jg.paintedhouse-第49部分

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't　about　to　risk　a　crop　over　an　idiot　like　Hank。　We'd　grit　our　teeth　and　just　try　to　survive　his　presence　on　our　farm。　We'd　hope　and　pray　he　wouldn't　kill　anyone　else　and　that　no　one　killed　him；　and　in　a　few　short　weeks　the　harvest　would　be　pleted；　and　he'd　be　gone。
　　　〃You're　not　sure　it's　him；〃　Gran　said。　〃No　one　saw　him　throwin'　at　the　barn。〃
　　　〃Some　things　you　ain't　gotta　see；〃　Pappy　fired　back。　〃We　ain't　seen　Trot　with　a　paintbrush；　but　we're　perfectly　happy　to　believe　he's　doin'　the　paintin'。　Right？〃
　　　My　mother；　with　perfect　timing；　said；　〃Luke；　who　are　the　Cardinals　playin'？〃　It　was　her　standard　line；　a　not…too…subtle　way　of　letting　the　others　know　that　she　wanted　to　eat　in　peace。
　　　〃The　Cubs；〃　I　said。
　　　〃How　many　more　games？〃　she　asked。
　　　〃Just　three。〃
　　　〃How　far　ahead　is　Musial？〃
　　　〃Six　points。　He's　at　three…thirty…six。　Baumholtz　is　at　three…thirty。　He　can't　catch　him。〃
　　　At　this　point　my　father　was　always　expected　to　e　to　the　aid　of　his　wife　and　keep　the　conversation　away　from　heavier　matters。　He　cleared　his　throat　and　said；　〃I　bumped　into　Lou　Jeffcoat　last　Saturday…I　forgot　to　tell　you。　He　said　the　Methodists　have　a　new　pitcher　for　Sunday's　game。〃
　　　Pappy　had　cooled　off　enough　to　say；　〃He's　lyin'。　That's　what　they　say　every　year。〃
　　　〃Why　would　they　need　a　new　pitcher？〃　Gran　asked　with　a　faint　smile；　and　I　thought　my　mother　was　going　to　laugh。
　　　Sunday　was　the　Fall　Picnic；　a　glorious　event　that　engulfed　Black　Oak。　After　worship；　usually　a　very　long　worship；　at　least　for　us　Baptists；　we　would　meet　at　the　school；　where　the　Methodists　would　be　gathering。　Under　the　shade　trees　the　ladies　would　set　up　enough　food　to　feed　the　entire　state；　and　after　a　long　lunch　the　men　would　play　a　baseball　game。
　　　It　was　no　ordinary　game；　because　bragging　rights　were　at　stake。　The　winners　ribbed　the　losers　for　an　entire　year。　In　the　dead　of　winter　I　had　heard　men　at　the　Tea　Shoppe　ride　each　other　about　The　Game。
　　　The　Methodists　had　won　it　for　the　last　four　years；　yet　they　always　started　rumors　about　having　a　new　pitcher。
　　　〃Who's　pitchin'　for　us？〃　my　father　asked。　Pappy　coached　the　Baptist　team　every　year；　though　after　four　straight　losses；　folks　were　beginning　to　grumble。
　　　〃Ridley；　I　guess；〃　Pappy　said　without　hesitation。　He'd　been　thinking　about　the　game　for　a　year。
　　　〃I　can　hit　Ridley！〃　I　said。
　　　〃You　got　a　better　idea？〃　Pappy　shot　at　me。
　　　〃Yes　sir。〃
　　　〃Well；　I　can't　wait　to　hear　it。〃
　　　〃Pitch　Cowboy；〃　I　said；　and　everybody　smiled。　What　a　wonderful　idea。
　　　But　the　Mexicans　couldn't　play　in　The　Game；　nor　could　the　hill　people。　Each　roster　was　made　up　of　certified　church　members　onlyno　farm　laborers；　no　relatives　from　Jonesboro；　no　ringers　of　any　variety。　There　were　so　many　rules　that　if　they'd　been　put　down　in　writing；　the　rule　book　would've　been　thicker　than　the　Bible。　The　umpires　were　brought　in　from　Monette　and　were　paid　five　dollars　a　game　plus　all　the　lunch　they　could　eat。　Supposedly；　no　one　knew　the　umpires；　but　after　last　year's　loss　there　were　rumors；　at　least　around　our　church；　that　they　were　either　Methodists　or　married　to　Methodists。
　　　〃That　would　be　nice；　wouldn't　it？〃　my　father　said；　dreaming　of　Cowboy　mowing　down　our　rivals。　One　strikeout　after　another。　Curve…balls　dropping　in　from　all　directions。
　　　With　the　conversation　back　in　pleasant　territory；　the　women　took　over。　Baseball　was　pushed　aside　as　they　talked　about　the　picnic；　the　food；　what　the　Methodist　women　would　be　wearing；　and　so　on。　Supper　came　to　the　usual　quiet　close；　and　we　headed　for　the　porch。
　　　
　　　I　had　decided　that　I　would　write　Ricky　a　letter　and　tell　him　about　Libby　Latcher。　I　was　certain　that　none　of　the　adults　would　do　so；　they　were　too　busy　burying　the　secret。　But　Ricky　needed　to　know　what　Libby　had　accused　him　of。　He　needed　to　respond　in　some　way。　If　he　knew　what　was　happening；　then　maybe　he　could　get　himself　sent　home　to　deal　with　the　situation。　And　the　sooner　the　better。　The　Latchers　were　staying　to　themselves；　telling　no　one；　as　far　as　we　knew；　but　secrets　were　hard　to　keep　around　Black　Oak。
　　　Before　Ricky　left　for　Korea；　he'd　told　us　the　story　of　a　friend　of　his；　a　guy　from　Texas　he'd　met　in　boot　camp。　This　guy　was　only　eighteen；　but　he　was　already　married；　and　his　wife　was　pregnant。　The　army　sent　him　to　California　to　shuffle　papers　for　a　few　months　so　he　wouldn't　get　shot。　It　was　a　hardship　case　of　some　variety；　and　the　guy　would　be　back　in　Texas　before　his　wife　gave　birth。
　　　Ricky　now　had　a　hardship；　he　just　didn't　know　it。　I　would　be　the　one　to　tell　him。　I　excused　myself　from　the　porch　under　the　pretense　of　fatigue　and　went　to　Ricky's　room；　where　I　kept　my　Big　Chief　writing　tablet。　I　took　it　to　the　kitchen　table…the　light　was　better　thereand　began　writing　slowly　in　large　printed　letters。
　　　I　dwelt　briefly　on　baseball；　the　pennant　race；　then　the　carnival　and　Samson；　and　I　wrote　a　couple　of　sentences　about　the　twisters　earlier　in　the　week。　I　had　neither　the　time　nor　the　stomach　to　talk　about　Hank；　so　I　got　to　the　meat　of　the　story。　I　told　him　that　Libby　Latcher　had　had　a　baby；　though　I　did　not　confess　that　I　had　actually　been　nearby　when　the　thing　arrived。
　　　My　mother　wandered　in　from　the　porch　and　asked　what　I　was　doing。　〃Writin'　Ricky；〃　I　said。
　　　〃How　nice；〃　she　said。　〃You　need　to　go　to　bed。〃
　　　〃Yes　ma'am。〃　I　had　written　a　full　page　and　was　quite　proud　of　myself。　Tomorrow　I　would　write　another　page。　Then　maybe　another。　I　was　determined　that　it　would　be　the　longest　letter　Ricky　had　so　far　received。
　
　
　Chapter　22
　　　
　　　I　was　nearing　the　end　of　a　long　row　of　cotton；　close　to　the　thicket　that　bordered　Siler's　Creek；　when　I　heard　voices。　The　stalks　were　especially　tall；　and　I　was　lost　amid　the　dense　foliage。　My　sack　was　half…full；　and　I　was　dreaming　of　the　afternoon　in　town；　of　a　movie　at　the　Dixie　with　a　Coca…Cola　and　popcorn。　The　sun　was　almost　overhead；　it　had　to　be　approaching　noon。　I　planned　to　make　the　turn　and　then　head　back　to　the　trailer；　working　hard　and　finishing　the　day　with　a　flourish。
　　　When　I　heard　people　talking；　I　dropped　to　one　knee；　and　then　I　slowly　sat　on　the　ground　without　making　another　sound。　For　a　long　time　I　heard　nothing　at　all；　and　I　was　beginning　to　think　that　maybe　I　had　been　wrong；　when　the　voice　of　a　girl　barely　made　it　through　the　stalks　to　where　I　was　hiding。　She　was　somewhere　to　my　right；　I　couldn't　tell　how　far　away。
　　　I　slowly　stood　and　peeked　through　the　cotton　but　saw　nothing。　Then　I　crouched　again　and　began　creeping　down　the　row　toward　the　end；　my　cotton　sack　abandoned　for　the　moment。　Silently；　I　crawled　and　stopped；　crawled　and　stopped；　until　I　heard　her　again。　She　was　several　rows　over；　hiding；　I　thought；　in　the　cotton。　I　froze　for　a　few　minutes　until　I　heard　her　laugh；　a　soft　laugh　that　was　muffled　by　the　cotton；　and　I　knew　it　was　Tally。
　　　For　a　long　time　I　rocked　gently　on　all　fours　and　tried　to　imagine　what　she　was　doing　hiding　in　the　fields；　as　far　away　from　the　cotton　trailer　as　possible。　Then　I　heard　another　voice；　that　of　a　man。　I　decided　to　move　in　closer。
　　　I　found　the　widest　gap　between　two　stalks　and　cut　through　the　first　row　without　a　sound。　There　was　no　wind　to　rustle　the　leaves　and　bolls；　so　I　had　to　be　perfectly　still。　And　patient。　Then　I　made　it　through　the　second　row　and　waited　for　the　voices。
　　　They　were　quiet　for　a　long　time；　and　I　began　to　worry　that　maybe　they'd　heard　me。　Then　there　was　giggling；　both　voices　working　at　once；　and　low；　hushed　conversation　that　I　could　barely　hear。　I　stretched　out　flat　on　my　stomach　and　surveyed　the　situation　from　the　ground；　down　where　the　stalks　were　thickest　and　there　were　no　bolls　and　leaves。　I　could　almost　see　something　several　rows　away；　maybe　the　darkness　of　Tally's　hair；　maybe　not。　I　decided　I　was　close　enough。
　　　There　was　no　one　nearby。　The　others…the　Spruills　and　the　Chandlers…were　working　their　way　back　to　the　trailer。　The　Mexicans　were　far　away；　nothing　visible　but　their　straw　hats。
　　　Though　shaded；　I　was　sweating　profusely。　My　heart　was　racing；　my　mouth　dry。　Tally　was　hiding　deep　in　the　cotton　with　a　man；　doing　something　bad；　or　if　not；　then　why　was　she　hiding？　I　wanted　to　do　something　to　stop　them；　but　I　had　no　right。　I　was　just　a　little　kid；　a　spy　who　was　tresp