jg.paintedhouse-第43部分

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elched　and　looked　at　our　house　as　if　he　might　raid　it　for　food。　Eventually　he　lumbered　past　the　silo　on　his　way　to　the　cotton　trailer。
　　　We　waited；　peeking　through　the　front　windows。　Still　no　sign　of　Trot。　We　finally　gave　up　and　walked　to　the　fields。　When　my　mother　returned　three　hours　later　to　prepare　lunch；　there　was　a　small　area　of　fresh　paint　on　some　boards　under　the　window　of　my　room。　Trot　was　painting　slowly　toward　the　rear　of　the　house；　his　work　limited　by　his　reach　and　by　his　desire　for　privacy。　At　the　current　rate　of　progress；　he'd　finish　about　half　the　east　side　before　it　was　time　for　the　Spruills　to　pack　up　and　head　for　the　hills。
　　　
　　　After　three　days　of　peace　and　hard　work；　it　was　time　for　more　conflict。　Miguel　met　Pappy　at　the　tractor　after　breakfast；　and　they　walked　in　the　direction　of　the　barn；　where　some　of　the　other　Mexicans　were　waiting。　In　the　semidarkness　of　the　dawn　I　tagged　along；　just　close　enough　to　hear　but　not　get　noticed。　Luis　was　sitting　on　a　stump；　his　head　low　as　if　he　were　sick。　Pappy　examined　him　closely。　He　had　suffered　some　type　of　injury。
　　　The　story；　as　Miguel　explained　it　in　rapid；　broken　English；　was　that　during　the　night　someone　had　thrown　clods　of　dirt　at　the　barn。　The　first　one　landed　against　the　side　of　the　hayloft　just　after　the　Mexicans　had　bedded　down。　It　sounded　like　a　gunshot…planks　rattled；　and　the　whole　barn　seemed　to　shake。　A　few　minutes　passed；　and　then　another　one　landed。　Then　another。　About　ten　minutes　went　by；　and　they　thought　perhaps　it　was　over；　but　yet　another　one　hit；　this　one　on　the　tin　roof　just　above　their　heads。　They　were　angry　and　scared；　and　sleep　became　impossible。　Through　the　cracks　in　the　wall；　they　watched　the　cotton　field　behind　the　barn。　Their　tormentor　was　out　there　somewhere；　deep　in　the　cotton；　invisible　in　the　blackness　of　the　night；　hiding　like　a　coward。
　　　Luis　had　slowly　opened　the　loft　door　for　a　better　look；　and　when　he　did　a　missile　landed　squarely　in　his　face。　It　was　a　rock　from　the　road　in　front　of　our　house。　Whoever　threw　it　had　saved　it　for　such　an　occasion；　a　direct　shot　at　one　of　the　Mexicans。　Dirt　clods　were　fine　for　making　noise；　but　the　rock　was　used　to　maim。
　　　Luis's　nose　was　cut；　broken；　and　swollen　to　twice　its　normal　size。　Pappy　yelled　for　my　father　to　fetch　Gran。
　　　Miguel　continued　the　story。　Once　they　tended　to　Luis　and　got　him　somewhat　fortable；　the　shelling　resumed。　Every　ten　minutes　or　so；　just　as　they　were　settling　down　again；　another　volley　would　crash　in　from　the　darkness。　They　watched　carefully　through　the　cracks　but　saw　no　movements　in　the　field。　It　was　just　too　dark　to　see　anything。　Finally　their　assailant　grew　tired　of　his　fun　and　games　and　stopped　the　assault。　For　most　of　them；　sleep　had　been　fitful。
　　　Gran　arrived　and　took　over。　Pappy　stomped　away；　cursing　under　his　breath。　I　was　torn　between　the　two　dramas：　Did　I　want　to　watch　Gran　doctor　on　Luis；　or　did　I　want　to　listen　as　Pappy　blew　off　steam？
　　　I　followed　Pappy　back　to　the　tractor；　where　he　growled　at　my　father　in　words　I　could　not　understand。　Then　he　charged　the　flatbed　trailer　where　the　Spruills　were　waiting；　still　half…asleep。
　　　〃Where's　Hank？〃　he　snarled　at　Mr。　Spruill。
　　　〃Sleepin'；　I　reckon。〃
　　　〃Is　he　gonna　work　today？〃　Pappy's　words　were　sharp。
　　　〃Go　ask　him；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　getting　to　his　feet　to　address　Pappy　face…to…face。
　　　Pappy　took　a　step　closer。　〃The　Mexicans　couldn't　sleep　last　night　'cause　somebody's　throwin'　dirt　clods　against　the　barn。　Any　idea　who　it　was？〃
　　　My　father；　with　a　much　cooler　head；　stepped　between　the　two。
　　　〃Nope。　You　accusin'　somebody？〃　Mr。　Spruill　asked。
　　　〃I　don't　know；〃　Pappy　said。　〃Ever'body　else's　workin'　hard；　sleepin'　hard；　dead　tired　at　night。　Ever'body　but　Hank。　Seems　to　me；　he's　the　only　one　with　plenty　of　time　on　his　hands。　And　it's　the　sorta　stupid　thing　Hank　would　do。〃
　　　I　didn't　like　this　open　conflict　with　the　Spruills。　They　were　as　tired　of　Hank　as　we　were；　but　they　were　still　his　family。　And　they　were　hill　people；　too…make　them　mad　and　they'd　simply　leave。　Pappy　was　on　the　verge　of　saying　too　much。
　　　〃I'll　speak　to　him；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　somewhat　softer；　as　if　he　knew　Hank　was　the　likely　culprit。　His　chin　dropped　an　inch　or　two；　and　he　looked　at　Mrs。　Spruill。　The　family　was　in　turmoil　because　of　Hank；　and　they　were　not　ready　to　defend　him。
　　　〃Let's　get　to　work；〃　my　father　said。　They　were　anxious　for　the　confrontation　to　end。　I　glanced　at　Tally；　but　she　was　looking　away；　lost　in　her　thoughts；　ignoring　me　and　everybody　else。　Pappy　climbed　onto　the　tractor；　and　we　left　to　pick　cotton。
　　　Luis　lay　on　the　back　porch　all　morning　with　an　ice　pack　on　his　face。　Gran　buzzed　around　and　tried　repeatedly　to　force　her　remedies　upon　him；　but　Luis　held　firm。　By　noon　he'd　had　enough　of　this　American　style　of　doctoring　and　was　anxious　to　return　to　the　fields；　broken　nose　or　not。
　　　
　　　Hank's　cotton　production　had　fallen　from　about　four　hundred　pounds　a　day　to　less　than　two　hundred。　Pappy　was　livid　about　this。　As　the　days　dragged　on；　the　situation　festered；　and　there　were　more　whispers　among　the　adults。　Pappy　had　never　owned　250　free　and　clear。
　　　〃How　much　did　he　pick　today？〃　he　asked　my　father　over　supper。　We　had　just　finished　the　blessing　and　were　passing　around　the　food。
　　　〃Hundred　and　ninety　pounds。〃
　　　My　mother　closed　her　eyes　in　frustration。　Supper　was　supposed　to　be　a　pleasant　time　for　families　to　visit　and　reflect。　She　hated　controversy　during　our　meals。　Idle　gossip…chitchat　about　the　goings…on　of　people　we　knew　or　perhaps　didn't　know…was　okay；　but　she　didn't　like　conflict。　Food　was　not　properly　digested　unless　your　body　was　relaxed。
　　　〃I've　a　good　mind　to　drive　to　town　tomorrow；　find　Stick　Powers；　and　tell　him　I'm　finished　with　the　boy；〃　Pappy　said；　waving　a　fork　at　the　air。
　　　There　was　no　way　he　would　do　this；　and　we　knew　it。　He　knew　it；　too。　If　Stick　somehow　managed　to　get　Hank　Spruill　handcuffed　and　shoved　into　the　back　of　his　patrol　car；　which　was　a　showdown　I　would've　loved　to　witness；　the　rest　of　the　Spruills　would　be　packed　and　gone　in　a　matter　of　minutes。　Pappy　wasn't　about　to　risk　a　crop　over　an　idiot　like　Hank。　We'd　grit　our　teeth　and　just　try　to　survive　his　presence　on　our　farm。　We'd　hope　and　pray　he　wouldn't　kill　anyone　else　and　that　no　one　killed　him；　and　in　a　few　short　weeks　the　harvest　would　be　pleted；　and　he'd　be　gone。
　　　〃You're　not　sure　it's　him；〃　Gran　said。　〃No　one　saw　him　throwin'　at　the　barn。〃
　　　〃Some　things　you　ain't　gotta　see；〃　Pappy　fired　back。　〃We　ain't　seen　Trot　with　a　paintbrush；　but　we're　perfectly　happy　to　believe　he's　doin'　the　paintin'。　Right？〃
　　　My　mother；　with　perfect　timing；　said；　〃Luke；　who　are　the　Cardinals　playin'？〃　It　was　her　standard　line；　a　not…too…subtle　way　of　letting　the　others　know　that　she　wanted　to　eat　in　peace。
　　　〃The　Cubs；〃　I　said。
　　　〃How　many　more　games？〃　she　asked。
　　　〃Just　three。〃
　　　〃How　far　ahead　is　Musial？〃
　　　〃Six　points。　He's　at　three…thirty…six。　Baumholtz　is　at　three…thirty。　He　can't　catch　him。〃
　　　At　this　point　my　father　was　always　expected　to　e　to　the　aid　of　his　wife　and　keep　the　conversation　away　from　heavier　matters。　He　cleared　his　throat　and　said；　〃I　bumped　into　Lou　Jeffcoat　last　Saturday…I　forgot　to　tell　you。　He　said　the　Methodists　have　a　new　pitcher　for　Sunday's　game。〃
　　　Pappy　had　cooled　off　enough　to　say；　〃He's　lyin'。　That's　what　they　say　every　year。〃
　　　〃Why　would　they　need　a　new　pitcher？〃　Gran　asked　with　a　faint　smile；　and　I　thought　my　mother　was　going　to　laugh。
　　　Sunday　was　the　Fall　Picnic；　a　glorious　event　that　engulfed　Black　Oak。　After　worship；　usually　a　very　long　worship；　at　least　for　us　Baptists；　we　would　meet　at　the　school；　where　the　Methodists　would　be　gathering。　Under　the　shade　trees　the　ladies　would　set　up　enough　food　to　feed　the　entire　state；　and　after　a　long　lunch　the　men　would　play　a　baseball　game。
　　　It　was　no　ordinary　game；　because　bragging　rights　were　at　stake。　The　winners　ribbed　the　losers　for　an　entire　year。　In　the　dead　of　winter　I　had　heard　men　at　the　Tea　Shoppe　ride　each　other　about　The　Game。
　　　The　Methodists　had　won　it　for　the　last　four　years；　yet　they　always　started　rumors　about　having　a　new　pitcher。
　　　〃Who's　pitchin'　for　us？〃　my　father　asked。　Pappy　coached　the　Baptist　team　every　year；　though　after　four　straight　losses；　folks　were　beginning　to　grumble。
　　　〃Ridley；　I　guess；〃　Pappy　said　without　hesitation。　He'd　been　thinking　about　the　game　for　a　year。
　　　〃I　can　hit　Ridley！〃　I　said。
　　　〃You　got　a　better　idea？〃　Pappy　shot　at　me。
　　　〃Yes　sir。〃
　　　〃Well；　I　can't　wait　to　hear　it。〃
　　　〃Pitch　Cowboy；〃　I　said；　and　everybody　smiled。　What　a　wonderful　idea。
　　　But　the　Mexicans　couldn't　play　in　The　Game；　nor　could　the　hill　people。　Each　roster　was　made　up　of　certified　church　members　onlyno　farm　laborers；　no　relatives　from　Jonesboro；　no　ringers　of　any　variety。　There　were　so　many　rules　that　if　they'd　been　put　down　in　writing；　the　rule　book　would've　been　thicker　than　the　Bible。　The　umpires　were　brought　in　from　Monette　and　were　paid　five　dollars　a　game　plus　all　the　lunch　they　could　eat。　Supposedly；　no　one　knew　the　umpires；　but　after　last　year's　loss　there　were　rumors；　at　least　around　our　church；　that　they　were　either　Methodists　or　married　to　Methodists。
　　　〃That　would　be　nice；　wouldn't