiring　their　work；　not　wanting　to　go　inside　because　the　adults　were　not　in　good　spirits。　They　would　force　a　smile　at　me　and　try　to　say　something　amusing；　but　they　were　worried　sick。
　　　I　wished　I　had　a　brother…younger　or　older；　I　didn't　care。　My　parents　wanted　more　children；　but　there　were　problems　of　some　sort。　I　needed　a　friend；　another　kid　to　talk　with；　play　with；　conspire　with。　I　was　tired　of　being　the　only　little　person　on　the　farm。
　　　And　I　missed　Tally。　I　tried　valiantly　to　hate　her；　but　it　simply　wasn't　working。
　　　Pappy　walked　around　the　corner　of　the　house　and　inspected　the　new　coat　of　paint。　I　couldn't　tell　if　he　was　upset　or　not。
　　　〃Let's　ride　down　to　the　creek；〃　he　said；　and　without　another　word　we　walked　to　the　tractor。　He　started　it；　and　we　followed　the　ruts　in　the　field　road。　Water　was　standing　where　the　tractor　and　cotton　trailer　had　gone　many　times。　The　front　tires　splashed　mud　as　we　chugged　along。　The　rear　tires　chewed　up　the　ground　and　made　the　ruts　deeper。　We　were　slogging　through　a　field　that　was　fast　being　a　marsh。
　　　The　cotton　itself　looked　pitiful。　The　bolls　sagged　from　the　weight　of　the　rainfall。　The　stalks　were　bent　from　the　wind。　A　week　of　blazing　sunshine　might　dry　the　ground　and　the　cotton　and　allow　us　to　finish　picking；　but　such　weather　was　long　gone。
　　　We　turned　north　and　crept　along　an　even　soggier　trail；　the　same　one　Tally　and　I　had　walked　a　few　times。　The　creek　was　just　ahead。
　　　I　stood　slightly　behind　Pappy；　clutching　the　umbrella　stand　and　the　brace　above　the　left　rear　tire；　and　I　watched　the　side　of　his　face。　His　jaws　were　clenched；　his　eyes　were　narrowed。　Other　than　the　occasional　flare　of　temper；　he　was　not　one　to　show　emotion。　I'd　never　seen　him　cry　or　even　e　close。　He　worried　because　he　was　a　farmer；　but　he　did　not　plain。　If　the　rains　washed　away　our　crops；　then　there　was　a　reason　for　it。　God　would　protect　us　and　provide　for　us　through　good　years　and　bad。　As　Baptists　we　believed　God　was　in　control　of　everything。
　　　I　was　certain　there　was　a　reason　the　Cardinals　lost　the　pennant；　but　I　couldn't　understand　why　God　was　behind　it。　Why　would　God　allow　two　teams　from　New　York　to　play　in　the　World　Series？　It　pletely　baffled　me。
　　　The　water　was　suddenly　deeper　in　front　of　us；　six　inches　up　the　front　tires。　The　trail　was　flooded；　and　for　a　moment　I　was　puzzled　by　this。　We　were　near　the　creek。　Pappy　stopped　the　tractor　and　pointed。　〃It's　over　the　banks；〃　he　said　matter…of…factly；　but　there　was　defeat　in　his　voice。　The　water　was　ing　through　a　thicket　that　once　sat　high　above　the　creek　bed。　Somewhere　down　there　Tally　had　bathed　in　a　cool；　clear　stream　that　had　disappeared。
　　　〃It's　flooding；〃　he　said。　He　turned　off　the　tractor；　and　we　listened　to　the　sounds　of　the　current　as　it　came　over　the　sides　of　Siler's　Creek　and　ran　onto　the　bottomland　that　was　our　lower　forty　acres。　It　got　lost　between　the　rows　of　cotton　as　it　crept　down　the　slight　valley。　It　would　stop　somewhere　in　the　middle　of　the　field；　about　halfway　to　our　house；　at　a　point　where　the　land　began　a　gentle　slope　upward。　There　it　would　gather　and　gain　depth　before　spreading　east　and　west　and　covering　most　of　our　acreage。
　　　I　was　finally　seeing　a　flood。　There　had　been　others　but　I'd　been　too　young　to　remember　them。　All　of　my　young　life　I'd　heard　tall　tales　of　rivers　out　of　control　and　crops　submerged；　and　now　I　was　witnessing　it　for　myself；　as　if　for　the　first　time。　It　was　frightening　because　once　it　started　no　one　knew　when　it　would　end。　Nothing　held　the　water；　it　ran　wherever　it　wanted。　Would　it　reach　our　house？　Would　the　St。　Francis　spill　over　and　wipe　out　everyone？　Would　it　rain　for　forty　days　and　forty　nights　and　cause　us　to　perish　like　the　ones　who'd　laughed　at　Noah？
　　　Probably　not。　There　was　something　in　that　story　about　the　rainbow　as　God's　promise　to　never　again　flood　the　earth。
　　　It　was　certainly　flooding　now。　The　sight　of　a　rainbow　was　almost　a　holy　event　in　our　lives；　but　we　hadn't　seen　one　in　weeks。　I　didn't　understand　how　God　could　allow　such　things　to　happen。
　　　Pappy　had　been　to　the　creek　at　least　three　times　during　the　day；　watching　and　waiting　and　probably　praying。
　　　〃When　did　it　start？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃I　reckon　an　hour　ago。　Don't　know　for　sure。〃
　　　I　wanted　to　ask　when　it　would　stop；　but　I　already　knew　the　answer。
　　　〃It's　back