jg.paintedhouse-第42部分

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　　　〃Ain't　he　the　one　who　killed　that　Sisco　boy？〃　someone　asked　from　behind　us。
　　　〃That's　him；〃　was　the　reply。
　　　〃He's　almost　as　big　as　Samson。〃
　　　He　was　a　few　inches　shorter；　and　not　as　thick　in　the　chest；　but　Hank　seemed　oblivious　to　any　danger。　Samson　started　dancing　around　on　one　side　of　the　ring　while　Hank　watched　him　and　stretched　his　arms。
　　　〃Are　you　ready？〃　Delilah　wailed　into　the　microphone；　and　the　crowd　pressed　forward。　She　hit　the　bell。　Both　fighters　eyed　each　other　fiercely。　Hank　stayed　in　his　corner；　though。　The　clock　was　on　his　side。　After　a　few　seconds；　Samson；　whom　I　suspected　knew　he　had　his　hands　full；　waded　in；　dancing　and　juking　and　bobbing　like　a　real　wrestler　is　supposed　to　do。　Hank　was　still。
　　　〃e　on　out；　boy！〃　Samson　boomed　from　five　feet　away；　but　Hank　kept　to　his　corner。
　　　〃Forty…five　seconds；〃　Delilah　said。
　　　Samson's　mistake　was　to　assume　that　it　was　a　wrestling　match；　instead　of　a　brawl。　He　came　in　low；　in　an　effort　to　apply　one　of　his　many　grips　or　holds；　and　for　a　split　second　left　his　face　open。　Hank　struck　like　a　rattler。　His　right　hand　shot　forward　with　a　punch　that　was　almost　too　quick　to　be　seen；　and　it　landed　flush　on　the　mighty　Samson's　jaw。
　　　Samson's　head　jerked　sharply；　his　handsome　hair　slung　in　all　directions。　The　impact　caused　a　cracking　sound。　Stan　Musial　could　not　have　hit　a　baseball　any　harder。
　　　Samson's　eyes　rolled　back　in　his　gigantic　head。　Because　of　its　size；　it　took　Samson's　body　a　second　to　realize　that　its　head　had　been　crippled。　One　leg　went　woozy　and　bent　at　the　knee。　Then　the　other　leg　collapsed；　and　the　World's　Greatest　Wrestler；　Direct　from　Egypt；　landed　on　his　back　with　a　thud。　The　small　ring　bounced　and　its　ropes　shook。　Samson　appeared　to　be　dead。
　　　Hank　relaxed　in　his　corner　by　placing　his　arms　on　the　top　ropes。　He　was　in　no　hurry。　Poor　Delilah　was　speechless。　She　tried　to　say　something　to　assure　us　that　this　was　just　part　of　the　exhibition；　but　at　the　same　time　she　wanted　to　jump　into　the　ring　and　tend　to　Samson。　The　crowd　was　stunned。
　　　In　the　center　of　the　ring；　Samson　began　groaning　and　trying　to　get　to　his　feet。　He　made　it　to　his　hands　and　knees；　and　rocked　back　and　forth　a　few　times　before　he　managed　to　pull　a　foot　forward。　With　one　great　lurch　he　tried　to　stand；　but　his　feet　weren't　with　him。　He　lunged　toward　the　ropes　and　managed　to　catch　them　to　break　his　fall。　He　was　looking　directly　at　us；　but　the　poor　guy　saw　nothing。　His　eyes　were　red　and　wild；　and　he　seemed　to　have　no　idea　where　he　was。　He　hung　on　the　ropes；　tottering；　trying　to　regain　his　senses；　still　searching　for　his　feet。
　　　Mr。　Horsefly　Walker　ran　up　to　the　ring　and　yelled　to　Hank；　〃Kill　the　sonofabitch！　Go　ahead；　finish　him　off！〃
　　　But　Hank　didn't　move。　Instead；　he　just　yelled；　〃Time！〃　but　Delilah　had　forgotten　about　the　clock。
　　　There　were　a　few　cheers　and　jeers　from　the　crowd；　but　for　the　most　part；　it　was　subdued。　The　spectators　were　shocked　at　the　sight　of　Samson　floundering；　his　senses　knocked　out　of　him。
　　　Samson　turned　and　tried　to　focus　his　eyes　on　Hank。　Clutching　the　ropes　for　support；　he　stumbled　a　couple　of　steps；　then　made　one　last；　desperate　lunge。　Hank　simply　ducked　out　of　the　way；　and　Samson　landed　hard　on　the　corner　pole。　The　ropes　strained　with　his　weight　and　the　other　three　poles　seemed　ready　to　break。　Samson　was　groaning　and　thrashing　about　like　a　bear　who'd　been　shot。　He　pulled　his　feet　under　him　and　steadied　himself　enough　to　turn　around。　He　should've　stayed　on　the　mat。　Hank　darted　in　and　threw　an　overhand　right；　a　punch　that　began　in　the　center　of　the　ring　and　landed　exactly　where　the　first　one　did。　Since　his　target　was　defenseless；　he　reloaded　and　landed　a　third　and　final　blow。　Samson　went　down　in　a　heap。　Delilah　screamed　and　scrambled　into　the　ring。　Hank　relaxed　in　his　corner；　arms　on　the　top　ropes；　grinning；　no　concern　whatsoever　for　his　opponent。
　　　I　wasn't　sure　what　to　do；　and　most　of　the　other　spectators　were　quiet；　too。　On　the　one　hand；　it　was　good　to　see　an　Arkansas　boy　so　thoroughly　crush　this　Egyptian　giant。　But　on　the　other　hand；　it　was　Hank　Spruill；　and　he'd　used　his　fists。　His　victory　was　tainted；　not　that　it　mattered　to　him。　All　of　us　would've　felt　better　if　a　local　boy　had　battled　Samson　evenly。
　　　When　Hank　was　certain　that　time　had　expired；　he　stepped　through　the　ropes　and　jumped　to　the　ground。　Bo　and　Dale　had　the　money；　and　the　three　of　them　disappeared。
　　　〃He　done　killed　Samson；〃　someone　behind　me　said。　The　World's　Greatest　Wrestler　was　flat　on　his　back；　arms　and　legs　spread　wide；　his　woman　crouched　over　him；　trying　to　wake　him。　I　felt　sorry　for　them。　They　were　wonderfully　colorful；　an　act　we　wouldn't　see　again　for　a　long　time；　if　ever。　In　fact；　I　doubted　if　Samson　and　Delilah　would　ever　return　to　Black　Oak；　Arkansas。
　　　When　he　sat　up；　we　relaxed。　A　handful　of　good　folks　clapped　softly　for　him；　then　the　crowd　began　to　break　up。
　　　Why　couldn't　Hank　join　the　carnival？　He　could　get　paid　for　beating　up　people；　and　it　would　get　him　off　our　farm。　I　decided　to　mention　it　to　Tally。
　　　Poor　Samson　had　worked　hard　all　day　in　the　heat；　and　in　a　split　second　had　lost　the　day's　wages。　What　a　way　to　make　a　living。　I'd　finally　seen　a　worse　job　than　picking　cotton。
　
　
　Chapter　19
　　　
　　　In　the　spring　and　winter；　Sunday　afternoons　were　often　used　as　a　time　for　visiting。　We'd　finish　lunch　and　take　our　naps；　then　load　into　the　pickup　and　drive　to　Lake　City　or　Paragould　and　drop　in　pletely　unannounced　on　some　relatives　or　old　friends；　who'd　always　be　delighted　to　see　us。　Or　perhaps　they'd　drop　in　on　us。　〃Y'all　e　see　us〃　was　the　mon　phrase；　and　folks　took　it　literally。　No　arrangements　or　forewarnings　were　necessary；　or　even　possible。　We　didn't　have　a　telephone　and　neither　did　our　relatives　or　friends。
　　　But　visiting　was　not　a　priority　in　the　late　summer　and　fall　because　the　work　was　heavier　and　the　afternoons　were　so　hot。　We　forgot　about　aunts　and　uncles　for　a　time；　but　we　knew　we'd　catch　up　later。
　　　I　was　sitting　on　the　front　porch；　listening　to　the　Cardinals　and　watching　my　mother　and　Gran　shell　peas　and　butter　beans；　when　I　saw　a　cloud　of　dust　ing　from　the　bridge。　〃Car's　in'；〃　I　said；　and　they　looked　in　that　direction。
　　　Traffic　on　our　road　was　rare。　It　was　almost　always　one　of　the　Jeters　from　across　the　way　or　one　of　the　Tollivers　east　of　us。　Occasionally　a　strange　car　or　truck　would　pass；　and　we'd　watch　it　without　a　word　until　the　dust　had　settled；　then　we'd　talk　about　it　over　dinner　and　speculate　as　to　who　it　was　and　what　they　were　doing　in　our　part　of　Craighead　County。　Pappy　and　my　father　would　mention　it　at　the　Co…op；　and　my　mother　and　Gran　would　tell　all　the　ladies　before　Sunday　school；　and　sooner　or　later　they'd　find　someone　else　who'd　seen　the　strange　vehicle。　Usually　the　mystery　was　solved；　but　occasionally　one　passed　through　and　we　never　found　out　where　it　came　from。
　　　This　car　moved　slowly。　I　saw　a　hint　of　red　that　grew　bigger　and　brighter；　and　before　too　long　a　shiny　two…door　sedan　was　turning　into　our　driveway。　The　three　of　us　were　now　standing　on　the　porch；　too　surprised　to　move。　The　driver　parked　behind　our　pickup。　From　the　front　yard　the　Spruills　were　gawking；　too。
　　　The　driver　opened　his　door　and　got　out。　Gran　said；　〃Well；　it's　Jimmy　Dale。〃
　　　〃It　certainly　is；〃　my　mother　said；　losing　some　of　her　anticipation。
　　　〃Luke；　run　and　get　Pappy　and　your　father；〃　Gran　said。　I　sprinted　through　the　house　yelling　for　the　men；　but　they'd　heard　the　door　slam　and　were　ing　from　the　backyard。
　　　We　all　met　in　front　of　the　car；　which　was　new　and　clean　and　undoubtedly　the　most　beautiful　vehicle　I'd　ever　seen。　Everybody　hugged　and　shook　hands　and　exchanged　greetings；　then　Jimmy　Dale　introduced　his　new　wife；　a　thin　little　thing　who　looked　younger　than　Tally。　Her　name　was　Stacy。　She　was　from　Michigan；　and　when　she　spoke　her　words　came　through　her　nose。　She　clipped　them　quickly　and　efficiently；　and　within　seconds　she　made　my　skin　crawl。
　　　〃Why　does　she　talk　like　that？〃　I　whispered　to　my　mother　as　the　group　moved　to　the　porch。
　　　〃She's　a　Yankee〃　was　the　simple　explanation。
　　　Jimmy　Dale's　father　was　Ernest　Chandler；　Pappy's　older　brother。　Ernest　had　farmed　in　Leachville　until　a　heart　attack　killed　him　a　few　years　earlier