jg.paintedhouse-第7部分

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tart　watching　the　clouds　and　telling　flood　stories。
　　　The　Spruills　were　winding　down。　Their　voices　were　fading。　I　could　see　their　shadows　moving　around　the　tents。　Their　fire　flickered　low；　then　died。
　　　All　was　quiet　on　the　Chandler　farm。　We　had　hill　people。　We　had　Mexicans。　The　cotton　was　waiting。
　
　
　Chapter　4
　　　
　　　At　some　point　in　the　vast　darkness　of　the　night；　Pappy；　our　human　alarm　clock；　awoke；　put　on　his　boots；　and　began　stomping　around　the　kitchen　making　the　first　pot　of　coffee。　The　house　was　not　largethree　bedrooms；　a　kitchen；　a　living　room…and　it　was　so　old　the　plank　floors　sagged　in　places。　If　one　person　chose　to　wake　up　the　rest；　he　or　she　could　certainly　do　so。
　　　I　was　allowed　to　stay　in　bed　until　my　father　came　after　me。　It　was　difficult　to　sleep；　though；　with　all　those　people　on　the　farm　and　all　that　cotton　to　pick。　I　was　already　awake　when　he　shook　me　and　said　it　was　time　to　go。　I　dressed　quickly　and　met　him　on　the　back　porch。
　　　There　was　no　hint　of　sunrise　as　we　walked　across　the　backyard；　the　dew　soaking　our　boots。　We　stopped　at　the　chicken　coop；　where　he　bent　low　and　slipped　inside。　I　was　told　to　wait　in　front　of　it；　since　last　month　while　gathering　eggs　in　the　darkness；　I'd　stepped　on　a　huge　rat　snake　and　cried　for　two　days。　At　first　my　father　had　not　been　sympathetic；　rat　snakes　are　harmless　and　just　a　part　of　life　on　the　farm。　My　mother；　however；　intervened　with　a　fury；　and　for　the　time　being；　I　was　not　permitted　to　collect　eggs　alone。
　　　My　father　filled　a　straw　bowl　with　a　dozen　eggs　and　handed　it　to　me。　We　headed　to　the　barn；　where　Isabel　was　waiting。　Now　that　we'd　roused　the　chickens；　the　roosters　began　crowing。
　　　The　only　light　came　from　a　pale　bulb　hanging　from　the　hayloft。　The　Mexicans　were　awake。　A　fire　had　been　lit　behind　the　barn；　and　they　were　huddled　near　it　as　if　they　were　cold。　I　was　already　warm　from　the　humidity。
　　　I　could　milk　the　cow；　and　on　most　mornings　that　chore　belonged　to　me。　But　the　rat　snake　still　had　me　frightened；　plus　we　were　in　a　hurry　because　we　had　to　be　in　the　fields　by　sunrise。　My　father　rapidly　milked　two　gallons；　which　would've　taken　me　half　the　morning。　We　delivered　the　food　to　the　kitchen；　where　the　women　were　in　charge。　The　ham　was　already　in　the　skillet；　its　rich　aroma　thick　in　the　air。
　　　Breakfast　was　fresh　eggs；　milk；　salt…cured　ham；　and　hot　biscuits；　with　sorghum　optional。　As　they　cooked；　I　settled　into　my　chair；　ran　my　fingers　across　the　damp；　checkered　oilcloth；　and　waited　for　my　cup　of　coffee。　It　was　the　one　vice　my　mother　allowed　me。
　　　Gran　placed　the　cup　and　saucer　before　me；　then　the　sugar　bowl　and　the　fresh　cream。　I　doctored　the　coffee　until　it　was　as　sweet　as　a　malt；　then　sipped　it　slowly。
　　　At　breakfast；　conversation　in　the　kitchen　was　held　to　a　minimum。　It　was　exciting　to　have　so　many　strangers　on　our　farm　for　the　harvest；　hut　the　enthusiasm　was　dampened　by　the　reality　that　we　would　spend　most　of　the　next　twelve　hours　unshielded　in　the　sun；　bent　over；　picking　until　our　fingers　bled。
　　　We　ate　quickly；　the　roosters　making　a　ruckus　in　the　side　yard。　My　grandmother's　biscuits　were　heavy　and　perfectly　round；　and　so　warm　that　when　I　carefully　placed　a　slice　of　butter　in　the　center　of　one；　it　melted　instantly。　I　watched　the　yellow　cream　soak　into　the　biscuit；　then　took　a　bite。　My　mother　conceded　that　Ruth　Chandler　made　the　best　biscuits　she'd　ever　tasted。　I　wanted　so　badly　to　eat　two　or　three；　like　my　father；　but　I　simply　couldn't　hold　them。　My　mother　ate　one；　same　as　Gran。　Pappy　had　two；　my　father　three。　Several　hours　later；　in　the　middle　of　the　morning；　we　would　stop　for　a　moment　under　the　shade　of　a　tree　or　beside　the　cotton　trailer　to　eat　the　leftover　biscuits。
　　　Breakfast　was　slow　in　the　winter　because　there　was　little　else　to　do。　The　pace　was　somewhat　faster　in　the　spring　when　we　were　planting；　and　in　the　summer　when　we　were　chopping。　But　during　the　fall　harvest；　with　the　sun　about　to　catch　us；　we　ate　with　a　purpose。
　　　There　was　some　chatter　about　the　weather。　The　rain　in　St。　Louis　that　had　canceled　last　night's　Cardinals　game　was　weighing　on　Pappy's　mind。　St。　Louis　was　so　far　away　that　no　one　at　the　table；　except　for　Pappy；　had　ever　been　there；　yet　the　city's　weather　was　now　a　crucial　element　in　the　harvest　of　our　crops。　My　mother　listened　patiently。　I　didn't　say　a　word。
　　　My　father　had　been　reading　the　almanac　and　offered　the　opinion　that　the　weather　would　cooperate　throughout　the　month　of　September。　But　mid…October　looked　ominous。　Bad　weather　was　on　the　way。　It　was　imperative　that　for　the　next　six　weeks　we　work　until　we　dropped。　The　harder　we　worked；　the　harder　the　Mexicans　and　the　Spruills　would　work。　This　was　my　father's　version　of　a　pep　talk。
　　　The　subject　of　day　laborers　came　up。　These　were　locals　who　went　from　farm　to　farm　looking　for　the　best　deal。　Most　were　town　people　we　knew。　During　the　previous　fall；　Miss　Sophie　Turner；　who　taught　fifth　and　sixth　grades；　had　bestowed　a　great　honor　on　us　when　she　had　chosen　our　fields　to　pick　in。
　　　We　needed　all　the　day　laborers　we　could　get；　but　they　generally　picked　wherever　they　wanted。
　　　When　Pappy　finished　his　last　bite；　he　thanked　his　wife　and　my　mother　for　the　good　food　and　left　them　to　clean　up　the　mess。　I　strutted　onto　the　back　porch　with　the　men。
　　　Our　house　faced　south；　the　barn　and　crops　were　to　the　north　and　west；　and　to　the　east　I　saw　the　first　hint　of　orange　peeking　over　the　flat　farmland　of　the　Arkansas　Delta。　The　sun　was　ing；　undaunted　by　clouds。　My　shirt　was　already　sticking　to　my　back。
　　　A　flatbed　trailer　was　hitched　to　the　John　Deere；　and　the　Mexicans　had　already　gotten　on。　My　dad　went　up　to　speak　to　Miguel。　〃Good　morning。　How　did　you　sleep？　Are　you　ready　to　work？〃　Pappy　went　to　fetch　the　Spruills。
　　　I　had　a　spot；　a　nook　between　the　fender　and　the　seat　of　the　John　Deere；　and　I　had　spent　hours　there　firmly　grasping　the　metal　pole　holding　the　umbrella　that　would　cover　the　driver；　either　Pappy　or　my　father；　when　we　chugged　through　the　fields　plowing　or　planting　or　spreading　fertilizer。　I　took　my　place　and　looked　down　at　the　crowded　trailer；　Mexicans　on　one　side；　Spruills　on　the　other。　At　that　moment　I　felt　very　privileged　because　I　got　to　ride　on　the　tractor；　and　the　tractor　belonged　to　us。　My　haughtiness；　however；　would　vanish　shortly；　because　all　things　were　level　among　the　cotton　stalks。
　　　I'd　been　curious　as　to　whether　poor　Trot　would　go　to　the　fields。　Picking　required　two　good　arms。　Trot　had　only　one；　as　far　as　I'd　been　able　to　determine。　But　there　he　was；　sitting　at　the　edge　of　the　trailer；　his　back　to　everyone　else；　feet　hanging　over　the　side；　alone　in　his　own　world。　And　there　was　Tally；　who　didn't　acknowledge　me；　but　just　looked　into　the　distance。
　　　Without　a　word；　Pappy　popped　the　clutch；　and　the　tractor　and　trailer　lurched　forward。　I　checked　to　make　sure　no　one　fell　off。　Through　the　kitchen　window　I　could　see　my　mother's　face；　watching　us　as　she　cleaned　the　dishes。　She　would　finish　her　chores；　spend　an　hour　in　her　garden；　then　join　us　for　a　hard　day　in　the　fields。　Same　for　Gran。　No　one　rested　when　the　cotton　was　ready。
　　　We　puttered　past　the　barn；　the　diesel　thumping；　the　trailer　creaking；　and　turned　south　toward　the　lower　forty；　a　tract　next　to　Siler's　Creek。　We　always　picked　the　lower　forty　first　because　the　floods　would　start　there。
　　　We　had　the　lower　forty　and　the　back　forty。　Eighty　acres　was　no　small　farming　operation。
　　　In　a　few　minutes　we　arrived　at　the　cotton　trailer；　and　Pappy　stopped　the　tractor。　Before　I　jumped　down；　I　looked　to　the　east　and　saw　the　lights　of　our　house；　less　than　a　mile　away。　Behind　it；　the　sky　was　ing　to　life　with　streaks　of　orange　and　yellow。　There　wasn't　a　cloud　to　be　seen；　and　this　meant　no　floods　in　the　near　future。　It　also　meant　no　shelter　from　the　scorching　sun。
　　　Tally　said；　〃Good　morning；　Luke；〃　as　she　walked　by。
　　　I　managed　to　return　her　greeting。　She　smiled　at　me　as　if　she　knew　some　secret　that　she　would　never　tell。
　　　Pappy　didn't　give　an　orientation；　and　none　was　needed。　Choose　a　row　in　either　direction；　and　start　picking。　No　chitchat；　no　stretching　of　the　muscles；　no　predictions　about　the　weather。　Without　a　word　the　Mexicans　draped　their　long　cotton　sacks　over　their　shoulders；　lined　up；　and　went　south。　The　Arkansans　went　north。
　　　For　a　second；　I　stood　there　in　the　semidarkness　of　an　already　hot　September　morning；　staring　down　a　very　long；　straight　row　of　cotton；　a　row　that　had　somehow　been　assigned　to　me。　I　thought；　I'll　never　get　to　the　end　of　it；　and　I　was　suddenly　tired。
　　　I　had　cousins　in　Memphis；　sons　and　daughters　of　my　father's　two　sisters；　and　they　had　never　picked　cotton。　City　kids；　in　the　suburbs；　in　nice　little　homes　with　indoor　plumbing。　They　returned　to　Arkansas　for　funerals…sometimes　for　Thanksgiving。　As　I　stared　at　my　endless　row　of　cotton；　I　thought　of　those　cousins。
　　　Two　things　motivated　me　to　work。　First；　and　most　important；　I　had　my　father　on　one　side　and　my　grandfather　on　the　other。　Neither　tolerated　laziness。　They　had　worked　the　fields　when　they　were　children；　and　I　would　certainly　do　the　same。　Second；　I　got　paid　for　picking；　same　as　the　other　field　hands。　A　dollar　sixty　for　a　hundred　pounds。　And　I　had　big　plans　for　the　money。
　　　〃Let's　go；〃　my　father　said　firm