jg.paintedhouse-第52部分

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room　for　no　more；　especially　one　as　heavy　as　this。　I'd　crawl　into　Ricky's　room；　try　and　get　some　sleep；　and　when　my　father　woke　me　to　collect　eggs　and　milk　I'd　tell　the　whole　story。　Every　step；　every　move；　every　cut　of　the　knife…my　father　would　hear　it　all。　He　and　Pappy　would　head　to　town　to　report　the　killing　to　Stick　Powers；　and　they'd　have　Cowboy　in　jail　before　lunch。　They'd　probably　hang　him　before　Christmas。
　　　Hank　was　dead。　Cowboy　would　be　in　jail。　The　Spruills　would　pack　up　and　leave；　but　I　didn't　care。　I　never　wanted　to　see　another　Spruill；　not　even　Tally。　I　wanted　everybody　off　our　farm　and　out　of　our　lives。
　　　I　wanted　Ricky　to　e　home　and　the　Latchers　to　move　away；　then　everything　would　be　normal　again。
　　　When　I　was　within　sprinting　distance　of　our　front　porch；　I　decided　to　make　my　move。　My　nerves　were　frayed；　my　patience　gone。　I'd　been　hiding　for　hours；　and　I　was　tired　of　it。　I　scooted　to　the　very　end　of　the　cotton　rows　and　stepped　over　the　ditch　into　the　road。　I　ducked　low；　listened　for　a　second；　then　started　to　run。　After　two　steps；　maybe　three；　there　was　a　sound　from　behind；　then　a　hand　slapped　my　feet　together　and　down　I　went。　Cowboy　was　on　top　of　me；　a　knee　in　my　chest；　the　switchblade　an　inch　from　my　nose。　His　eyes　were　glowing。　〃Silence！〃　he　hissed。
　　　We　were　both　breathing　hard　and　sweating　profusely；　and　his　odor　hit　me　hard；　no　doubt　the　same　one　I'd　smelled　just　minutes　earlier。　I　stopped　wiggling　and　gritted　my　teeth。　His　knee　was　crushing　me。
　　　〃Been　to　the　river？〃　he　asked。
　　　I　shook　my　head　no。　Sweat　from　his　chin　dripped　into　my　eyes　and　burned。　He　waved　the　blade　a　little；　as　if　I　couldn't　see　it　already。
　　　〃Then　where　you　been？〃　he　asked。
　　　I　shook　my　head　again；　I　couldn't　speak。　Then　I　realized　my　whole　body　was　shaking；　trembling　in　rigid　fear。
　　　When　it　was　apparent　I　could　not　utter　a　word；　he　took　the　tip　of　the　blade　and　tapped　my　forehead。　〃You　speak　one　word　about　tonight；〃　he　said　slowly；　his　eyes　doing　more　talking　than　his　mouth；　〃and　I　will　kill　your　mother。　Understand？〃
　　　I　nodded　fiercely。　He　stood　and　walked　away；　quickly　disappearing　into　the　blackness　and　leaving　me　in　the　dust　and　dirt　of　our　road。　I　started　crying；　and　crawling；　and　I　made　it　to　our　truck　before　I　passed　out。
　　　
　　　They　found　me　under　their　bed。　In　the　confusion　of　the　moment；　with　my　parents　yelling　at　me　and　quizzing　me　about　everything…my　dirty　clothes；　the　bloody　nicks　on　my　arms；　why　exactly　was　I　sleeping　under　their　bed…I　managed　to　conjure　up　the　tale　that　I'd　had　a　horrible　dream。　Hank　had　drowned！　And　I　had　gone　to　check　on　him。
　　　〃You　were　sleepwalkin'！〃　my　mother　said　in　disbelief；　and　I　seized　this　immediately。
　　　〃I　guess；〃　I　said；　nodding。　Everything　after　that　was　a　blur…I　was　dead　tired　and　scared　and　not　sure　if　what　I'd　seen　at　the　river　had　really　happened　or　had　in　fact　been　a　dream。　I　was　horrified　at　the　thought　of　ever　facing　Cowboy　again。
　　　〃Ricky　used　to　do　that；〃　Gran　added　from　the　hallway。　〃Caught　'im　one　night　out　past　the　silo。〃
　　　This　helped　calm　things　somewhat。　They　led　me　to　the　kitchen　and　sat　me　at　the　table。　My　mother　scrubbed　me　while　Gran　doctored　the　Johnson　grass　cuts　on　my　arms。　The　men　saw　that　matters　were　under　control；　so　they　left　to　gather　eggs　and　milk。
　　　A　loud　thunderstorm　hit　just　as　we　were　about　to　eat；　and　the　sounds　were　a　great　relief　to　me。　We　wouldn't　be　going　to　the　fields　for　a　few　hours。　I　wouldn't　be　near　Cowboy。
　　　They　watched　me　as　I　picked　at　my　food。　〃I'm　okay；〃　I　said　at　one　point。
　　　The　rain　fell　heavy　and　loud　onto　our　tin　roof；　drowning　out　conversation　so　that　we　ate　in　silence；　the　men　worrying　about　the　cotton；　the　women　worrying　about　me。
　　　I　had　enough　worries　to　crush　us　all。
　　　〃Could　I　finish　later？〃　I　asked；　slightly　shoving　my　plate　away。　〃I'm　really　sleepy。〃
　　　My　mother　decided　that　I　would　go　back　to　bed　and　rest　for　as　long　as　I　needed　to。　As　the　women　were　clearing　the　table；　I　whispered　to　my　mother　and　asked　her　if　she　would　lie　down　with　me。　Of　course　she　would。
　　　She　fell　asleep　before　I　did。　We　were　in　my　parents'　bed；　in　their　semidark　bedroom；　still　and　cool　and　listening　to　the　rain；　with　the　men　in　the　kitchen　not　far　away；　drinking　coffee　and　waiting；　and　I　felt　safe。
　　　I　wanted　it　to　rain　forever。　The　Mexicans　and　the　Spruills　would　leave。　Cowboy　would　be　shipped　home；　back　to　where　he　could　cut　and　slash　all　he　wanted；　and　I'd　never　know　about　it。　And　sometime　next　summer；　when　plans　were　made　for　the　harvest；　I'd　make　sure　Miguel　and　his　band　of　Mexicans　were　not　hauled　back　to　our　county。
　　　I　wanted　my　mother　next　to　me；　with　my　father　nearby。　I　wanted　to　sleep；　but　when　I　closed　my　eyes　I　saw　Hank　and　Cowboy　on　the　bridge。　I　was　suddenly　hopeful　that　Hank　was　still　there；　still　in　Camp　Spruill　rummaging　for　a　biscuit；　still　throwing　rocks　at　the　barn　at　midnight。　Then　it　would　all　be　a　dream。
　
　
　Chapter　26
　　　
　　　I　clung　to　my　mother　throughout　the　day；　after　the　storm　passed；　after　lunch；　after　the　rest　of　them　went　to　the　fields　and　we　stayed　around　the　house。　There　were　whispers　between　my　parents　and　a　frown　from　my　father；　but　she　was　adamant。　There　were　times　when　little　boys　just　needed　to　be　with　their　mothers。　I　was　afraid　to　let　her　out　of　my　sight。
　　　The　very　thought　of　telling　what　I　saw　on　the　bridge　made　me　weak。　I　tried　not　to　think　about　either　the　killing　or　the　telling　of　it；　but　it　was　impossible　to　think　of　anything　else。
　　　We　gathered　vegetables　from　the　garden。　I　followed　her　with　the　straw　basket；　my　eyes　cutting　in　all　directions；　ready　for　Cowboy　to　leap　from　nowhere　and　slaughter　both　of　us。　I　could　smell　him；　feel　him；　hear　him。　I　could　see　his　nasty　liquid　eyes　watching　every　move　we　made。　The　weight　of　his　switchblade　on　my　forehead　grew　heavier。
　　　I　thought　of　nothing　but　him；　and　I　stayed　close　to　my　mother。
　　　〃What's　the　matter；　Luke？〃　she　asked　more　than　once。　I　was　aware　that　I　wasn't　talking；　but　I　couldn't　force　words　out。　There　was　a　faint　ringing　in　my　ears。　The　world　was　moving　slower。　I　just　wanted　a　place　to　hide。
　　　〃Nothin'；〃　I　said。　Even　my　voice　was　different…low　and　scratchy。
　　　〃You　still　tired？〃
　　　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　And　I'd　be　tired　for　a　month　if　it　kept　me　out　of　the　fields　and　away　from　Cowboy。
　　　We　stopped　to　examine　Trot's　house　painting。　Since　we　were　there　and　not　picking　cotton；　Trot　was　nowhere　to　be　seen。　If　we　left　the　house；　then　he　would　return　to　his　project。　The　east　wall　now　had　a　white　strip　about　three　feet　high；　running　from　the　front　almost　to　the　rear。　It　was　clean　and　neat；　obviously　the　work　of　someone　who　wasn't　burdened　with　time。
　　　At　his　current　pace　there　was　no　way　Trot　would　finish　the　house　before　the　Spruills　left。　What　would　happen　after　they　left？　We　couldn't　live　in　a　house　with　a　two…toned　east　wall。
　　　I　had　more　important　things　to　worry　about。
　　　My　mother　decided　she　would　〃put　up；〃　or　can；　some　tomatoes。　She　and　Gran　spent　hours　during　the　summer　and　early　fall　putting　up　vegetables　from　our　garden…tomatoes；　peas；　beans；　okra；　mustard　greens；　and　corn。　By　the　first　of　November　the　pantry　shelves　would　be　packed　four…deep　with　quart　jars　of　food；　enough　to　get　us　through　the　winter　and　early　spring。　And；　of　course；　they　also　put　up　enough　for　anyone　who　might　need　a　little　help。　I　was　certain　that　we'd　be　hauling　food　to　the　Latchers　in　the　months　to　e；　now　that　we　were　kinfolk。
　　　The　very　thought　made　me　furious；　but　again；　I　wasn't　worried　about　the　Latchers　anymore。
　　　My　job　was　to　peel　tomatoes。　Once　peeled　they　would　be　chopped　and　placed　into　large　pots　and　cooked　just　enough　to　soften　them；　then　packed　into　Kerr　quart　jars；　with　a　tablespoon　of　salt；　and　secured　with　new　lids。　We　used　the　same　jars　from　year　to　year；　but　we　always　bought　new　lids。　A　slight　leak　around　the　seal　and　a　jar　would　spoil；　and　it　was　always　a　bad　moment　during　the　winter　when　Gran　or　my　mother　opened　ajar　and　its　contents　couldn't　be　eaten。　It　didn't　happen　often。
　　　Once　properly　packed　and　sealed；　the　jars　were　placed　in　a　row　inside　a　large　pressure　cooker　half…filled　with　water。　There　they　would　boil　for　half　an　hour；　under　pressure；　to　remove　any　remaining　air　and　to　further　seal　the　lid。　Gran　and　my　mother　were　very　fussy　about　their　canning。　It　was　a　source　of　pride　among　the　women；　and　I　often　heard　the　ladies　around　the　church　boast　of　putting　up　so　many　jars　of　butter　beans　or　of　this　and　that。
　　　The　canning　began　as　soon　as　the　garden　started　producing。　I　was　forced　to　help　with　it　occasionally　and　always　hated　it。　Today　was　different。　Today　I　was　quite　happy　to　be　in　the　kitchen　with　my　mother；　with　Cowboy　out　in　the　fields　far　away。
　　　I　stood　at　the　kitchen　sink　with　a　sharp　paring　knife；　and　when　I　cut　the　first　tomato　I　thought　of　Hank　on　the　bridge。　The　blood；　the　switchblade；　the　painful　cry　with　the　first　cut；　then　the　silent　look　of　horror　as　other　cuts　followed。　In　that　first　instant；　I　think　Hank　knew　he　was　about　to　be　carved　up　by　someone　who'd　done　it　before。　He　knew　he　was　dead。
　　　My　head　hit　the　leg　of　a　kitchen　chair。　When　I　awoke　on　the　sofa；　my　mother　was　holding　ice　on　a　knot　above　my　right　ear。　She　smiled　and　said；　〃You　fainted；　Luke。〃
　　　I　t