jg.paintedhouse-第6部分

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　　　I　told　him　about　the　trip　to　town；　how　we　found　the　Spruills；　about　Tally　and　Trot　and　the　large　young　man　on　the　tailgate；　then　back　to　i　own　where　Pappy　argued　with　the　man　in　charge　of　labor；　then　the　nip　to　the　gin；　then　about　the　Mexicans。　I　did　all　the　talking　because　my　day　had　certainly　been　more　eventful　than　his。
　　　At　the　trailer；　he　lifted　the　straps　of　his　cotton　sack　and　hung　them　over　the　hook　at　the　bottom　of　the　scales。　The　needle　settled　on　fifty…eight　pounds。　He　scribbled　this　in　a　ragged　old　ledger　wired　to　the　trailer。
　　　〃How　much？〃　I　asked　when　he　closed　the　book。
　　　〃Four…seventy。〃
　　　〃A　triple；〃　I　said。
　　　He　shrugged　and　said；　〃Not　bad。〃
　　　Five　hundred　pounds　equaled　a　home　run；　something　he　acplished　every　other　day。　He　squatted　and　said；　〃Hop　on。〃
　　　I　jumped　on　his　back；　and　we　started　for　the　house。　His　shirt　and　overalls　were　soaked　with　sweat；　and　had　been　all　day；　but　his　arms　were　like　steel。　Pop　Watson　told　me　that　Jesse　Chandler　once　hit　a　baseball　that　landed　in　the　center　of　Main　Street。　Pop　and　Mr。　Snake　Wilcox；　the　barber；　measured　it　the　next　day　and　began　telling　people　that　it　had　traveled；　on　the　fly；　440　feet。　But　a　hostile　opinion　quickly　emerged　from　the　Tea　Shoppe；　where　Mr。　Junior　Barnhart　claimed；　rather　loudly；　that　the　ball　had　bounced　at　least　once　before　hitting　Main　Street。
　　　Pop　and　Junior　went　weeks　without　speaking　to　each　other。　My　mother　verified　the　argument；　but　not　the　home　run。
　　　She　was　waiting　for　us　by　the　water　pump。　My　father　sat　on　a　bench　and　removed　his　boots　and　socks。　Then　he　unsnapped　his　overalls　and　took　off　his　shirt。
　　　One　of　my　chores　at　dawn　was　to　fill　a　washtub　with　water　and　leave　it　in　the　sun　all　day　so　there'd　be　warm　water　for　my　father　every　afternoon。　My　mother　dipped　a　hand　towel　in　the　tub　and　gently　rubbed　his　neck　with　it。
　　　She　had　grown　up　in　a　house　full　of　girls；　and　had　been　raised　in　part　by　a　couple　of　prissy　old　aunts。　I　think　they　bathed　more　than　farm　people；　and　her　passion　for　cleanliness　had　rubbed　off　on　my　father。　I　got　a　plete　scrubbing　every　Saturday　afternoon；　whether　I　needed　it　or　not。
　　　When　he　was　washed　up　and　dried　off；　she　handed　him　a　fresh　shirt。　It　was　time　to　wele　our　guests。　In　a　large　basket；　my　mother　had　assembled　a　collection　of　her　finest　vegetables；　all　handpicked；　of　course；　and　washed　within　the　past　two　hours。　Indian　tomatoes；　Vidalia　onions；　red…skin　potatoes；　green　and　red　bell　peppers；　ears　of　corn。　We　carried　it　to　the　back　of　the　barn；　where　the　Mexicans　were　resting　and　talking　and　waiting　for　their　small　fire　to　burn　low　so　they　could　make　their　tortillas。　I　introduced　my　father　to　Miguel；　who　in　turn　presented　some　of　his　gang。
　　　Cowboy　sat　alone；　his　back　to　the　barn；　making　no　move　to　acknowledge　us。　I　could　see　him　watching　my　mother　from　under　the　brim　of　his　hat。　It　frightened　me　for　a　second；　then　I　realized　Jesse　Chandler　would　snap　Cowboy's　skinny　little　neck　if　he　made　one　wrong　move。
　　　We　had　learned　a　lot　from　the　Mexicans　the　year　before。　They　did　not　eat　butter　beans；　snap　beans；　squash；　eggplant；　or　turnips；　but　preferred　tomatoes；　onions；　potatoes；　peppers；　and　corn。　And　they　would　never　ask　for　food　from　our　garden。　It　had　to　be　offered。
　　　My　mother　explained　to　Miguel　and　the　other　men　that　our　garden　was　full　and　that　she　would　bring　them　vegetables　every　other　day。　They　were　not　expected　to　pay　for　the　food。　It　was　part　of　the　package。
　　　We　took　another　basket　to　the　front　of　the　house；　where　Camp　Spruill　seemed　to　be　expanding　by　the　hour。　They　had　crept　even　farther　across　the　yard；　and　there　were　more　cardboard　boxes　and　burlap　sacks　strewn　about。　They'd　laid　three　planks　across　a　box　on　one　end　and　a　barrel　on　the　other　to　make　a　table；　and　they　were　crowded　around　it　eating　dinner　when　we　approached　them。　Mr。　Spruill　got　to　his　feet　and　shook　my　father's　hand。
　　　〃Leon　Spruill；〃　he　said　with　food　on　his　lip。　〃Nice　to　meet　you。〃
　　　〃Happy　to　have　you　folks　here；〃　my　father　said　pleasantly。
　　　〃Thank　you；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　pulling　up　his　pants。　〃This　here　is　my　wife；　Lucy。〃　She　smiled　and　kept　chewing　slowly。
　　　〃This　is　my　daughter；　Tally；〃　he　said；　pointing。　When　she　looked　at　me；　I　could　feel　my　cheeks　burning。
　　　〃And　these　are　my　nephews；　Bo　and　Dale；〃　he　said；　nodding　to　the　two　boys　who'd　been　resting　on　the　mattress　when　they　had　stopped　on　the　highway。　They　were　teenagers；　probably　fifteen　or　so。　And　sitting　next　to　them　was　the　giant　I'd　first　seen　on　the　tailgate；　half…asleep。
　　　〃This　is　my　son　Hank；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said。　Hank　was　at　least　twenty　and　was　certainly　old　enough　to　stand　up　and　shake　hands。　But　he　kept　eating。　Both　jaws　were　ballooned　with　what　appeared　to　be　corn　bread。　〃He　eats　a　lot；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　and　we　tried　to　laugh。
　　　〃And　this　here　is　Trot；〃　he　said。　Trot　never　looked　up。　His　limp　left　arm　hung　by　his　side。　He　clutched　a　spoon　with　his　right　hand。　His　standing　in　the　family　was　left　undeclared。
　　　My　mother　presented　the　large　basket　of　vegetables；　and　for　a　second；　Hank　stopped　his　chomping　and　looked　up　at　the　fresh　supply。　Then　he　returned　to　his　beans。　〃The　tomatoes　and　corn　are　especially　good　this　year；〃　my　mother　was　saying。　〃And　there's　plenty。　Just　let　me　know　what　you　like。〃
　　　Tally　chewed　slowly　and　stared　at　me。　I　studied　my　feet。
　　　〃That's　mighty　nice　of　you；　ma'am；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said；　and　Mrs。　Spruill　added　a　quick　thanks。　There　was　no　danger　of　the　Spruills　going　without　food；　not　that　they　had　missed　any　meals。　Hank　was　burly　with　a　thick　chest　that　narrowed　only　slightly　where　it　met　his　neck。　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Spruill　were　both　stocky　and　appeared　strong。　Bo　and　Dale　were　lean　but　not　thin。　Tally；　of　course；　was　perfectly　proportioned。　Only　Trot　was　gaunt　and　skinny。
　　　〃Didn't　mean　to　interrupt　dinner；〃　my　father　said；　and　we　began　backing　away。
　　　〃Thanks　again；〃　Mr。　Spruill　said。
　　　I　knew　from　experience　that　within　a　short　time　we　would　know　more　than　we　wanted　about　the　Spruills。　They　would　share　our　land；　our　water；　our　outhouse。　We　would　take　them　vegetables　from　the　garden；　milk　from　Isabel；　eggs　from　the　coop。　We　would　invite　them　to　town　on　Saturday　and　to　church　on　Sunday。　We　would　work　beside　them　in　the　fields　from　sunrise　until　almost　dark。　And　when　the　picking　was　over；　they　would　leave　and　return　to　the　hills。　The　trees　would　turn；　winter　would　e；　and　we　would　spend　many　cold　nights　huddled　around　the　fire　telling　stories　about　the　Spruills。
　　　
　　　Dinner　was　potatoes；　sliced　thin　and　fried；　boiled　okra；　corn　on　the　cob；　and　hot　corn　bread…but　no　meats　because　it　was　almost　fall；　and　because　we'd　had　a　roast　the　day　before。　Gran　fried　chicken　twice　a　week；　but　never　on　Wednesdays。　My　mother's　garden　was　producing　enough　tomatoes　and　onions　to　feed　all　of　Black　Oak；　so　she　sliced　a　platter　of　them　for　every　meal。
　　　The　kitchen　was　small　and　hot。　A　round　oscillating　fan　rattled　away　on　top　of　the　refrigerator　and　tried　to　keep　the　air　circulating　as　my　mother　and　grandmother　prepared　dinner。　Their　movements　were　slow　but　steady。　They　were　tired；　and　it　was　too　hot　to　hurry　up。
　　　They　were　not　particularly　fond　of　each　other；　but　both　were　determined　to　exist　in　peace。　I　never　heard　them　argue；　never　heard　my　mother　say　anything　bad　about　her　mother…in…law。　They　lived　in　the　same　house；　cooked　the　same　meals；　did　the　same　laundry；　picked　the　same　cotton。　With　so　much　work　to　do；　who　had　time　to　bicker？
　　　But　Gran　had　been　born　and　bred　deep　in　the　cotton　patch。　She　knew　she　would　be　buried　in　the　soil　she　worked。　My　mother　longed　for　an　escape。
　　　Through　daily　ritual；　they　had　silently　negotiated　a　method　to　their　kitchen　work。　Gran　hovered　near　the　stove；　checking　the　corn　bread；　stirring　the　potatoes；　okra；　and　corn。　My　mother　kept　to　the　sink；　where　she　peeled　tomatoes　and　stacked　the　dirty　dishes。　I　studied　this　from　the　kitchen　table；　where　I　sat　every　night　and　peeled　cucumbers　with　a　paring　knife。　They　both　loved　music；　and　occasionally　one　would　hum　while　the　other　sang　softly。　The　music　kept　the　tension　buried。
　　　But　not　tonight。　They　were　too　preoccupied　to　sing　and　hum。　My　mother　was　stewing　over　the　fact　that　the　Mexicans　had　been　hauled　in　like