jg.paintedhouse-第14章
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ine。 The entire bunch seemed on the verge of knee…slapping when Trot said； with as much volume as he could muster； 〃Stop it； Hank！〃
His words were slurred slightly so that 〃Hank〃 came out 〃Hane；〃 but he was clearly understood by the rest of them。 They were startled； and their little joke came to an abrupt end。 Everyone looked at Trot； who was glaring at Hank with as much disgust as possible。
I was on the verge of tears； so I turned and ran past the trailer and along the field road until I was safely out of their sight。 Then I ducked into the cotton and waited for friendly voices。 I sat on the hot ground； surrounded by stalks four feet tall； and I cried； something I really hated to do。
The trailers from the better farms had tarps to hold the cotton and keep it from blowing onto the roads leading to the gin。 Our old tarp was tied firmly in place； securing the fruits of our labor； ninety pounds of which had been picked by me over the past two days。 No Chandler had ever taken a load to the gin with bolls flying out like snow and littering the road。 Lots of other folks did； though； and part of the picking season was watching the weeds and ditches along Highway 135 slowly grow white as the farmers hurried to the gin with their harvest。
With the loaded cotton trailer dwarfing our pickup； Pappy drove less than twenty miles an hour on the way to town。 And he didn't say anything。 We were both digesting our dinner。 I was thinking about Hank and trying to decide what to do。 I'm sure Pappy was worrying about the weather。
If I told him about Hank； I knew exactly what would happen。 He'd march me down the front yard to Spruillville； and we'd have an ugly confrontation。 Because Hank was younger and bigger； Pappy would have in his hand a stick of some sort； and he'd be very happy to use it。 He'd demand that Hank apologize； and when he refused； Pappy would start the threats and insults。 Hank would misjudge his opponent； and before long the stick would e into play。 Hank wouldn't have a prayer。 My father would be forced to cover the Chandler flanks with his twelve…gauge。 The women would be safe on the porch； but my mother would once again be humiliated by Pappy's penchant for violence。
The Spruills would lick their wounds and pack up their ragged belongings。 They'd move down the road to another farm where they were needed and appreciated； and we'd be left short…handed。
I'd be expected to pick even more cotton。
So I didn't say a word。
We drove slowly along Highway 135； stirring up the cotton on the right shoulder of the road； watching the fields where an occasional gang of Mexicans was still working； racing against the dark。
I decided I would simply avoid Hank and the rest of the Spruills until the picking was over and they went back to the hills； back to their wonderfully painted houses and their moonshine and sister…marrying。 And at some point late in the winter when we sat around the fire in the living room and told stories about the harvest； I would finally serve up all of Hank's misdeeds。 I'd have plenty of time to work on my stories； and would embellish where I deemed appropriate。 It was a Chandler tradition。
I had to be careful； though； when telling the painted house story。
As we neared Black Oak； we passed the Clench farm； home of Foy and Laverl Clench and their eight children； all of whom； I was certain； were still in the fields。 No one； not even the Mexicans； worked harder than the Clenches。 The parents were notorious slave drivers； but the children seemed to enjoy picking cotton and pursuing even the most mundane chores around the farm。 The hedge rows around the front yard were perfectly manicured。 Their fences were straight and needed no repair。 Their garden was huge and its yield legendary。 Even their old truck was clean。 One of the kids washed it every Saturday。
And their house was painted； the first one on the highway into town。 White was the color； with gray trim around the edges and corners。 The porch and front steps were dark green。
Soon all the houses were painted。
Our house had been built before the First War； back when indoor plumbing and electricity were unheard of。 Its exterior was one…by…six clapboards made of oak； probably cut from the land we now farmed。 With time and weather the boards had faded into a pale brown； pretty much the same color as the other farmhouses around Black Oak。 Paint was unnecessary。 The boards were kept clean and in good repair； and besides paint cost money。
But shortly after my parents were married； my mother decided the house needed an upgrade。 She went to work on my father； who was anxious to please his young wife。 His parents； though； were not。 Pappy and Gran； with all the stubbornness that came from the soil flatly refused to even consider painting the house。 The cost was the official reason。 This was relayed to my mother through my father。 No fight occurred…no words。 Just a tense period one winter when four adults lived in a small unpainted house and tried to be cordial。
My mother vowed to herself that she would not raise her children on a farm。 She would one day have a house in a town or in a city； a house with indoor plumbing and shrubs around the porch； and with paint on the boards； maybe even bricks。
〃Paint〃 was a sensitive word around the Chandler farm。
I counted eleven trailers ahead of us when we arrived at the gin。 Another twenty or so were empty and parked to one side。 Those were owned by farmers with enough money to have two。 They could leave one to be ginned at night while the other stayed in the fields。 My father desperately wanted a second trailer。
Pappy parked and walked to a group of farmers huddled by a trailer。 I could tell by the way they were standing that they were worried about something。
For nine months the gin sat idle。 It was a tall； long； box…like structure； the biggest building in the county。 In early September it came to life when the harvest began。 At the height of the picking season it ran all day and all night； stopping only on Saturday evening and Sunday morning。 Its presses and mills roared with a noisy precision that could be heard throughout Black Oak。
I saw the Montgomery twins throwing rocks at the weeds beside the gin； and I joined them。 We pared stories about Mexicans and told lies about how much cotton we'd personally picked。 It was dark； and the line of trailers moved slowly。
〃My pop says cotton prices are goin' down；〃 Dan Montgomery said as he tossed a rock into the darkness。 〃Says the cotton traders in Memphis are pushin' down prices 'cause there's so much cotton。〃
〃It's a big crop；〃 I said。 The Montgomery twins wanted to be farmers when they grew up。 I felt sorry for them。
When the rains flooded the land and wiped out the crops； the prices went up because the traders in Memphis couldn't get enough cotton。 But the farmers； of course； had nothing to sell。 And when the rains cooperated and the crops were huge； the prices went down because the traders in Memphis had too much cotton。 The poor people who labored in the fields didn't make enough to pay their crop loans。
Good crops or bad crops； it didn't make any difference。
We talked baseball for a while。 The Montgomerys did not own a radio； so their knowledge of the Cardinals was limited。 Again； I felt sorry for them。
When we left the gin； Pappy had nothing to say。 The wrinkles in his forehead were closer together； and his chin was jutting out a bit； so I knew he'd heard bad news。 I assumed it had something to do with the price of cotton。
I said nothing as we left Black Oak。 When the lights were behind us； I laid my head on the window opening so the wind would hit my lace。 The air was hot and still； and I wanted Pappy to drive faster so we could cool off。
I would listen more closely for the next few days。 I'd give the adults time to whisper among themselves； then I'd ask my mother what was going on。
If it involved bad news about farming； she would eventually tell me。
Chapter 7
Saturday morning。 At sunrise； with Mexicans on one side and the Spruills on the other； we were in the trailer moving toward the fields。 I kept close to my father； for fear that the monster H
