jg.paintedhouse-第12部分

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　view　of　the　house　and　any　Chandler　who　might　e　looking；　I　ate　a　tortilla。　It　was　hot　and　spicy　and　messy。　I　couldn't　tell　any　difference　between　Juan's　and　Miguel's。　They　were　both　delicious。　Miguel　asked　if　I　wanted　another；　and　I　could　easily　have　eaten　one。　But　I　didn't　want　to　take　their　food。　They　were　all　small　and　skinny　and　dirt…poor；　and　last　year　when　I　got　caught　and　the　adults　took　turns　scolding　me　and　heaping　untold　measures　of　shame　upon　me；　Gran　had　been　creative　enough　to　invent　the　sin　of　taking　food　from　the　less　fortunate。　As　Baptists；　we　were　never　short　on　sins　to　haunt　us。
　　　I　thanked　him　and　crept　back　to　the　house　and　onto　the　front　porch　without　waking　a　single　Spruill。　I　curled　into　the　swing　as　if　I'd　been　napping　all　along。　No　one　was　stirring；　but　I　couldn't　sleep。　A　breeze　came　from　nowhere；　and　I　daydreamed　of　a　lazy　afternoon　on　the　porch；　no　cotton　to　be　picked；　nothing　to　do　but　maybe　fish　in　the　St。　Francis　and　catch　pop　flies　in　the　front　yard。
　　　The　work　almost　killed　me　during　the　afternoon。　Late　in　the　day；　I　limped　toward　the　cotton　trailer；　lugging　my　harvest　behind　me；　hot　and　thirsty；　soaked　with　sweat；　my　fingers　swollen　from　the　tiny　shallow　punctures　inflicted　by　the　burrs。　I　already　had　forty…one　pounds　for　the　day。　My　quota　was　still　fifty；　and　I　was　certain　I　had　at　least　ten　pounds　in　my　sack。　I　was　hoping　my　mother　would　be　somewhere　near　the　scales　because　she　would　insist　that　I　be　allowed　to　quit　and　go　to　the　house。　Both　Pappy　and　my　father　would　send　me　back　for　more；　quota　or　not。
　　　Only　those　two　were　allowed　to　weigh　the　cotton；　and　if　they　happened　to　be　deep　in　a　row　somewhere；　then　you　got　a　break　while　they　worked　their　way　back　to　the　trailer。　I　saw　neither　of　them；　and　the　idea　of　a　nap　flashed　before　me。
　　　The　Spruills　had　gathered　at　the　east　end　of　the　trailer；　in　the　shade。　They　were　sitting　on　their　bulky　cotton　sacks；　resting　and　looking　at　Trot；　who；　as　far　as　I　could　tell；　hadn't　moved　more　than　ten　feet　during　the　entire　day。
　　　I　freed　myself　from　the　shoulder　strap　of　my　cotton　sack　and　walked　to　the　end　of　the　trailer。　〃Howdy；〃　one　of　the　Spruills　said。
　　　〃How's　Trot？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Reckon　he'll　be　all　right；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said。　They　were　eating　crackers　and　Vienna　sausages；　a　favorite　pick…me…up　in　the　fields。　Sitting　next　to　Trot　was　Tally；　who　pletely　ignored　me。
　　　〃You　got　anything　to　eat；　boy？〃　Hank　suddenly　demanded；　his　liquid　eyes　flashing　at　me。　For　a　second　I　was　too　surprised　to　say　anything。　Mrs。　Spruill　shook　her　head　and　studied　the　ground。
　　　〃Do　you？〃　he　demanded；　shifting　his　weight　so　that　he　faced　me　squarely。
　　　〃Uh；　no；〃　I　managed　to　say。
　　　〃You　mean　'No　sir；'　don't　you；　boy？〃　he　said　angrily。
　　　〃e　on；　Hank；〃　Tally　said。　The　rest　of　the　family　seemed　to　withdraw。　All　heads　were　lowered。
　　　〃No　sir；〃　I　said。
　　　〃No　sir　what？〃　His　voice　was　sharper。　It　was　obvious　Hank　enjoyed　picking　fights。　They'd　probably　been　through　this　many　times。
　　　〃No　sir；〃　I　said　again。
　　　〃You　farm　people　are　right　uppity；　you　know　that？　You　think　you're　better　than　us　hill　folk　'cause　you　have　this　land　and　'cause　you　pay　us　to　work　it。　Ain't　that　right；　boy？〃
　　　〃That's　enough；　Hank；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　but　he　lacked　conviction。　I　suddenly　hoped　Pappy　or　my　father　would　appear。　I　was　ready　for　these　people　to　leave　our　farm。
　　　My　throat　constricted；　and　my　lower　lip　began　to　shake。　I　was　hurt　and　embarrassed　and　didn't　know　what　to　say。
　　　Hank　wasn't　about　to　be　quiet。　He　reclined　on　an　elbow；　and　with　a　nasty　smile　said；　〃We're　just　one　notch　above　them　wetbacks；　ain't　we；　boy？　Just　hired　labor。　Just　a　bunch　of　hillbillies　who　drink　moonshine　and　marry　our　sisters。　Ain't　that　right；　boy？〃
　　　He　paused　for　a　split　second　as　if　he　really　wanted　me　to　respond。　I　was　tempted　to　run　away；　but　I　just　stared　at　my　boots。　The　rest　of　the　Spruills　may　have　felt　sorry　for　me；　but　none　of　them　came　to　my　rescue。
　　　〃We　got　a　house　nicer　than　yours；　boy。　You　believe　that？　A　lot　nicer。〃
　　　〃Quiet　down；　Hank；〃　Mrs。　Spruill　said。
　　　〃It's　bigger；　got　a　long　front　porch；　got　a　tin　roof　without　tar　patches；　and　you　know　what　else　it's　got？　You　ain't　gonna　believe　this；　boy；　but　our　house's　got　paint　on　it。　White　paint。　You　ever　see　paint；　boy？〃
　　　With　that；　Bo　and　Dale；　the　two　teenagers　who　rarely　made　a　sound；　began　chuckling　to　themselves；　as　if　they　wanted　to　appease　Hank　while　not　offending　Mrs。　Spruill。
　　　〃Make　him　stop；　Momma；〃　Tally　said；　and　my　humiliation　was　interrupted；　if　only　for　a　second。
　　　I　looked　at　Trot；　and　to　my　surprise　he　was　resting　on　his　elbows；　his　eyes　as　wide　as　I'd　ever　seen　them；　absorbing　this　one…sided　little　confrontation。　He　seemed　to　be　enjoying　it。
　　　Hank　gave　a　goofy　grin　to　Bo　and　Dale；　and　they　laughed　even　louder。　Mr。　Spruill　also　looked　amused　now。　Perhaps　he'd　been　called　a　hillbilly　once　too　often。
　　　〃Why　don't　you　sodbusters　paint　your　houses？〃　Hank　boomed　in　my　direction。
　　　The　word　〃sodbusters〃　hit　their　nerves。　Bo　and　Dale　shook　with　laughter。　Hank　bellowed　at　his　own　punch　line。　The　entire　bunch　seemed　on　the　verge　of　knee…slapping　when　Trot　said；　with　as　much　volume　as　he　could　muster；　〃Stop　it；　Hank！〃
　　　His　words　were　slurred　slightly　so　that　〃Hank〃　came　out　〃Hane；〃　but　he　was　clearly　understood　by　the　rest　of　them。　They　were　startled；　and　their　little　joke　came　to　an　abrupt　end。　Everyone　looked　at　Trot；　who　was　glaring　at　Hank　with　as　much　disgust　as　possible。
　　　I　was　on　the　verge　of　tears；　so　I　turned　and　ran　past　the　trailer　and　along　the　field　road　until　I　was　safely　out　of　their　sight。　Then　I　ducked　into　the　cotton　and　waited　for　friendly　voices。　I　sat　on　the　hot　ground；　surrounded　by　stalks　four　feet　tall；　and　I　cried；　something　I　really　hated　to　do。
　　　
　　　The　trailers　from　the　better　farms　had　tarps　to　hold　the　cotton　and　keep　it　from　blowing　onto　the　roads　leading　to　the　gin。　Our　old　tarp　was　tied　firmly　in　place；　securing　the　fruits　of　our　labor；　ninety　pounds　of　which　had　been　picked　by　me　over　the　past　two　days。　No　Chandler　had　ever　taken　a　load　to　the　gin　with　bolls　flying　out　like　snow　and　littering　the　road。　Lots　of　other　folks　did；　though；　and　part　of　the　picking　season　was　watching　the　weeds　and　ditches　along　Highway　135　slowly　grow　white　as　the　farmers　hurried　to　the　gin　with　their　harvest。
　　　With　the　loaded　cotton　trailer　dwarfing　our　pickup；　Pappy　drove　less　than　twenty　miles　an　hour　on　the　way　to　town。　And　he　didn't　say　anything。　We　were　both　digesting　our　dinner。　I　was　thinking　about　Hank　and　trying　to　decide　what　to　do。　I'm　sure　Pappy　was　worrying　about　the　weather。
　　　If　I　told　him　about　Hank；　I　knew　exactly　what　would　happen。　He'd　march　me　down　the　front　yard　to　Spruillville；　and　we'd　have　an　ugly　confrontation。　Because　Hank　was　younger　and　bigger；　Pappy　would　have　in　his　hand　a　stick　of　some　sort；　and　he'd　be　very　happy　to　use　it。　He'd　demand　that　Hank　apologize；　and　when　he　refused；　Pappy　would　start　the　threats　and　insults。　Hank　would　misjudge　his　opponent；　and　before　long　the　stick　would　e　into　play。　Hank　wouldn't　have　a　prayer。　My　father　would　be　forced　to　cover　the　Chandler　flanks　with　his　twelve…gauge。　The　women　would　be　safe　on　the　porch；　but　my　mother　would　once　again　be　humiliated　by　Pappy's　penchant　for　violence。
　　　The　Spruills　would　lick　their　wounds　and　pack　up　their　ragged　belongings。　They'd　move　down　the　road　to　another　farm　where　they　were　needed　and　appreciated；　and　we'd　be　left　short…handed。
　　　I'd　be　expected　to　pick　even　more　cotton。
　　　So　I　didn't　say　a　word。
　　　We　drove　slowly　along　Highway　135；　stirring　up　the　cotton　on　the　right　shoulder　of　the　road；　watching　the　fields　where　an　occasional　gang　of　Mexicans　was　still　working；　racing　against　the　dark。
　　　I　decided　I　would　simply　avoid　Hank　and　the　rest　of　the　Spruills　until　the　picking　was　over　and　they　went　back　to　the　hills；　back　to　their　wonderfully　painted　houses　and　their　moonshine　and　sister…marrying。　And　at　some　point　late　in　the　winter　when　we　sat　around　the　fire　in　the　living　room　and　told　stories　about　the　harvest；　I　would　finally　serve　up　all　of　Hank's　misdeeds。　I'd　have　plenty　of　time　to　work　on　my　stories；　and　would　embellish　where　I　deemed　appropriate。　It　was　a　Chandler　tradition。
　　　I　had　to　be　careful；　though；　when　telling　the　painted　house　story。
　　　As　we　neared　Black　Oak；　we　passed　the　Clench　farm；　home　of　Foy　and　Laverl　Clench　and　their　eight　children；　all　of　whom；　I　was　certain；　were　still　in　the　fields。　No　one；　not　even　the　Mexicans；　worked　harder　than　the　Clenches。　The　parents　were　notorious　slave　drivers；　but　the　children　seemed　to　enjoy　picking　cotton　and　pursuing　even　the　most　mundane　chores　around　the　farm。　The　hedge　rows　around　the　front　yard　were　perfectly　manicured。　Their　fences　were　straight　and　needed　no　repair。　Their　garden　was　huge　and　its　yield　legendary。　Even　their　old　truck　was　clean。　One　of　the　kids　washed　it　every　Saturday。
　　　And　their　house　was　painted；　the　first　one　on　the　highway　into　town。　White　was　the　color；　with　gray　trim　around　the　edges　and　corners。　The　porch　and　front　steps　were　dark　green。
　　　Soon　all　the　houses　were　painted。
　　　Our　house　had　been　built　before　the　First　War；　back　when　indoor　plumbing　and　electricity　were