jg.paintedhouse-第14部分

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ine。　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　unheard　of。　Its　exterior　was　one…by…six　clapboards　made　of　oak；　probably　cut　from　the　land　we　now　farmed。　With　time　and　weather　the　boards　had　faded　into　a　pale　brown；　pretty　much　the　same　color　as　the　other　farmhouses　around　Black　Oak。　Paint　was　unnecessary。　The　boards　were　kept　clean　and　in　good　repair；　and　besides　paint　cost　money。
　　　But　shortly　after　my　parents　were　married；　my　mother　decided　the　house　needed　an　upgrade。　She　went　to　work　on　my　father；　who　was　anxious　to　please　his　young　wife。　His　parents；　though；　were　not。　Pappy　and　Gran；　with　all　the　stubbornness　that　came　from　the　soil　flatly　refused　to　even　consider　painting　the　house。　The　cost　was　the　official　reason。　This　was　relayed　to　my　mother　through　my　father。　No　fight　occurred…no　words。　Just　a　tense　period　one　winter　when　four　adults　lived　in　a　small　unpainted　house　and　tried　to　be　cordial。
　　　My　mother　vowed　to　herself　that　she　would　not　raise　her　children　on　a　farm。　She　would　one　day　have　a　house　in　a　town　or　in　a　city；　a　house　with　indoor　plumbing　and　shrubs　around　the　porch；　and　with　paint　on　the　boards；　maybe　even　bricks。
　　　〃Paint〃　was　a　sensitive　word　around　the　Chandler　farm。
　　　
　　　I　counted　eleven　trailers　ahead　of　us　when　we　arrived　at　the　gin。　Another　twenty　or　so　were　empty　and　parked　to　one　side。　Those　were　owned　by　farmers　with　enough　money　to　have　two。　They　could　leave　one　to　be　ginned　at　night　while　the　other　stayed　in　the　fields。　My　father　desperately　wanted　a　second　trailer。
　　　Pappy　parked　and　walked　to　a　group　of　farmers　huddled　by　a　trailer。　I　could　tell　by　the　way　they　were　standing　that　they　were　worried　about　something。
　　　For　nine　months　the　gin　sat　idle。　It　was　a　tall；　long；　box…like　structure；　the　biggest　building　in　the　county。　In　early　September　it　came　to　life　when　the　harvest　began。　At　the　height　of　the　picking　season　it　ran　all　day　and　all　night；　stopping　only　on　Saturday　evening　and　Sunday　morning。　Its　presses　and　mills　roared　with　a　noisy　precision　that　could　be　heard　throughout　Black　Oak。
　　　I　saw　the　Montgomery　twins　throwing　rocks　at　the　weeds　beside　the　gin；　and　I　joined　them。　We　pared　stories　about　Mexicans　and　told　lies　about　how　much　cotton　we'd　personally　picked。　It　was　dark；　and　the　line　of　trailers　moved　slowly。
　　　〃My　pop　says　cotton　prices　are　goin'　down；〃　Dan　Montgomery　said　as　he　tossed　a　rock　into　the　darkness。　〃Says　the　cotton　traders　in　Memphis　are　pushin'　down　prices　'cause　there's　so　much　cotton。〃
　　　〃It's　a　big　crop；〃　I　said。　The　Montgomery　twins　wanted　to　be　farmers　when　they　grew　up。　I　felt　sorry　for　them。
　　　When　the　rains　flooded　the　land　and　wiped　out　the　crops；　the　prices　went　up　because　the　traders　in　Memphis　couldn't　get　enough　cotton。　But　the　farmers；　of　course；　had　nothing　to　sell。　And　when　the　rains　cooperated　and　the　crops　were　huge；　the　prices　went　down　because　the　traders　in　Memphis　had　too　much　cotton。　The　poor　people　who　labored　in　the　fields　didn't　make　enough　to　pay　their　crop　loans。
　　　Good　crops　or　bad　crops；　it　didn't　make　any　difference。
　　　We　talked　baseball　for　a　while。　The　Montgomerys　did　not　own　a　radio；　so　their　knowledge　of　the　Cardinals　was　limited。　Again；　I　felt　sorry　for　them。
　　　When　we　left　the　gin；　Pappy　had　nothing　to　say。　The　wrinkles　in　his　forehead　were　closer　together；　and　his　chin　was　jutting　out　a　bit；　so　I　knew　he'd　heard　bad　news。　I　assumed　it　had　something　to　do　with　the　price　of　cotton。
　　　I　said　nothing　as　we　left　Black　Oak。　When　the　lights　were　behind　us；　I　laid　my　head　on　the　window　opening　so　the　wind　would　hit　my　lace。　The　air　was　hot　and　still；　and　I　wanted　Pappy　to　drive　faster　so　we　could　cool　off。
　　　I　would　listen　more　closely　for　the　next　few　days。　I'd　give　the　adults　time　to　whisper　among　themselves；　then　I'd　ask　my　mother　what　was　going　on。
　　　If　it　involved　bad　news　about　farming；　she　would　eventually　tell　me。
　
　
　Chapter　7
　　　
　　　Saturday　morning。　At　sunrise；　with　Mexicans　on　one　side　and　the　Spruills　on　the　other；　we　were　in　the　trailer　moving　toward　the　fields。　I　kept　close　to　my　father；　for　fear　that　the　monster　H