jg.paintedhouse-第4部分

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　　　Harsh　words　erupted　between　the　man　in　charge　of　labor　and　the　driver　of　the　truck。　Somebody　down　in　Texas　had；　in　fact；　promised　that　the　Mexicans　would　be　shipped　in　a　bus。　This　was　the　second　load　to　arrive　in　a　dirty　trailer。　Pappy　never　shied　away　from　a　fight；　and　I　could　tell　he　wanted　to　jump　into　the　fray　and　finish　off　the　truck　driver。　But　he　was　also　angry　with　the　labor　man；　and　I　guess　he　saw　no　point　in　whipping　both　of　them。　We　sat　on　the　tailgate　of　our　truck　and　waited　for　the　dust　to　clear。
　　　When　the　yelling　stopped；　the　paperwork　began。　The　Mexicans　clung　together　on　the　sidewalk　in　front　of　the　Co…op。　Occasionally；　they　would　glance　at　us　and　the　other　farmers　who　were　gathering　along　Main　Street。　Word　was　out…the　new　batch　had　arrived。
　　　Pappy　got　the　first　ten。　The　leader　was　Miguel。　He　appeared　to　be　the　oldest　and；　as　I　noticed　from　my　initial　inspection；　he　had　the　only　cloth　bag。　The　rest　of　them　carried　their　belongings　in　paper　sacks。
　　　Miguel's　English　was　passable；　but　not　nearly　as　good　as　Juan's　had　been。　I　chatted　him　up　while　Pappy　finished　the　paperwork。　Miguel　introduced　me　to　the　group。　There　was　a　Rico；　a　Roberto；　a　Jose；　a　Luis；　a　Pablo；　and　several　I　couldn't　understand。　I　remembered　from　a　year　earlier　that　it　would　take　a　week　to　distinguish　among　them。
　　　Although　they　were　clearly　exhausted；　each　of　them　seemed　to　make　some　effort　to　smile…except　for　one　who　sneered　at　me　when　I　looked　at　him。　He　wore　a　western…style　hat；　which　Miguel　pointed　to　and　said；　〃He　thinks　he's　a　cowboy。　So　that's　what　we　call　him。〃　Cowboy　was　very　young；　and　tall　for　a　Mexican。　His　eyes　were　narrow　and　mean。　He　had　a　thin　mustache　that　only　added　to　the　fierceness。　He　frightened　me　so　badly　that　I　gave　a　passing　thought　to　telling　Pappy。　I　certainly　didn't　want　the　man　living　on　our　farm　for　the　weeks　to　e。　But　instead　I　just　backed　away。
　　　Our　group　of　Mexicans　followed　Pappy　down　the　sidewalk　to　Pop　and　Pearl's。　I　trailed　along；　careful　not　to　step　close　to　Cowboy。　Inside　the　store；　I　assumed　my　position　near　the　cash　register；　where　Pearl　was　waiting　for　someone　to　whisper　to。
　　　〃They　treat　them　like　animals；〃　she　said。
　　　〃Eli　says　they're　just　happy　to　be　here；〃　I　whispered　back。　My　grandfather　was　waiting　by　the　door；　arms　folded　across　his　chest；　watching　the　Mexicans　gather　what　few　items　they　needed。　Miguel　was　rattling　instructions　to　the　rest　of　them。
　　　Pearl　was　not　about　to　criticize　Eli　Chandler。　But　she　shot　him　a　dirty　look；　though　he　didn't　see　it。　Pappy　wasn't　concerned　with　cither　me　or　Pearl。　He　was　fretting　because　the　cotton　wasn't　getting　（licked。
　　　〃It's　just　awful；〃　she　said。　I　could　tell　Pearl　couldn't　wait　for　us　to　clear　out　so　she　could　find　her　church　friends　and　again　stir　up　the　issue。　Pearl　was　a　Methodist。
　　　As　the　Mexicans；　holding　their　goods；　drifted　to　the　cash　register；　Miguel　gave　each　name　to　Pearl；　who　in　turn　opened　a　charge　account。　She　rang　up　the　total；　entered　the　amount　in　a　ledger　by　the　worker's　name；　then　showed　the　entry　to　both　Miguel　and　the　customer。　Instant　credit；　American　style。
　　　They　bought　flour　and　shortening　to　make　tortillas；　lots　of　beans　in　both　cans　and　bags；　and　rice。　Nothing　extra…no　sugar　or　sweets；　no　vegetables。　They　ate　as　little　as　possible；　because　food　cost　money。　Their　goal　was　to　save　every　cent　they　could　and　take　it　back　home。
　　　Of　course；　these　poor　fellas　had　no　idea　where　they　were　going。　They　did　not　know　that　my　mother　was　a　devoted　gardener　who　spent　more　time　tending　her　vegetables　than　she　did　the　cotton。　They　were　quite　lucky；　because　my　mother　believed　that　no　one　living　within　walking　distance　of　our　farm　would　ever　go　without　food。
　　　Cowboy　was　last　in　line；　and　when　Pearl　smiled　at　him；　I　thought　he　was　going　to　spit　on　her。　Miguel　stayed　close。　He'd　just　spent　three　days　in　the　back　of　a　trailer　with　the　boy　and　probably　knew　all　about　him。
　　　I　said　good…bye　to　Pearl　for　the　second　time　that　day；　which　was　odd　because　I　usually　saw　her　only　once　a　week。
　　　Pappy　led　the　Mexicans　to　the　truck。　They　got　into　the　bed　and　sat　shoulder…to…shoulder；　feet　and　legs　intertwined。　They　were　silent　and　stared　blankly　ahead　as　if　they　had　no　idea　where　their　journey　would　end。
　　　The　old　truck　strained　with　the　load　but　eventually　leveled　out　at　thirty…seven；　and　Pappy　almost　smiled。　It　was　late　in　the　afternoon；　and　the　weather　was　hot　and　dry；　perfect　for　picking。　Between　the　Sp　mills　and　the　Mexicans　we　finally　had　enough　hands　to　harvest　our　crop。　I　reached　into　my　pocket；　and　pulled　out　the　other　half　of　my　Tootsie　Roll。
　　　Long　before　we　arrived　at　our　house；　we　saw　smoke　and　then　a　tent。　We　lived　on　a　dirt　road　that　was　very　dusty　for　most　of　the　year；　and　Pappy　was　just　puttering　along　so　the　Mexicans　wouldn't　get　choked。
　　　〃What's　that？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Looks　like　a　tent　of　some　sort；〃　Pappy　said。
　　　It　was　situated　near　the　road；　at　the　far　end　of　our　front　yard；　under　a　pin　oak　that　was　a　hundred　years　old；　very　near　the　spot　where　home　plate　belonged。　We　slowed　even　more　as　we　approached　our　mailbox。　The　Spruills　had　taken　control　of　half　our　front　yard。　The　large　tent　was　dirty　white　with　a　pointed　roof　and　was　erected　with　a　mismatched　collection　of　hand…whittled　sticks　and　metal　poles。　Two　sides　of　the　tent　were　open；　and　I　could　see　boxes　and　blankets　lying　on　the　ground　under　the　roof。　I　could　also　see　Tally　napping　inside。
　　　Their　truck　was　parked　beside　it；　and　another　canvas　of　some　sort　had　been　rigged　over　its　bed。　It　was　anchored　with　baling　rope　staked　to　the　ground　so　that　the　truck　couldn't　move　without　first　getting　unhitched。　Their　old　trailer　had　been　partially　unloaded；　its　boxes　and　burlap　bags　scattered　on　the　grass　as　if　a　storm　had　hit。
　　　Mrs。　Spruill　was　tending　a　fire；　hence　the　smoke。　For　some　reason；　she　had　chosen　a　slightly　bare　spot　near　the　end　of　the　yard。　It　was　the　exact　spot　where　Pappy　or　my　father　squatted　almost　every　afternoon　and　caught　my　fastballs　and　my　curves。　I　wanted　to　cry。　I　would　never　forgive　Mrs。　Spruill　for　this。
　　　〃I　thought　you　told　them　to　set　up　out　behind　the　silo；〃　I　said。
　　　〃I　did；〃　Pappy　answered。　He　slowed　the　truck　almost　to　a　stop；　then　turned　into　our　place。　The　silo　was　out　back；　near　the　barn；　a　sufficient　distance　from　our　house。　We'd　had　hill　people　camping　back　there　before…never　in　the　front　yard。
　　　He　parked　under　another　pin　oak　that　was　only　seventy　years　old；　according　to　my　grandmother。　It　was　the　smallest　of　the　three　that　shaded　our　house　and　yard。　We　rolled　to　a　stop　near　the　house；　in　the　same　dry　ruts　Pappy'd　parked　in　for　decades。　Both　my　mother　and　grandmother　were　waiting　at　the　kitchen　steps。
　　　Ruth；　my　grandmother；　did　not　like　the　fact　that　the　hill　people　had　laid　claim　to　our　front　yard。　Pappy　and　I　knew　this　before　we　got　out　of　the　truck。　She　had　her　hands　on　her　hips。
　　　My　mother　was　eager　to　examine　the　Mexicans　and　ask　me　about　their　traveling　conditions。　She　watched　them　pile　out　of　the　truck　as　she　walked　to　me　and　squeezed　my　shoulder。
　　　〃Ten　of　them；〃　she　said。　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　Gran　met　Pappy　at　the　front　of　the　truck　and　said；　quietly　but　sternly；　〃Why　are　those　people　in　our　front　yard？〃
　　　〃I　asked　them　to　set　up　by　the　silo；〃　Pappy　said；　never　one　to　back　down；　not　even　from　his　wife。　〃I　don't　know　why　they　picked　that　spot。〃
　　　〃Can　you　ask　them　to　move？〃
　　　〃I　cannot。　If　they　pack　up；　they'll　leave。　You　know　how　hill　people　are。〃
　　　And　that　was　the　end　of　Gran's　questions。　They　were　not　about　to　argue　in　front　of　me　and　ten　new　Mexicans。　She　walked　away；　toward　the　house；　shaking　her　head　in　disapproval。　Pappy　honestly　didn't　care　where　the　hill　people　camped。　They　appeared　to　be　able…bodied　and　willing　to　work；　and　nothing　else　mattered　to　him。
　　　I　suspected　Gran　was　not　that　concerned　either。　The　picking　was　so　crucial　that　we　would've　taken　in　a　chain　gang　if　they　could've　averaged　three　hundred　pounds　of　cotton　a　day。
　　　The　Mexicans　followed　Pappy　off　to　the　barn；　which　was　352　feet　from　the　back　porch　steps。　Past　the　chicken　coop；　the　water　pump；　the　clotheslines；　and　the　tool　shed；　past　a　sugar　maple　that　would　turn　bright　red　in　October。　My　father　had　helpe