jg.paintedhouse-第18部分

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　　　〃Ricky's　ing　home？〃
　　　〃Yes。　Maybe　not　right　away；　but　the　war'll　be　over　soon。　We'll　look　up　one　day　and　see　him　walking　across　the　yard　there。〃
　　　I　looked　at　the　yard。　Puddles　and　streams　were　beginning　to　form　and　run　down　toward　the　Spruills。　The　grass　was　almost　gone；　and　the　wind　was　blowing　the　first　of　the　dead　leaves　from　our　oaks。
　　　〃I　pray　for　Ricky　every　night；　Gran；〃　I　said；　quite　proud。
　　　〃I　pray　for　him　every　hour；〃　she　said；　with　a　hint　of　mist　in　her　eyes。
　　　We　rocked　and　watched　the　rain。　My　thoughts　about　Ricky　were　rarely　of　a　soldier　in　uniform；　with　a　gun；　under　fire；　hopping　from　one　safe　place　to　another。　Rather；　my　memories　were　of　my　best　friend；　my　uncle　who　was　more　like　a　brother；　a　buddy　with　a　fishing　pole　or　a　baseball　glove。　He　was　only　nineteen；　an　age　that　seemed　both　old　and　young　to　me。
　　　Before　long　my　mother　came　to　the　door。　The　Saturday　bath　was　followed　by　the　Sunday　scrubbing；　a　quick　but　brutal　ritual　in　which　my　neck　and　ears　were　scraped　by　a　woman　possessed。　〃We　need　to　get　ready；〃　she　said。　I　could　already　feel　the　pain。
　　　I　followed　Gran　to　the　kitchen　for　more　coffee。　Pappy　was　at　the　kitchen　table；　reading　the　Bible　and　preparing　his　Sunday　school　lesson。　My　father　was　on　the　back　porch；　watching　the　storm　and　gazing　into　the　distance　at　the　river；　no　doubt　beginning　to　worry　that　floodwaters　were　ing。
　　　
　　　The　rains　stopped　long　before　we　left　for　church。　The　roads　were　muddy；　and　Pappy　drove　even　slower　than　usual。　We　puttered　along；　sometimes　sliding　in　the　ruts　and　puddles　of　the　old　dirt　road。　My　father　and　I　were　in　the　back；　holding　tightly　to　the　sides　of　the　bed；　and　my　mother　and　Gran　rode　up　front；　everybody　dressed　in　their　best。　The　sky　had　cleared；　and　now　the　sun　was　overhead；　already　baking　the　wet　ground　so　that　you　could　see　the　humidity　drifting　lazily　above　the　cotton　stalks。
　　　〃It's　gonna　be　a　hot　one；〃　my　father　said；　issuing　the　same　forecast　he　uttered　every　day　from　May　through　September。
　　　When　we　reached　the　highway；　we　stood　and　leaned　on　the　cab　so　the　wind　was　in　our　faces。　It　was　much　cooler　that　way。　The　fields　were　vacant；　not　even　the　Mexicans　were　allowed　to　work　on　the　Sabbath。　Every　harvest　season　brought　the　same　rumors　of　heathen　farmers　sneaking　around　and　picking　cotton　on　Sunday；　but　I　personally　had　never　witnessed　such　sinful　behavior。
　　　Most　things　were　sinful　in　rural　Arkansas；　especially　if　you　were　a　Baptist。　And　a　great　part　of　our　Sunday　worship　ritual　was　to　be　preached　at　by　the　Reverend　Akers；　a　loud　and　angry　man　who　spent　too　much　of　his　time　conjuring　up　new　sins。　Of　course；　I　didn't　care　for　the　preaching…most　kids　didn't…but　there　was　more　to　Sunday　church　than　worship。　It　was　a　time　for　visiting；　and　spreading　news　and　gossip。　It　was　a　festive　gathering；　with　everyone　in　good　spirits；　or　at　least　pretending　to　be。　Whatever　the　worries　of　the　world…the　ing　floods；　the　war　in　Korea；　the　fluctuating　price　of　cotton…they　were　all　put　aside　during　church。
　　　The　Lord　didn't　intend　for　His　people　to　worry；　Gran　always　said；　especially　when　we　were　in　His　house。　This　forever　struck　me　as　odd；　because　she　worried　almost　as　much　as　Pappy。
　　　Other　than　the　family　and　the　farm；　nothing　was　as　important　to　us　as　the　Black　Oak　Baptist　Church。　I　knew　every　single　person　in　our　church；　and　they　of　course　knew　me。　It　was　a　family；　for　better　or　worse。　Everybody　loved　one　another；　or　at　least　professed　to；　and　if　one　of　our　members　was　the　slightest　bit　ill；　then　all　manner　of　prayer　and　Christian　caring　poured　forth。　A　funeral　was　a　weeklong；　almost　holy　event。　The　fall　and　spring　revivals　were　planned　for　months　and　greatly　anticipated。　At　least　once　a　month　we　had　some　form　of　dinner…on…the…grounds…a　potluck　picnic　under　the　trees　behind　the　church…and　these　often　lasted　until　late　afternoon。　Weddings　were　important；　especially　for　the　ladies；　but　they　lacked　the　high　drama　of　funerals　and　burials。
　　　The　church's　gravel　parking　lot　was　almost　full　when　we　arrived。　Most　of　the　vehicles　were　old　farmers'　trucks　like　ours；　all　covered　with　a　fresh　coat　of　mud。　There　were　a　few　sedans；　and　these　were　driven　either　by　town　folk　or　by　farmers　who　owned　their　land。　Down　the　street　at　the　Methodist　church；　there　were　fewer　trucks　and　more　cars。　As　a　general　rule；　the　merchants　and　schoolteachers　worshiped　there。　The　Methodists　thought　they　were　slightly　superior；　but　as　Baptists；　we　knew　we　had　the　inside　track　to　God。
　　　I　jumped　from　the　truck　and　ran　to　find　my　friends。　Three　of　the　older　boys　were　tossing　a　baseball　behind　the　church；　near　the　cemetery；　and　I　headed　in　their　direction。
　　　〃Luke；〃　someone　whispered。　It　was　Dewayne；　hiding　in　the　shade　of　an　elm　tree　and　looking　scared。　〃Over　here。〃
　　　I　walked　to　the　tree。
　　　〃Have　you　heard？〃　he　said。　〃Jerry　Sisco　died　early　this　mornin'。〃
　　　I　felt　as　if　I'd　done　something　wrong；　and　I　couldn't　think　of　anything　to　say。　Dewayne　just　stared　at　me。　Finally；　I　managed　to　respond。　〃So？〃
　　　〃So　they're　tryin'　to　find　people　who　saw　what　happened。〃
　　　〃Lot　of　folks　saw　it。〃
　　　〃Yeah；　but　nobody　wants　to　say　anything。　Everybody's　scared　of　the　Siscos；　and　everybody's　scared　of　your　hillbilly。〃
　　　〃Ain't　my　hillbilly；〃　I　said。
　　　〃Well；　I'm　scared　of　him　anyway。　Ain't　you？〃
　　　〃Yep。〃
　　　〃What're　we　gonna　do？〃
　　　〃Nothin'。　We　ain't　sayin'　a　word；　not　now　anyhow。〃
　　　We　agreed　that　we　would　indeed　do　nothing。　If　we　were　confronted；　we　would　lie。　And　if　we　lied；　we　would　say　an　extra　prayer。
　　　The　prayers　were　long　and　windy　that　Sunday　morning。　So　were　the　rumors　and　gossip　of　what　had　happened　to　Jerry　Sisco。　News　spread　quickly　before　Sunday　school　began。　Dewayne　and　I　heard　details　about　the　fight　that　we　couldn't　believe　were　being　reported。　Hank　grew　larger　by　the　moment。　〃Hands　as　big　as　a　country　ham；〃　somebody　said。　〃Shoulders　like　a　Brahma　bull；〃　said　somebody　else。　〃Had　to　weigh　three　hundred　pounds。〃
　　　The　men　and　older　boys　grouped　near　the　front　of　the　church；　and　Dewayne　and　I　milled　around；　just　listening。　I　heard　it　described　as　a　murder；　then　a　killing；　and　I　wasn't　clear　about　the　difference　until　I　heard　Mr。　Snake　Wilcox　say；　〃Ain't　no　murder。　Good　folks　get　murdered。　White　trash　like　the　Siscos　get　killed。〃
　　　The　killing　was　the　first　in　Black　Oak　since　1947；　when　some　sharecroppers　east　of　town　got　drunk　and　had　a　family　war。　A　teenage　boy　found　himself　on　the　wrong　end　of　a　shotgun；　but　no　charges　were　filed。　They　fled　during　the　night；　never　to　be　heard　from　again。　No　one　could　remember　the　last　〃real〃　murder。
　　　I　was　mesmerized　by　the　gossip。　We　sat　on　the　front　steps　of　the　church；　looking　down　the　sidewalk　toward　Main　Street；　and　heard　men　arguing　and　spouting　off　about　what　should　or　shouldn't　be　done。
　　　Down　the　street；　I　could　see　the　front　of　the　Co…op；　and　for　a　moment　I　thought　I　could　see　Jerry　Sisco　again；　his　face　a　mess；　as　Hank　Spruill　clubbed　him　to　death。
　　　I　had　watched　a　man　get　killed。　Suddenly；　I　felt　the　urge　to　sneak　back　into　the　sanctuary　and　start　praying。　I　knew　I　was　guilty　of　something。
　　　We　drifted　into　the　church；　where　the　girls　and　women　were　also　huddled　and　whispering　their　versions　of　the　tragedy。　Among　them；　Jerry's　stature　was　rising。　Brenda；　the　freckled　girl　with　a　crush　on　Dewayne；　lived　only　a　quarter　of　a　mile　from　the　Siscos；　and　since　they　were　practically　neighbors；　she　was　receiving　more　than　her　share　of　attention。　The　women　were　definitely　more　sympathetic　than　the　men。
　　　Dewayne　and　I　found　the　cookies　in　the　fellowship　hall；　then　went　to　our　little　classrooms；　listening　every　step　of　the　way。
　　　Our　Sunday　school　teacher；　Miss　Beverly　Dill　Cooley；　who　taught　at　the　high　school　in　Monette；　started　things　off　with　a　lengthy；　and　quite　generous；　obituary　for　Jerry　Sisco；　a　poor　boy　from　a　poor　family；　a　young　man　who　never　had　a　chance。　Then　she　made　us　hold　hands　and　close　our　eyes　while　she　lifted　her　voice　to　heaven　and　for　a　very　long　time　asked　God　to　receive　poor　Jerry　into　His　warm　and　eternal　embrace。　She　made　Jerry　sound　like　a　Christian；　and　an　innocent　victim。
　　　I　glanced　at　Dewayne；　who　had　one　eye　on　me。
　　　There　was　something　odd　about　this。　As　Baptists；　we