jg.paintedhouse-第8部分

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　　　〃Sir？〃　I　said。
　　　〃Fetch　me　some　water！〃　he　repeated；　his　voice　rising。
　　　I　was　certain　they　had　water　stored　somewhere　among　their　things。　I　took　a　very　awkward　step　toward　their　truck。　This　upset　him。
　　　〃Cold　water；　boy！　From　the　house。　And　hurry！　I　been　workin'　all　day。　You　ain't。〃
　　　I　rushed　into　the　house；　to　the　kitchen；　where　Gran　kept　a　gallon　jug　of　water　in　the　refrigerator。　My　hands　shook　as　I　poured　the　water　into　a　glass。　I　knew　that　when　I　reported　this；　it　would　cause　trouble。　My　father　would　have　words　with　Leon　Spruill。
　　　I　handed　Hank　the　glass。　He　drained　it　quickly；　smacked　his　lips；　then　said；　〃Gimme　another　glass。〃
　　　Trot　was　sitting　and　watching　this。　I　ran　back　to　the　house　and　refilled　it。　When　Hank　finished　the　second；　he　spat　near　my　feet。　〃You're　a　good　boy；〃　he　said；　and　tossed　me　the　glass。
　　　〃Thanks；〃　I　said；　catching　it。
　　　〃Now　leave　us　alone；〃　he　said　as　he　lay　down　on　the　grass。　I　retreated　to　the　house　and　waited　for　my　mother。
　　　You　could　quit　picking　at　five　if　you　wanted。　That　was　when　Pappy　pulled　the　trailer　back　to　the　house。　Or　you　could　stay　in　the　fields　until　dark；　like　the　Mexicans。　Their　stamina　was　amazing。　They　would　pick　until　they　couldn't　see　the　bolls　anymore；　then　walk　a　half　mile　with　their　heavy　sacks　to　the　barn；　where　they　would　build　a　small　fire　and　eat　a　few　tortillas　before　sleeping　hard。
　　　The　other　Spruills　gathered　around　Trot；　who　managed　to　look　even　sicker　for　the　short　minute　or　so　they　examined　him。　Once　it　was　determined　that　he　was　alive　and　somewhat　alert；　they　hurriedly　turned　their　attention　to　dinner。　Mrs。　Spruill　built　a　fire。
　　　Next；　Gran　hovered　over　Trot。　She　appeared　to　be　deeply　concerned；　and　I　think　the　Spruills　appreciated　this。　I　knew；　however；　that　she　merely　wanted　to　conduct　experiments　on　the　poor　boy　with　one　of　her　vile　remedies。　Since　I　was　the　smallest　victim　around；　I　was　usually　the　guinea　pig　for　any　new　brew　she　discovered。　I　knew　from　experience　that　she　could　whip　up　a　concoction　so　curative　that　Trot　would　bolt　from　the　mattress　and　run　like　a　scalded　dog。　After　a　few　minutes；　Trot　got　suspicious　and　began　watching　her　closely。　He　now　seemed　more　aware　of　things；　and　Gran　took　this　as　a　sign　that　he　didn't　need　any　medicine；　at　least　not　immediately。　But　she　placed　him　under　surveillance；　and　she'd　make　her　rounds　again　tomorrow。
　　　My　worst　chore　of　the　late　afternoon　was　in　the　garden。　I　thought　it　was　cruel　to　force　me；　or　any　other　seven…year…old　kid　for　that　matter；　to　awake　before　sunrise；　work　in　the　fields　all　day；　and　then　pull　garden　duty　before　supper。　But　I　knew　we　were　lucky　to　have　such　a　beautiful　garden。
　　　At　some　point　before　I　was　born；　the　women　had　sectioned　off　little　areas　of　turf；　both　inside　the　house　and　out；　and　laid　claim　to　them。　I　don't　know　how　my　mother　got　the　entire　garden；　but　there　was　no　doubt　it　belonged　to　her。
　　　It　was　on　the　east　side　of　our　house；　the　quiet　side；　away　from　the　kitchen　door　and　the　barnyard　and　the　chicken　coop。　Away　from　Pappy's　pickup　and　the　small　dirt　drive　where　the　rare　visitor　parked。　It　was　enclosed　in　a　wire　fence　four　feet　tall；　built　by　my　father　under　my　mother's　direction；　and　designed　to　keep　out　deer　and　varmints。
　　　Corn　was　planted　around　the　fence　so　that　once　you　closed　the　rickety　gate　with　the　leather　latch；　you　stepped　into　a　secret　world　hidden　by　the　stalks。
　　　My　job　was　to　take　a　straw　basket　and　follow　my　mother　around　as　she　gathered　whatever　she　deemed　ripe。　She　had　a　basket；　too；　and　she　slowly　filled　it　with　tomatoes；　cucumbers；　squash；　peppers；　onions；　and　eggplant。　She　talked　quietly；　not　necessarily　to　me；　but　to　the　garden　in　general。
　　　〃Look　at　the　corn；　would　you？　We'll　eat　those　next　week。〃
　　　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　〃The　pumpkins　should　be　just　right　for　Halloween。〃
　　　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　She　was　constantly　searching　for　weeds；　little　trespassers　that　survived　only　momentarily　in　our　garden。　She　stopped；　pointed；　and　said；　〃Pull　those　weeds　there；　Luke；　by　the　watermelons。〃
　　　I　set　the　basket　on　the　dirt　trail　and　pulled　with　a　vengeance。
　　　The　garden　work　was　not　as　rough　in　the　late　summer　as　it　was　in　the　spring；　when　the　ground　had　to　be　tilled　and　the　weeds　grew　faster　than　the　vegetables。
　　　A　long　green　snake　froze　us　for　a　second；　then　it　disappeared　into　the　butter　bean　vines。　The　garden　was　full　of　snakes；　all　harmless；　but　snakes　nonetheless。　My　mother　was　not　deathly　afraid　of　them；　but　we　gave　them　plenty　of　room。　I　lived　in　fear　of　reaching　for　a　cucumber　and　feeling　fangs　sink　into　the　back　of　my　hand。
　　　My　mother　loved　this　little　plot　of　soil　because　it　was　hers…no　one　else　really　wanted　it。　She　treated　it　like　a　sanctuary。　When　the　house　got　crowded；　I　could　always　find　her　in　the　garden；　talking　to　her　vegetables。　Harsh　words　were　rare　in　our　family。　When　they　happened；　I　knew　my　mother　would　disappear　into　her　refuge。
　　　I　could　hardly　carry　my　basket　by　the　time　she'd　finished　her　selections。
　　　
　　　The　rain　had　stopped　in　St。　Louis。　At　exactly　eight　o'clock；　Pappy　turned　on　the　radio；　fiddled　with　the　knobs　and　the　antenna；　and　there　was　colorful　Harry　Caray；　the　raspy　voice　of　the　Cardinals。　There　were　about　twenty　games　remaining　in　the　season。　The　Dodgers　were　in　front；　and　the　Giants　were　in　second　place。　The　Cards　were　in　third。　It　was　more　than　we　could　stand。　Cardinal　fans　naturally　hated　the　Yankees；　and　trailing　behind　two　other　New　York　teams　in　our　own　league　was　unbearable。
　　　Pappy　was　of　the　opinion　that　the　manager；　Eddie　Stanky；　should've　been　fired　months　earlier。　When　the　Cardinals　won；　it　was　because　of　Stan　Musial。　When　they　lost；　with　the　same　players　on　the　field；　it　was　always　the　fault　of　the　manager。
　　　Pappy　and　my　father　sat　side　by　side　on　the　swing；　its　rusted　chains　squeaking　as　they　rocked　gently。　Gran　and　my　mother　shelled　butter　beans　and　peas　on　the　other　side　of　the　small　porch。　I　was　lounging　on　the　top　step；　within　earshot　of　the　radio；　watching　the　Spruill　show　wind　down；　waiting　with　the　adults　for　the　heat　to　finally　relent。　I　missed　the　steady　hum　of　the　old　fan；　but　I　knew　better　than　to　bring　up　the　subject。
　　　Conversation　arose　softly　from　the　women　as　they　talked　about　church　stuff…the　fall　revival　and　the　uping　dinner…on…the…grounds。　A　Black　Oak　girl　was　getting　married　in　Jonesboro；　in　a　big　church；　supposedly　to　a　boy　with　money；　and　this　had　to　be　discussed　every　night　in　some　fashion。　I　could　not　imagine　why　the　women　were　drawn　back　to　the　subject；　night　after　night。
　　　The　men　had　virtually　nothing　to　say；　at　least　nothing　unrelated　to　baseball。　Pappy　was　capable　of　long　stretches　of　silence；　and　my　father　wasn't　much　better。　No　doubt；　they　were　worrying　about　the　weather　or　cotton　prices；　but　they　were　too　tired　to　fret　aloud。
　　　I　was　content　simply　to　listen；　to　close　my　eyes　and　try　to　picture　Sportsman's　Park　in　St。　Louis；　a　magnificent　stadium　where　thirty　thousand　people　could　gather　to　watch　Stan　Musial　and　the　Cardinals。　Pappy　had　been　there；　and　during　the　season　I　made　him　describe　the　place　to　me　at　least　once　a　week。　He　said　when　you　saw　the　field　it　seemed　to　expand。　There　was　grass　so　green　and　smooth　you　could　roll　marbles　across　it。　The　dirt　on　the　infield　was　actually　raked　until　it　was　perfect。　The　scoreboard　in　left…center　was　bigger　than　our　house。　And　all　those　people；　those　unbelievably　lucky　people　of　St。　Louis　who　got　to　see　the　Cardinals　and　didn't　have　to　pick　cotton。
　　　Dizzy　Dean　and　Enos　〃Country〃　Slaughter　and　Red　Schoendienst；　all　the　great　Cardinals；　all　the　fabled　Gashouse　Gang；　had　played　there。　And　because　my　father　and　grandfather　and　uncle　could　play　the　game；　there　was　not　the　slightest　doubt　in　my　mind　that　I　would　one　day　rule　Sportsman's　Park。　I　would　glide　across　the　perfect　outfield　grass　in　front　of　thirty　thousand　fans　and　personally　grind　the　Yankees　into　the　dirt。
　　　The　greatest　Cardinal　of　all　time　was　Stan　Musial；　and　when　he　came　to　the　plate　in　the　second　inning　with　a　runner　at　first；　I　saw　Hank　Spruill　ease　through　the　darkness　and　sit　in　the　shadows；　just　close　enough　to　hear　the　radio。
　　　〃Is　Stan　up？〃　my　mother　asked。
　　　〃Yes　ma'am；〃　I　said。　She　pretended　to　take　an　interest　in　baseball　because　she　knew　nothing　about　it。　And　if　she　acted　interested　in　Stan　Musial；　then　she　could　survive　any　conversation　on　the　subject　around　Black　Oak。
　　　The　soft　snap　and　crunch　of　the　butter　beans　and　peas　stopped。　The　swing　was　still。　I　squeezed　my　baseball　glove。　My　father　held　the　opinion　that　Harry　Caray's　voice　took　on　an　edge　when　Musial　stepped　in；　but　Pappy　was　not　convinced。
　　　The　first　pitch　by　the　Pirates　pitcher　was　a　fastball　low　and　away。　Few　pitchers　challenged　Musial　with　fastballs　on　the　first　pitch。　The　year　before；　he'd　led　the　National　League　with　a　。　355　batting　average；　and　in　1952；　he　was　running　neck　and　neck　with　the　Cubs'　Frankie　Baumholtz　for　the　lead。　He　had　power　and　speed；　a　great　glove；　and　he　played　hard　every　day。
　　　I　had　a　Stan　Musial　baseball　card　hidden　in　a　cigar　box　in　my　drawer；　and　if　the　house　ever　caught　on　fire；　I　would　grab　it　before　I　grabbed　anything　else。
　　　The　second　pitch　was　a　high　curveball；　and　with　the　count　of　two　balls；　you　could　almost　hear　the　fans　get　out　of　their　seats。　A　baseball　was　about　to　get　ripped　into　some　remote　section　of　Sportsman's　Park。　No　pitcher　fell　behind　Stan　Musial　and　survived　the　moment。　The　third　pitch　was　a　fastball；　and　Harry　Caray　hesitated　just　long　enough　for　us　to　hear　the　crack　of　the　bat。　The　crowd　exploded。　I　held　my　breath；　waiting　in　that　split　second　for　old　Harry　to　tell　us　where　the　ball　was　going。　It　bounced　off　the　wall　in　right　field；　and　the　crowd　roared　even　louder。　The　front　porch　got　excited；　too。　I　jumped　to　my　feet；　as　if　by　standing　I　could　somehow　see　St。　Louis。　Pappy　and　my　father　both　leaned　forward　as　Harry　Caray　yelled　through　the　radio。　My　mother　managed　some　form　of　exclamation。
　　　Musial　was　battling　his　teammate　Schoendienst　for　the　National　League　lead　in　doubles。　The　year　before；　he'd　had　twelve　triples；　tops　in　the　majors。　As　he　rounded　second；　I　could　barely　hear　Caray　above　the　crowd。　The　runner　from　first　scored　easily；　and　Stan　slid　into　third；　in　the　dirt；　his　feet　touching　the　base；　the　hapless　third　baseman　taking　the　late　throw　and　tossing　it　back　to　the　pitcher。　I　could　see　him　get　to　his　feet　as　the　crowd　went　nuts。　Then　with　both　hands　he　slapped　the　dirt　off　his　white　uniform　with　the　bright　red　trim。
　　　The　game　had　to　go　on；　but　for　us　Chandlers；　at　least　the　men；　the　day　was　now　plete。　Musial　had　hit　a　bomb；　and　because　we　had　little　hope　that　the　Cardinals　would　win　the　pennant；　we　gladly　took　our　victories　where　we　could　get　them。　The　crowd　settled　down；　Harry's　voice　lowered；　and　I　sank　back　onto　the　porch；　still　watching　Stan　at　third。
　　　If　those　damned　Spruills　hadn't　been　out　there；　I　would've　eased　into　the　darkness　and　taken　my　position　at　home　plate。　I　would　wait　for　the　fastball；　hit　it　just　like　my　hero；　then　race　around　the　bases　and　slide　majestically　into　third　base；　over　by　the　shadows　where　the　monster　Hank　was　loitering。
　　　〃Who's　winnin'？〃　Mr。　Spruill　asked　from　somewhere　in　the　darkness。
　　　〃Cardinals。　One　to　nothin'。　Bottom　of　the　s