jg.paintedhouse-第7部分

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　had　been　hauled　in　like　cattle。　My　grandmother　was　pouting　because　the　Spruills　had　invaded　our　front　yard。
　　　At　exactly　six　o'clock；　Gran　removed　her　apron　and　sat　across　from　me。　The　end　of　the　table　was　flush　against　the　wall　and　served　as　a　large　shelf　that　accumulated　things。　In　the　center　was　an　RCA　radio　in　a　walnut　casing。　She　turned　on　the　switch　and　smiled　at　me。
　　　The　CBS　news　was　delivered　to　us　by　Edward　R。　Murrow；　live　from　New　York。　For　a　week　there'd　been　heavy　fighting　in　Pyongyang；　near　the　Sea　of　Japan；　and　from　an　old　map　that　Gran　kept　on　her　night　table；　we　knew　that　Ricky's　infantry　division　was　in　the　area。　His　last　letter　had　arrived　two　weeks　earlier。　It　was　a　quickly　written　note；　but　between　the　lines　it　gave　the　impression　that　he　was　in　the　thick　of　things。
　　　When　Mr。　Murrow　got　past　his　lead　story　about　a　spat　with　the　Russians；　he　started　on　Korea；　and　Gran　closed　her　eyes。　She　folded　her　hands　together；　put　both　index　fingers　to　her　lips；　and　waited。
　　　I　wasn't　sure　what　she　was　waiting　for。　Mr。　Murrow　was　not　going　lo　announce　to　the　nation　that　Ricky　Chandler　was　dead　or　alive。
　　　My　mother　listened；　too。　She　stood　with　her　back　to　the　sink；　wiping　her　hands　with　a　towel；　staring　blankly　at　the　table。　This　happened　almost　every　night　in　the　summer　and　fall　of　1952。
　　　Peace　efforts　had　been　started；　then　abandoned。　The　Chinese　withdrew；　then　attacked　again。　Through　Mr。　Murrow's　reports　and　Ricky's　letters；　we　lived　the　war。
　　　Pappy　and　my　father　would　not　listen　to　the　news。　They　busied　themselves　outside；　at　the　tool　shed　or　the　water　pump；　doing　small　chores　that　could've　waited；　talking　about　the　crops；　searching　for　something　to　worry　about　besides　Ricky。　Both　had　fought　in　wars。　They　didn't　need　Mr。　Murrow　in　New　York　to　read　some　correspondent's　cable　from　Korea　and　tell　the　nation　what　was　occurring　in　one　battle　or　the　next。　They　knew。
　　　In　any　case；　it　was　a　short　report　that　night　about　Korea；　and　this　was　taken　in　our　little　farmhouse　as　something　good。　Mr。　Murrow　moved　along　to　other　matters；　and　Gran　finally　smiled　at　me。　〃Ricky's　okay；〃　she　said；　rubbing　my　hand。　〃He'll　be　home　before　you　know　it。〃
　　　She'd　earned　the　right　to　believe　this。　She　had　waited　for　Pappy　during　the　First　War；　and　she　had　prayed　long　distance　for　my　father　and　his　wounds　during　the　Second。　Her　boys　always　came　home；　and　Ricky　would　not　let　us　down。
　　　She　turned　the　radio　off。　The　potatoes　and　okra　needed　her　attention。　She　and　my　mother　returned　to　cooking；　and　we　waited　for　Pappy　to　walk　through　the　back　screen　door。
　　　I　think　Pappy　expected　the　worst　from　the　war。　The　Chandlers　had　been　lucky　so　far　in　the　century。　He　wouldn't　listen　to　the　news；　but　he　wanted　to　know　if　things　looked　good　or　bad。　When　he　heard　the　radio　go　off；　he　usually　made　his　way　into　the　kitchen。　That　evening　he　stopped　at　the　table　and　tousled　my　hair。　Gran　looked　at　him。　She　smiled　and　said；　〃No　bad　news。〃
　　　My　mother　told　me　that　Gran　and　Pappy　often　slept　less　than　an　hour　or　two　before　waking　and　worrying　about　their　younger　son。　Gran　was　convinced　Ricky　was　ing　home。　Pappy　was　not。
　　　At　six…thirty；　we　sat　around　the　table；　held　hands；　and　gave　thanks　for　all　the　food　and　all　the　blessings。　Pappy　led　the　praying；　at　least　over　dinner。　He　thanked　God　for　the　Mexicans　and　for　the　Spruills；　and　for　the　fine　crops　around　us。　I　prayed　quietly；　and　only　for　Ricky。　I　was　grateful　for　the　food；　but　it　didn't　seem　nearly　as　important　as　he　did。
　　　The　adults　ate　slowly　and　talked　about　nothing　but　cotton。　I　was　not　expected　to　add　much　to　the　conversation。　Gran　in　particular　was　of　the　opinion　that　children　should　be　seen　and　not　heard。
　　　I　wanted　to　go　to　the　barn　and　check　out　the　Mexicans。　And　I　wanted　to　sneak　around　front　and　maybe　catch　a　glimpse　of　Tally。　My　mother　suspected　something；　and　when　we　finished　eating；　she　told　me　to　help　her　with　the　dishes。　I　would've　preferred　a　whipping；　but　I　had　no　choice。
　　　
　　　We　drifted　to　the　front　porch　for　our　nightly　sitting。　It　seemed　like　a　simple　enough　ritual；　but　it　wasn't。　First　we　would　let　the　meal　settle；　then　we'd　tend　to　baseball。　We　would　turn　on　the　radio　and　Harry　Caray　at　KMOX　in　St。　Louis　would　deliver　the　play…by…play　of　our　beloved　Cardinals。　My　mother　and　grandmother　would　shell　peas　or　butter　beans。　Any　loose　ends　of　dinner　gossip　would　be　wrapped　up。　Of　course；　the　crops　were　fretted　over。
　　　But　that　night　it　was　raining　two　hundred　miles　away　in　St。　Louis；　and　the　game　had　been　canceled。　I　sat　on　the　steps；　holding　my　Rawlings　glove；　squeezing　my　baseball　inside　it；　watching　the　shadows　of　the　Spruills　in　the　distance　and　wondering　how　anyone　could　be　so　thoughtless　as　to　build　a　fire　on　home　plate。
　　　The　outside　radio　was　a　small　General　Electric　that　my　father　had　bought　in　Boston　when　he　left　the　hospital　during　the　war。　Its　sole　purpose　was　to　bring　the　Cardinals　into　our　lives。　We　seldom　missed　a　game。　It　sat　on　a　wooden　crate　near　the　creaking　swing　where　the　men　rested。　My　mother　and　grandmother　sat　in　padded　wooden　chairs　not　far　away；　on　the　other　side　of　the　porch；　shelling　peas。　I　was　in　the　middle；　on　the　front　steps。
　　　Before　the　Mexicans　arrived；　we'd　had　a　portable　fan　we　put　near　the　screen　door。　Each　night　it　would　hum　away　quietly　and　manage　to　push　the　heavy　air　around　just　enough　to　make　things　bearable。　But；　thanks　to　my　mother；　it　was　now　in　the　loft　of　our　barn。　This　had　caused　friction；　though　most　of　it　had　been　kept　away　from　me。
　　　And　so　the　night　was　very　quiet…no　ball　game；　no　fan…just　the　slow　talk　of　weary　farm　people　waiting　for　the　temperature　to　drop　a　few　more　degrees。
　　　The　rain　in　St。　Louis　inspired　the　men　to　worry　about　the　weather。　The　rivers　and　creeks　in　the　Arkansas　Delta　flooded　with　frustrating　regularity。　Every　four　or　five　years　they　left　their　banks　and　washed　away　the　crops。　I　couldn't　remember　a　flood；　but　I'd　heard　so　much　about　them　I　felt　like　a　veteran。　We　would　pray　for　weeks　for　a　good　rain。　One　would　e；　and　as　soon　as　the　ground　was　soaked；　Pappy　and　my　father　would　start　watching　the　clouds　and　telling　flood　stories。
　　　The　Spruills　were　winding　down。　Their　voices　were　fading。　I　could　see　their　shadows　moving　around　the　tents。　Their　fire　flickered　low；　then　died。
　　　All　was　quiet　on　the　Chandler　farm。　We　had　hill　people。　We　had　Mexicans。　The　cotton　was　waiting。
　
　
　Chapter　4
　　　
　　　At　some　point　in　the　vast　darkness　of　the　night；　Pappy；　our　human　alarm　clock；　awoke；　put　on　his　boots；　and　began　stomping　around　the　kitchen　making　the　first　pot　of　coffee。　The　house　was　not　largethree　bedrooms；　a　kitchen；　a　living　room…and　it　was　so　old　the　plank　floors　sagged　in　places。　If　one　person　chose　to　wake　up　the　rest；　he　or　she　could　certainly　do　so。
　　　I　was　allowed　to　stay　in　bed　until　my　father　came　after　me。　It　was　difficult　to　sleep；　though；　with　all　those　people　on　the　farm　and　all　that　cotton　to　pick。　I　was　already　awake　when　he　shook　me　and　said　it　was　time　to　go。　I　dressed　quickly　and　met　him　on　the　back　porch。
　　　There　was　no　hint　of　sunrise　as　we　walked　across　the　backyard；　the　dew　soaking　our　boots。　We　stopped　at　the　chicken　coop；　where　he　bent　low　and　slipped　inside。　I　was　told　to　wait　in　front　of　it；　since　last　month　while　gathering　eggs　in　the　darkness；　I'd　stepped　on　a　huge　rat　snake　and　cried　for　two　days。　At　first　my　father　had　not　been　sympathetic；　rat　snakes　are　harmless　and　just　a　part　of　life　on　the　farm。　My　mother；　however；　intervened　with　a　fury；　and　for　the　time　being；　I　was　not　permitted　to　collect　eggs　alone。
　　　My　father　filled　a　straw　bowl　with　a　dozen　eggs　and　handed　it　to　me。　We　headed　to　the　barn；　where　Isabel　was　waiting。　Now　that　we'd　roused　the　chickens；　the　roosters　began　crowing。
　　　The　only　light　came　from　a　pale　bulb　hanging　from　the　hayloft。　The　Mexicans　were　awake。　A　fire　had　been　lit　behind　the　barn；　and　they　were　huddled　near　it　as　if　they　were　cold。　I　was　already　warm　from　the　humidity。
　　　I　could　milk　the　cow；　and　on　most　mornings　that　chore　belonged　to　me。　But　the　rat　snake　still　had　me　frightened；　plus　we　were　in　a　hurry　because　we　had　to　be　in　the　fields　by　sunrise。　My　father　rapidly　milked　two　gallons；　which　would've　ta