jg.paintedhouse-第28部分

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ut　up。　That's　what　they're　tellin'；　anyway。〃
　　　I　believed　him。　I　didn't　doubt　for　a　second　that　Eli　Chandler　had　used　the　Baptist　brethren　to　circle　the　wagons；　at　least　until　the　cotton　was　in。
　　　〃What　about　the　Siscos？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Ain't　nobody　seen　'em。　They're　layin'　low。　Had　the　funeral　last　Friday。　Siscos　dug　the　grave　themselves；　buried　him　out　behind　the　Bethel　church。　Stick's　watchin'　'em　real　close。〃
　　　There　was　another　long　gap　in　the　conversation　as　the　gin　howled　behind　us。　He　rolled　another　cigarette；　lit　it；　and　finally　said；　〃I　saw　you　there；　at　the　fight。〃
　　　I　felt　like　I'd　been　caught　mitting　a　crime。　All　I　could　think　to　say　was；　〃So。〃
　　　〃I　saw　you　with　the　little　Pinter　boy。　And　when　that　hillbilly　picked　up　that　piece　of　wood；　I　looked　at　the　two　of　you　and　thought　to　myself；　Those　boys　don't　need　to　see　this。　'　And　I　was　right。〃
　　　〃I　wish　I　hadn't　seen　it。〃
　　　〃I　wish　I　hadn't；　either；〃　he　said；　and　discharged　a　neat　circle　of　smoke。
　　　I　looked　toward　the　gin　to　make　sure　Pappy　wasn't　close。　He　was　still　inside　somewhere；　in　the　small　office　where　the　gin　owner　kept　the　paperwork。　Other　trailers　had　arrived　and　were　parked　behind　us。　〃Have　you　talked　to　Stick？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Nope。　Don't　plan　to。　You？〃
　　　〃Yeah；　he　came　out　to　the　house。〃
　　　〃Did　he　talk　to　the　hillbilly？〃
　　　〃Yeah。〃
　　　〃So　Stick　knows　his　name？〃
　　　〃I　guess。〃
　　　〃Why　didn't　he　arrest　him？〃
　　　〃I'm　not　sure。　I　told　him　it　was　three　against　one。〃
　　　He　grunted　and　spat　into　the　weeds。　〃It　was　three　against　one　all　right；　but　nobody　had　to　get　killed。　I　don't　like　the　Siscos；　nobody　does；　but　he　didn't　have　to　beat　'em　like　that。〃
　　　I　didn't　say　anything。　He　drew　on　the　cigarette　and　began　talking；　the　smoke　pouring　out　of　his　mouth　and　nose。
　　　〃His　face　was　blood…red　and　his　eyes　were　glowin'；　and　all　'a　sudden　he　stopped　and　just　looked　down　at　'em；　as　if　a　ghost　grabbed　him　and　made　him　quit。　Then　he　backed　away　and　straightened　up；　and　looked　at　'em　again　as　if　somebody　else　had　done　it。　Then　he　walked　away；　back　onto　Main　Street；　and　all　the　other　Siscos　and　their　people　ran　up　and　got　the　boys。　They　borrowed　Roe　Duncan's　pickup　and　hauled　'em　home。　Jerry　never　woke　up。　Roe　his　self　drove　Jerry　to　the　hospital　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　but　Roe　said　he　was　already　dead。　Fractured　skull。　Lucky　the　other　two　didn't　die。　He　beat　'em　just　as　bad　as　he　beat　Jerry。　Ain't　never　seen　nothin'　like　it。〃
　　　〃Me　neither。〃
　　　〃I'd　skip　the　fights　for　a　while　if　I　was　you。　You're　too　young。〃
　　　〃Don't　worry。〃　I　looked　at　the　gin　and　saw　Pappy。　〃Here　es　Pappy；〃　I　said。
　　　He　dropped　the　cigarette　and　stepped　on　it。　〃Don't　tell　anybody　what　I　said；　all　right？〃
　　　〃Sure。〃
　　　〃I　don't　want　to　get　involved　with　that　hillbilly。〃
　　　〃I　won't　say　a　word。〃
　　　〃Tell　Ricky　I　said　hello。　Tell　him　to　hold　'em　off　till　I　get　there。〃
　　　〃I　will；　Jackie。〃　He　disappeared　as　quietly　as　he　had　e。
　　　More　secrets　to　keep。
　　　Pappy　unhitched　the　trailer　and　got　behind　the　wheel。　〃We　ain't　waitin'　three　hours；〃　he　mumbled；　and　started　the　engine。　He　drove　away　from　the　gin　and　left　town。　At　some　point　late　in　the　night；　a　gin　worker　would　hitch　a　small　tractor　to　our　trailer　and　pull　it　forward。　The　cotton　would　be　sucked　into　the　gin；　and　an　hour　later　two　perfect　bales　would　emerge。　They　would　be　weighed；　and　then　samples　would　be　cut　from　each　and　set　aside　for　the　cotton　buyer　to　evaluate。　After　breakfast；　Pappy　would　return　to　the　gin　to　get　our　trailer。
　　　He　would　examine　the　bales　and　the　samples；　and　he　would　find　something　else　to　worry　about。
　　　
　　　The　next　day　a　letter　arrived　from　Ricky。　Gran　had　it　lying　on　the　kitchen　table　when　we　came　through　the　back　door；　our　feet　dragging　and　our　backs　aching。　I'd　picked　seventy…eight　pounds　of　cotton　that　day；　an　all…time　record　for　a　seven…year…old；　though　records　were　impossible　to　monitor　because　so　much　lying　went　on。　Especially　among　kids。　Both　Pappy　and　my　father　were　now　picking　five　hundred　pounds　every　day。
　　　Gran　was　humming　and　smiling；　so　we　knew　the　letter　had　good　news。　She　snatched　it　up　and　read　it　aloud　to　us。　By　then　she　had　it　memorized。
　　　
　　　Dear　Mom　and　Dad　and　Jesse　and　Kathleen　and　Luke：
　　　I　hope　all　is　well　at　home。　I　never　thought　I'd　miss　the　cotton　picking；　but　I　sure　wish　I　was　home　right　now。　I　miss　everythingthe　farm；　the　fried　chicken；　the　Cardinals。　Can　you　believe　the　Dodgers　will　take　the　pennant？　Makes　me　sick。
　　　Anyway；　I'm　doing　fine　over　here。　Things　are　quiet。　We're　not　on　the　front　anymore。　My　unit　is　about　five　miles　back；　and　we're　catching　up　on　some　sleep。　We're　warm　and　rested　and　eating　good；　and　right　now　nobody　is　shooting　at　us　and　we're　not　shooting　at　anybody。
　　　I　really　think　I'll　be　home　soon。　It　seems　like　things　are　slowing　down　a　little。　We　hear　some　rumors　about　peace　talks　and　such；　so　we've　got　our　fingers　crossed。
　　　I　got　your　last　batch　of　letters；　and　they　mean　a　lot　to　me。　So　keep　writing。　Luke；　your　letter　was　a　tad　short；　so　write　me　a　longer　one。
　　　Gotta　run。　Love　to　all；　Ricky
　　　…
　　　We　passed　it　around　and　read　it　again　and　again；　then　Gran　placed　it　in　a　cigar　box　next　to　the　radio。　All　of　Ricky's　letters　were　there；　and　it　was　not　unmon　to　walk　through　the　kitchen　at　night　and　catch　Pappy　or　Gran　rereading　them。
　　　The　new　letter　made　us　forget　about　our　stiff　muscles　and　burned　skin；　and　we　all　ate　in　a　hurry　so　we　could　sit　around　the　table　and　write　to　Ricky。
　　　Using　my　Big　Chief　writing　tablet　and　a　pencil；　I　told　him　all　about　Jerry　Sisco　and　Hank　Spruill；　and　I　spared　no　detail。　Blood；　splintered　wood；　Stick　Powers；　everything。　I　didn't　know　how　to　spell　a　lot　（if　the　words；　so　I　simply　guessed。　If　anyone　would　forgive　me　for　misspelling；　it　was　Ricky。　Since　I　didn't　want　them　to　know　that　I　was　spreading　gossip　all　the　way　to　Korea；　I　covered　my　tablet　as　best　I　could。
　　　Five　letters　were　written　at　the　same　time；　and　I'm　sure　five　versions　of　the　same　events　were　described　to　Ricky。　The　adults　told　funny　stories　as　we　wrote。　It　was　a　happy　moment　in　the　midst　of　the　harvest。　Pappy　turned　on　the　radio；　and　we　got　the　Cardinals　as　our　letters　grew　longer　and　longer。
　　　Sitting　around　the　kitchen　table；　laughing　and　writing　and　listening　to　the　game；　there　was　not　a　single　doubt　that　Ricky　would　soon　be　home。
　　　He　said　he　would　be。
　
　
　
　Chapter　15
　　　
　　　Thursday　afternoon；　my　mother　found　me　in　the　fields　and　said　that　I　was　needed　in　the　garden。　I　happily　unstrapped　my　picking　sack　and　left　the　other　laborers　lost　in　the　cotton。　We　walked　to　the　house；　both　of　us　relieved　that　the　workday　was　over。
　　　〃We　need　to　visit　the　Latchers；〃　she　said　along　the　way。　〃I　worry　about　them　so。　They　might　be　hungry；　you　know。〃
　　　The　Latchers　had　a　garden；　though　not　much　of　one。　I　doubted　if　anyone　was　going　hungry。　They　certainly　didn't　have　a　crumb　to　spare；　but　starvation　was　unheard　of　in　Craighead　County。　Even　the　poorest　of　the　sharecroppers　managed　to　grow　tomatoes　and　cucumbers。　Every　farm　family　had　a　few　chickens　laying　eggs。
　　　But　my　mother　was　determined　to　see　Libby　so　that　the　rumors　could　be　confirmed　or　denied。
　　　As　we　entered　our　garden；　I　realized　what　my　mother　was　doing。　If　we　hurried；　and　made　it　to　the　Latchers'　before　quitting　time；　then　the　parents　and　all　those　kids　would　be　in　the　fields。　Libby；　if　she　was　in　fact　pregnant；　would　be　hanging　around　the　house；　most　likely　alone。　She　would　have　no　choice　but　to　e　out　and　accept　our　vegetables。　We　could　blindside　her；　nail　her　with　Christian　goodness　while　her　protectors　were　away。　It　was　a　brilliant　plan。
　　　Under　the　strict　supervision　of　my　mother；　I　began　picking　tomatoes；　cucumbers；　peas；　butter　beans；　corn…almost　everything　in　the　garden。　〃Get　that　small　red　tomato　there；　Luke；　to　your　right；〃　she　said。　〃No；　no；　those　peas　can　wait。〃　And；　〃No；　that　cucumber　isn't　quite　ready。〃
　　　Though　she　often　gathered　the　produce　herself；　she　preferred　to　oversee　matters。　A　balance　to　the　garden　could　be　maintained　if　she　could　keep　her　distance；　survey　the　entire　plot；　and　with　the　eye　of　an　artist；　direct　my　efforts；　or　my　father's；　in　removing　the　food　from　the　vines。
　　　I　hated　the　garden；　but　at　that　moment　I　hated　the　fields　even　more。　Anything　was　better　than　picking　cotton。
　　　As　I　reached　for　an　ear　of　corn；　I　saw　something　between　the　stalks　that　stopped　me　cold。　Beyond　the　garden　was　a　small；　shaded　strip　of　grass；　too　narrow　to　play　catch　on；　and　thus　good　for　nothing。　Next　to　it　was　the　east　wall　of　our　house；　the　side　away　from　any　traffic。　On　the　west　side　was　the　kitchen　door；　the　parking　place　for　our　truck；　the　footpaths　that　led　to　the　barn；　the　outbuildings；　and　the　fields。　Everything　happened　on　the　west　side；　nothing　on　the　cast。
　　　At　the　corner；　facing　the　garden　and　out　of　view　of　everyone；　someone　had　painted　a　portion　of　the　bottom　board。　Painted　it　white。　The　rest　of　the　house　was　the　same　pale　brown　it　had　always　been；　the　same　drab　color　of　old；　sturdy　oak　planks。
　　　〃What　is　it；　Luke？〃　my　mother　asked。　She　was　never　in　a　hurry　in　the　garden；　because　it　was　her　sanctuary；　but　today　she　was　planning　an　ambush；　and　time　was　crucial。
　　　〃I　don't　know；〃　I　said；　still　frozen。
　　　Sh