jg.paintedhouse-第60部分

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onkey；　however；　was　quite　curious。　He　watched　me　as　if　I　were　an　intruder；　then　he　slinked　along　on　all　fours；　slowly；　prepared　to　lunge　at　me　at　any　moment。　He　jumped　onto　Otis's　right　shoulder；　walked　around　the　back　of　his　neck；　and　settled　onto　his　left　shoulder；　staring　at　me。
　　　I　was　staring　at　him。　He　was　no　bigger　than　a　baby　squirrel；　with　fine　black　fur　and　little　black　eyes　barely　separated　by　the　bridge　of　his　nose。　His　long　tail　fell　down　the　front　of　Otis's　shirt。　Otis　was　working　the　levers；　moving　the　gravel；　mumbling　to　himself；　seemingly　unaware　of　the　monkey　on　his　shoulder。
　　　When　it　was　apparent　that　the　monkey　was　content　just　to　study　me；　I　turned　my　attention　to　the　workings　of　the　road　grader。　Otis　had　the　blade　down　in　the　shallow　ditch；　tilted　at　a　steep　angle　so　that　mud　and　grass　and　weeds　were　being　dug　out　and　shoved　into　the　road。　I　knew　from　previous　observations　that　he　would　go　up　and　down　several　times；　cleaning　the　ditches；　grading　the　center；　spreading　the　gravel。　Pappy　was　of　the　opinion　that　Otis　and　the　county　should　fix　our　road　more　often；　but　most　farmers　felt　that　way。
　　　He　turned　the　grader　around；　ran　the　blade　into　the　other　ditch；　and　headed　back　toward　our　house。　The　monkey　hadn't　moved。
　　　〃Where's　the　other　monkey？〃　I　said　loudly；　not　far　from　Otis's　ear。
　　　He　pointed　down　at　the　blade　and　said；　〃Fell　off。〃
　　　It　took　a　second　for　this　to　register；　and　then　I　was　horrified　at　the　thought　of　that　poor　little　monkey　falling　over　the　blade　and　meeting　such　an　awful　death。　It　didn't　seem　to　bother　Otis；　but　the　surviving　monkey　was　undoubtedly　mourning　the　loss　of　his　buddy。　He　just　sat　there；　sometimes　looking　at　me；　sometimes　gazing　away；　very　much　alone。　And　he　certainly　stayed　away　from　the　blade。
　　　My　mother　hadn't　moved。　I　waved　at　her；　and　she　waved　at　me；　and　again　Otis　took　no　part　in　any　of　it。　He　spat　every　so　often；　a　long　stream　of　brown　tobacco　juice　that　hit　the　ground　in　front　of　the　rear　wheels。　He　wiped　his　mouth　with　a　dirty　sleeve；　both　right　and　left；　depending　on　which　hand　happened　to　be　engaged　with　a　lever。　Pappy　said　that　Otis　was　very　levelheaded…tobacco　juice　ran　out　of　both　corners　of　his　mouth。
　　　Past　our　house　I　could　see；　from　my　lofty　position；　the　cotton　trailer　in　the　middle　of　a　field　and　a　few　straw　hats　scattered　about。　I　searched　until　I　found　the　Mexicans；　in　the　same　general　area　as　usual；　and　I　thought　of　Cowboy　out　there；　switchblade　in　his　pocket；　no　doubt　quite　proud　of　his　latest　killing。　I　wondered　if　he'd　told　his　pals　about　it。　Probably　not。
　　　For　a　moment　I　was　frightened　because　my　mother　was　back　behind　us；　alone。　This　didn't　make　any　sense；　and　I　knew　it；　but　most　of　my　thoughts　were　irrational。
　　　When　I　saw　the　tree　line　along　the　river；　a　new　fear　gripped　me。　I　was　suddenly　afraid　to　see　the　bridge；　the　scene　of　the　crime。　Surely　there　were　bloodstains；　evidence　that　something　awful　had　happened。　Did　the　rain　wash　them　away？　Days　often　went　by　without　a　car　or　truck　passing　over　the　bridge。　Had　anyone　seen　Hank's　blood？　There　was　a　good　chance　the　evidence　would　be　gone。
　　　Had　there　really　been　bloodshed？　Or　was　it　all　a　bad　dream？
　　　Nor　did　I　want　to　see　the　river。　The　water　moved　slowly　this　time　of　the　year；　and　Hank　was　such　a　large　victim。　Could　he　be　ashore　by　now？　Washed　up　on　a　gravel　bar　like　a　beached　whale？　I　certainly　didn't　want　to　be　the　one　to　find　him。
　　　Hank　had　been　cut　to　pieces。　Cowboy　had　the　nearest　switchblade　and　plenty　of　motive。　It　was　a　crime　that　even　Stick　Powers　could　solve。
　　　I　was　the　only　eyewitness；　but　I'd　already　decided　I　would　take　it　to　my　grave。
　　　Otis　shifted　gears　and　turned　around；　no　small　feat　with　a　road　grader；　as　I　was　learning。　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　bridge；　but　we　were　too　far　away　to　see　much。　The　monkey　grew　weary　of　staring　at　me　and　shifted　shoulders。　He　peeked　at　me　around　Otis's　head　for　a　minute　or　so；　then　just　sat　there；　perched　like　an　owl；　studying　the　road。
　　　Oh；　if　Dewayne　could　see　me　now！　He'd　burn　with　envy。　He'd　be　humiliated。　He'd　be　so　overe　with　defeat　that　he　wouldn't　speak　to　me　for　a　long　time。　I　couldn't　wait　for　Saturday。　I'd　spread　the　word　along　Main　Street　that　I'd　spent　the　day　with　Otis　on　the　road　grader…Otis　and　his　monkey。　Just　one　monkey；　though；　and　I'd　be　forced　to　tell　what　happened　to　the　other。　And　all　those　levers　and　controls　that；　from　the　ground；　looked　so　thoroughly　intimidating　but　in　reality　were　no　problem　for　me　at　all。　I'd　learned　how　to　operate　them！　It　would　be　one　of　my　finest　moments。
　　　Otis　stopped　in　front　of　our　house。　I　climbed　down　and　yelled；　〃Thank　you！〃　but　he　was　off　without　a　nod　or　word　of　any　sort。
　　　I　suddenly　thought　about　the　dead　monkey；　and　I　started　crying。　I　didn't　want　to　cry；　and　I　tried　not　to；　but　the　tears　were　pouring　out；　and　I　couldn't　control　myself。　My　mother　came　running　from　the　house；　asking　what　was　wrong。　I　didn't　know　what　was　wrong；　I　was　just　crying。　I　was　scared　and　tired；　almost　faint　again；　and　I　just　wanted　everything　to　be　normal；　with　the　Mexicans　and　the　Spruills　out　of　our　lives；　with　Ricky　home；　with　the　Latchers　gone；　with　the　nightmare　of　Hank　erased　from　my　memory。　I　was　tired　of　secrets；　tired　of　seeing　things　I　was　not　supposed　to　see。
　　　And　so　I　just　cried。
　　　My　mother　held　me　tightly。　When　I　realized　she　was　frightened；　I　managed　to　tell　her　about　the　dead　monkey。
　　　〃Did　you　see　it？〃　she　asked　in　horror。
　　　I　shook　my　head　and　kept　explaining。　We　walked　back　to　the　porch　and　sat　for　a　long　time。
　　　
　　　Hank's　departure　was　confirmed　at　some　point　during　the　day。　Over　supper　my　father　said　that　Mr。　Spruill　had　told　him　that　Hank　had　left　during　the　night。　He　was　hitchhiking　back　to　their　home　in　Eureka　Springs。
　　　Hank　was　floating　at　the　bottom　of　the　St。　Francis　River；　and　when　I　thought　about　him　down　there　with　the　channel　catfish；　I　lost　my　appetite。　The　adults　were　watching　me　closer　than　usual。　During　the　past　twenty…four　hours　I'd　fainted；　had　nightmares；　cried　several　times；　and；　as　far　as　they　knew；　gone　for　a　long　walk　in　my　sleep。　Something　was　wrong　with　me；　and　they　were　concerned。
　　　〃Wonder　if　he'll　make　it　home；〃　Gran　said。　This　launched　a　round　of　stories　about　folks　who'd　disappeared。　Pappy　had　a　cousin　who　had　been　migrating　with　his　family　from　Mississippi　to　Arkansas。　They　were　traveling　in　two　old　trucks。　They　came　to　a　railroad　crossing。　The　first　truck；　the　one　driven　by　the　cousin　in　question；　crossed　first。　A　train　came　roaring　by；　and　the　second　truck　waited　for　it　to　pass。　It　was　a　long　train；　and　when　it　finally　cleared；　there　was　no　sign　of　the　first　truck　on　the　other　side。　The　second　truck　crossed　and　came　to　a　fork　in　the　road。　The　cousin　was　never　seen　again；　and　that　had　been　thirty　years　ago。　No　sign　of　him　or　the　truck。
　　　I'd　heard　this　story　many　times。　I　knew　Gran　would　go　next；　and　sure　enough；　she　told　the　tale　about　her　mother's　father；　a　man　who'd　sired　six　kids　then　hopped　on　a　train　and　fled　to　Texas。　Someone　in　the　family　stumbled　across　him　twenty　years　later。　He　had　another　wife　and　six　more　kids。
　　　〃You　okay；　Luke？〃　Pappy　said　when　the　eating　was　over。　All　of　his　gruffness　was　gone。　They　were　telling　stories　for　my　benefit；　trying　to　amuse　me　because　I　had　them　worried。
　　　〃Just　tired；　Pappy；〃　I　said。
　　　〃You　want　to　go　to　bed　early？〃　my　mother　asked；　and　I　nodded。
　　　I　went　to　Ricky's　room　while　they　washed　the　dishes。　My　letter　to　him　was　now　two　pages　long；　a　monumental　effort。　It　was　still　in　my　writing　tablet；　hidden　under　the　mattress；　and　it　covered　most　of　the　Latcher　conflict。　I　read　it　again　and　was　quite　pleased　with　myself。　I　toyed　with　the　idea　of　telling　Ricky　about　Cowboy　and　Hank；　but　decided　to　wait　until　he　came　home。　By　then　the　Mexicans　would　be　gone；　things　would　be　safe　again；　and　Ricky　would　know　what　to　do。
　　　I　decided　that　the　letter　was　ready　to　be　mailed；　then　started　worrying　about　how　I　might　acplish　mailing　it。　We　always　sent　our　letters　at　the　same　time；　often　in　the　same　large　manila　envelope。　I　decided　that　I'd　consult　with　Mr。　Lynch　Thornton　at　the　post　office　on　Main　Street。
　　　My　mother　read　me　the　story　of　Daniel　in　the　lions'　den；　one　of